Chapter 8: The Final Eight

The faces of the five dead tributes who have perished since I went to bed last night appear in the sky that evening: The remaining girl from 5. The last boy from 6 whom I watched poison himself. District 7 loses its first tributes – two of them. And a girl from 10.

I decide to camp here by the stream tonight. As one of the most unique landmarks I've encountered thus far in the arena, it can serve as a good point of reference, even if its potential as a water source has been contaminated. Besides, I may have figured out about the poison, but it's unlikely that any of the other tributes have, at least without taking the secret with them to an early grave. If anyone comes across the stream, I can hide and watch them slurp from it until they meet the same end as that boy did. Failing that, I can also swoop in and attack. I have plenty of weapons at my disposal now.

Day 3 in the arena dawns. There is still an entire arena field's-worth of tributes still out there. It is nice to know that, even in a Quarter Quell with enhanced numbers, the common principle of roughly half the competition dying within the first day or two still holds true. It must make things easier for the mentors like Brutus, too – 24, 25 tributes must be a lot easier to track than 48. So too is it in an ordinary year, when by now a dozen at most still live instead of 24.

In trying to decide what to do today, I quickly conclude that I am loath to leave the stream. I feel safe here, even as the little voice in my head warns me not to get too comfortable – Gamemakers know when you get too comfortable, and sooner or later, they'll send something along to make you…. well, uncomfortable.

I re-check my food supply: still two bottles of water, an apple, and the wad of beef jerky. I realize that with all the excitement of the previous day, I skipped not only breakfast, but lunch and dinner as well. I went an entire day without food. I hope it doesn't show. I know many girls in Town who buy into the Merchant belief that beauty is determined by your body image; it's not hard to identify a Merchant girl who has an eating disorder. After fasting for an entire day, I wouldn't be surprised if I've lost a pound of two. Stomach growling ravenously, I allow myself two-quarter wads of beef jerky, and a bite of the apple to counteract the greasy taste of the former. The apple gives me enough juice that I forgo another sip of water to wash it down. If I get thirsty later, I'll indulge myself.

Having had a decent meal, I finally land on a tentative decision to go hunting. Not for animals, mind you – for tributes. The Gamemakers no doubt broadcast my epiphany over poison and what I can do with it live; they'll probably be expecting me to go out and try to bring down some other kids with my weapons. I've given them two kills already, but if I want to get more parachutes, I'll have to go on the warpath. It's time to kill – I'll have to, if I want to get home. I already have, but I still need to brush aside lingering queasiness at the thought. There's no time for that now.

I set another snare by a tree on the banks of the stream, to mark my place if nothing else. I don't expect any wild animals to wander into it, and even if one does, I'll have to assume it's a mutt. What I would do with one is up for debate – letting it go would be practically an invitation for it to attack me. If I let it die while dangling, I don't know if cooking it over a fire would rid any potential poisons. And the smoke from a fire might lead other tributes to me.

I shake my head. Too many scenarios. Like I did yesterday, I commit to a single direction and begin pacing off. One, two, three…

I don't encounter anyone else as I sneak through the woods, naginata in my left in case I'm in need of a quick attack, hollow quarterstaff in my right ready to load in case stealth can be afforded. Finally, when no one appears, I give up, about-face, and return to my stream. I have a meager lunch and dinner, chipping away at the apple and beef jerky. The water is cool as it pours down my gullet. I'm careful not to imbibe too much, and studiously check the bottle's volume. About 1/8th of it is now gone.

For the first time since the start of the Games, there are no faces in the sky tonight. Feeling a little ill at ease, I put in the effort to scale a tree and lash myself to one of its branches using the sleeves from my light jacket.

I wake up next morning feeling well rested, hopping down to the ground. I check my snare – empty, just as I knew it would be. I dismantle the entire thing with a sigh. Just about half the field dying over the first two days probably has kept the Gamemakers and the audience satisfied. Maybe they're intentionally slowing it down so the remaining half of us can prove our mettle.

Even if that's so, where is everybody? These woods are vast, but they can't be that vast.

Pausing, I think back over the topography of the arena. Aside from these woods, there's the meadow housing the Cornucopia. The Careers are probably still laying claim to that place, unless they too have decided to fan out and hunt – that's ten.

And the only other landmark left is the mountain, but would anyone really attempt to climb that peak…?

BOOM. KABOOM. The very earth beneath me begins to shake, staggering me into the tree I just spent the night in. At first blush, I would assume that was another cannon or two, except the tone was too low and lasted too long to be a cannon. And no tribute death has been enough to make the ground itself quake.

Frowning in confusion and growing terror, I quickly scale back up my tree, hitting my sleeping branch and climbing as high as I dare. At last, my head manages to break through the canopy, giving me a pretty amazing view of the mountain to the west.

What I see in the distance nearly makes me scream.

The snowcapped peak has been blasted away, turning the mountain into a roaring, active volcano. They're a landmark more common on the strings of islands off the coast of District 4; back home in Twelve, we study them in Science class and also a little bit in our Mining Safety elective, for the principles that govern volcanoes are awfully similar to the science that explains coalfields. Plumes of fire have been known to shoot up from the depths of the earth – it's a mining hazard all too frequent; I couldn't count the number of times I've watched Belle treat miners with third, sometimes second-degree burns.

Lava is now flowing at an unnatural pace down the mountainside, and I once again tamp down a scream. I also remember from Science class that real magma moves incredibly slowly. But the Gamemakers have never been known to abide by the laws of nature or physics. Even from this safe distance, I can make out little dots bolting up and down the sheer cliff faces. The tributes look like ants from here.

Tragically, for most, there is nothing to be done for them, and I soon hear the faint cries and screams. Horrible, hideous, human screams.

My eyes sting, and whether it's from the smoke wafting this direction on the wind or true emotion on my part, I can't tell. I watch helplessly for a while, until the wails begin to peter out. Sniffling, I swing down from my tree and quickly de-camp. I don't know if the lava flow will penetrate the Cornucopia meadow or this forest, but I have to get ahead of it either way. It is too late for those poor folks on the mountaintop.

I'm too shaken to be careful in counting paces, or adhering to one direction and not long after I set off, the cannons start. I count a dozen before they cease. About an hour after the end of the eruption, two more go off. It might be explained by tributes being drawn together in battle, or it could be some stragglers dying from burning alive or having their skin melted off.

Where half the field remained this morning, now there is only slightly less than a quarter. I tighten the grip on my naginata. Gamemaker traps tend to draw tributes together and into fights, and with such a huge trap going off, I wouldn't be surprised if the mere handfuls of us who remain must confine ourselves to the woods.

BOOM. Yet another cannon makes me jump out of my skin. Sweet Panem above, what is happening? Then, I hear a retort again, not even two minutes later. BOOM. Just as this reverberation is fading away, I think I hear a shout. Some grunting. From the way the voice carries, it's very close by. Turning to the left, I feather-walk forward towards a small clearing, crouching low in the large underbrush. Peering through the leaves, I see it:

A furious fight is going on between two, large boys. Around them, two more boys lie dead; from here, I can make out that one of them has clearly had his throat slashed. A slice of blood dribbles down his neck. They look like Careers….

The two remaining boys are grappling for control of a tree branch, one backing the other into a thin sapling. As the pinned boy is twisted and thrown to the ground, crawling away towards something in the grass, I recognize the flash of handsome grey eyes.

I halt a cry in the nick of time, and it turns into a soft gasp. "Haymitch," I breathe. He's reaching for something in the dirt, but the remaining Career drags him back by the ankle, raising the tree branch high to clock him over the head. My district partner's head lolls forward, out cold.

I run through possible battle plans in seconds as the Career busies himself over Haymitch, prying something from his hand. Even though the Career is facing me, he hasn't seen me; I could bull-rush him now and go for a decapitation with my naginata. I quickly dismiss this, though, even as I reach for a dart and pluck it into the nearest flower. Load it into the blowpipe and pucker my lips. The Career is grinning a blood-red smile, the sunlight catching the glint of silver and stains of crimson as he prepares to execute my….

No!, my head and my heart silently cry out, and I blow.

It's a direct hit. The force of the poisoned dart sinking right into the Career's forehead makes him stagger back a couple steps before he can draw the blade across Haymitch's throat. My district partner comes to a moment later, and no longer with anyone to hold him up, flops over like a fish into the soil.

The Career is still standing upright, frozen. In a daze, he manages to pluck the dart from his forehead and almost blithely examine it, but it's too late; the toxins will have already entered his body. Next second, he spits up blood and keels over more comically than Haymitch did.

BOOM.

Haymitch scrambles to his feet in what he thinks is a deserted clearing, staring down at the three bodies around him. He approaches the corpse of the boy I killed and wrests what must be his knife from cold, dead fingers. He is panting, winded, and the most shaken I have ever seen him. "What..? Then who….?"

Smiling softly, I stand up from my hiding place and come into the light. When Haymitch lays eyes on me, he freezes.

"Princess…?"

I nearly laugh at the pet name he gave me. Instead, all I point out is, "We'd live longer with two of us."

Even though I'm so, so incredibly happy that I've found him, I don't know if Haymitch will accept what I've floated. The last time I did him a favor, he was less than pleased with me.

This Haymitch, however, is rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. He gazes into my eyes, then shifts those entrancing orbs down to the blowpipe hanging limply at my side. I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he makes the final connection.

"Guess you just proved that," he mumbles. "Allies?"

Heart hammering in my ribcage joyfully, I nod. I don't even care that we are entering a partnership at this late stage.


Haymitch and I spend the next few minutes rifling through the backpacks left behind by the dead tributes. My district partner confirms what I suspected: they were all Careers. And they all had pretty good hauls: there is bread and cheese. Two more bottles of water, and even a bottle of amber liquid, still full. Frowning in bemusement, I unscrew the cap and experimentally sniff. I don't want to accidentally drink medicine – ingesting that might be as bad as ingesting the poison. Finding the odor familiar, I take that first sip. It's like apple juice, but not quite. It's richer, cooler to the taste. It's cider! My family and I only ever have apple cider during the Winter Festival; I count it as one of my favorite holiday traditions.

I turn back to Haymitch and hold out the bottle to him. "Have you ever tried apple cider?" I beam at him. "It's good."

Eyes popping, he scrambles over as though I have offered him liquid gold. "Once," he babbles. "At Winter Festival time, two years ago. Daddy struck copper in the mines and was given an extra pay cut, and he bought it for us as a present." He takes a hearty gulp, and I am ready to yank it away from him when he finally lowers it from his lips. "Wow." His eyes gleam. Studying me for a moment, he passes the bottle back to me, and I set to work trying to consolidate everything from six backpacks into just two. Aside from his knife, the pack that clearly belongs to Haymitch comes with some kind of tarp, and a large orange. I weigh it in my hands.

"There were two in there at the start," I hear Haymitch explain behind me. "I ate the other. It was blood-red and citrusy. Nice and juicy."

Another delicacy that he probably didn't have growing up in the Seam.

In the backpack next to the body of the first Career – the one who had its throat slashed – I lift some kind of machine from it. There's a nozzle at one end. "What the heck is this thing?"

It's a good thing I have the nozzle facing away from me, otherwise I would have been barbecued. A plume of fire shoots out when I press the button and I drop the whole contraption, letting out a yelp. Haymitch just laughs.

"I say we take it with us, whatever it is. It's bound to be useful for something."

It also takes up the entire space of one backpack, so I have to restart consolidating the sacks: all our food and juice bottles go into one pack, while the tarp and my blowdarts go into another. I'd consolidate more, but I don't want to risk storing the tarp and darts with our foodstuffs and having them stain or spoil. The torch thingy takes up a third pack.

We move out from the clearing so that the hovercraft can take the bodies away, finding a second open space close by to camp and talk.

"What happened to you?" I ask him. "Were you on the mountain when it blew?"

His fine crown of chestnut hair snaps up to me in stunned amazement. "Is that what the noise this morning was? All those cannons after?"

I nod grimly. "The mountain turned into a volcano. I heard twelve cannons go off afterwards, and then five more, including from your fight. You got the drop on those other two, huh?"

He nods, gaze distant and voice introspective. "I didn't think they would have splintered off like that," he murmurs. "Careers usually stay together as a Pack as close to the end as they can before going into melee." He lifts his eyes to mine. "Was that your first kill?"

I turn my face away as I shake my head, too ashamed to view what he will think of me. "No," I whisper softly. "My third." I feel a gentle palm on my shoulder and I shiver.

"Tell me." His voice is like soft velvet.

And so I do. I tell him about slicing that small Career at the bloodbath, and performing the mercy killing of the last boy from Six. "He was dying anyway. After drinking from the stream…."

Haymitch is on me before I can cry out for help, gripping me by the shoulders and giving me a little shake. "You found a stream?! Where, Maysilee – where?!"

I shake my head sadly. "I couldn't find it again," I murmur. "In the aftermath of the mountain erupting, I forgot to count my paces. And it wouldn't help anyway. The river water has been poisoned."

Haymitch sits back on his heels, gaping. I hold his gaze, nodding him along encouragingly. "And if the freshwater in the arena is poisoned…."

"…. then it stands to reason that so is everything else," Haymitch breathes. I smile at him proudly.

"Exactly," I whisper. "That's what was on my dart that dropped the last Career boy. It comes from the flowers – even the nectar is poisoned."

Haymitch grins hugely at me, chuckling, impressed. "Smart girl." I feel my cheeks and my heart warm at the praise.

On Haymitch's end, there isn't much to tell: he was one of the first tributes off his pedestal when the gong sounded, grabbing a backpack and making it to the trees before anyone else ("I think I saw you!" I interrupt. "I left around the same time!"). He has been wandering the woods over the last three days, not encountering his first fight or kills until bumping into those three Careers early this afternoon. The one thing he does mention, though, and he shows me weird, bumpy pink dots on his upper arms: the butterflies have agonizing stingers. He encountered the mutts the day before yesterday. My entire face goes white. What if the stingers are poisonous too? I quickly try and dismiss the worry: if they were, any poison would have long ago entered Haymitch's bloodstream and likely taken him by now.

"I think those stingers bring on hallucinations," Haymitch is postulating. "I could have sworn I saw my girl while falling asleep two nights ago."

I still a little at this, flashing back to the skinny little thing Haymitch had his arm around while leaving the schoolyard the morning of the Reaping. I clear my throat a little; my district partner doesn't appear to notice. "What's her name?" My voice sounds hollow.

"Indigo," Haymitch smiles. "But she hates that name; everyone calls her Digger."

I unconsciously think about someone picking their nose, and frown. Haymitch laughs, bemused.

"What?"

I shake my head too quickly. "Nothing."

Twilight has crept steadily closer as we've set up camp, and the anthem begins to play. Our clearing affords us an unencumbered view of the nighttime sky, as we watch the faces of seventeen tributes appear. I keep careful track.

Of the dead, a whopping eight of them – nearly half! – are Careers. I recognize the one I took out to save Haymitch's life as the other boy from District 2. I almost send up a silent apology to Brutus, until I remember he would be pleased by me outlasting those kids. I consider delivering my apologies to Ares Valerio instead, but think better of it. That means that at least five of the Career fallen died on the mountain, or immediately thereafter. I note with a chill how Opal is not among them. The only other surviving Career is a girl from 4.

The other names seem to pass by in a blur after that, with the final boy from District 11 rounding out the day's toll.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Man…. what a disaster! I don't think the Gamemakers intended this."

I turn to look at him, as he unpacks the tarp from our one sack, unfurling it out as a bedroll. "They'll be slowing it down now. With so few left, they're going to want to see us fight tooth and nail to claim the Crown."

So few left…. I do the math in my head and gasp.

"Mitchy!" I squeal, rushing to his side and squeezing his arm. "You know what this means? We've made the Final Eight!"

He turns back to grin at me proudly, pleased that I figured it out. "Right. The Gamemakers are going to have to call a break, so those Capitol crews can get down to Twelve and interview our friends and family. You know what this also means, don't you?"

I blink. "No. What?" When he doesn't answer, I go back over who still lives in my head. "Opal. The girl from 4. The sneaky boy from 5. The boy from 8. The girl from 9. Us. And….."

We lock eyes at the same time, speaking with one voice: "Beech."