CHAPTER ELEVEN - QUARRY

JOHANNA

The rabbit is just about halfway cooked when the cannon fires.

They don't tell you how loud it is back in training. That's one thing they don't prepare you for. I'm lucky my grip on the long stick I'm using as a makeshift spit doesn't go tumbling down into the ravine below, but it's gotten colder overnight and my grip is practically sealed shut.

I don't move, but my heart squeezes slightly. A cannon can mean one of two things; someone's been incredibly stupid and fallen prey to the arena, or the Careers are out on the hunt. With every fibre of my frozen-stiff being, I pray that if it's the latter, they're enough far away from my little encampment. Maybe the Gamemakers will be kind enough to let us get by with only one death today. Certainly, long games can be considered boring, but so are short games. Wouldn't want the fun to be over before it's even started, would we?

It takes another half-hour to fully cook the rabbit, and I'm on edge the whole time. Every twig snap, every rustle of leaves, or hiss of steam turns my blood ice-cold. Both of the delicate, ornate knives I've been gifted hang loosely on my belt, yet untouched but ready for some action. I've been practicing this morning on just how fast I can whip them out into my hands. Normally I'd walk around with at least one in my grip, but I'm at work right now. It makes me feel insecure. Stark naked. If I died because I was distracted cooking a rabbit, I'd be royally pissed.

Eventually the meat looks good, if just a little burnt, and I'm safe to retrieve my skewer. I decide to keep it. It's been whittled to a sharp enough point that it could be used as some kind of makeshift weapon, and time spent making a new one is time wasted. Hoisting it between my backpack straps, rabbit in one hand and knife in the other, I make it back to my little nest.

I know I should get moving – I'm too close to the Cornucopia for my own liking, and I'm curious about what's beyond the timberline, but I decide to break first. I spare only a rabbit leg for breakfast, eating slowly, legs dangling off the branch. It's a trick Father taught me; eating slowly tricks your stomach into thinking there's more of it. There'd be plenty nights, in deep winter, where we'd have even less to eat than this. Being fed well in Seven is important, what with the hard labour, but all possible expenses are spared.

Father. I feel a twinge at the thought of him. It seems as though I've barely given him a second thought since our goodbyes after the reaping. Where would he be now? The families of the tributes are always taken care of for the duration of the Games; fed, given firewood and a place to stay, if they have none. I wonder, will Father be sat in our dingy little cottage, next to the crackling television, or will he have found someone to take him in?

Someone taking Father in. I nearly scoff at the thought. If I'm unpopular in Seven, Father's practically infamous. I'd much sooner see him sock someone in the jaw than let them coddle him, even if his only daughter's in the Hunger Games.

I look down at my own fists. I wonder, is he proud? Surely, he saw me take a swing at the boy from Five; it would have made it on the highlight reel, if not the livestream. I've followed his instructions to the letter. It was his idea, the weakling act, after all. Not that I'm entirely surprised – it's the opposite that got Aunt Isolde killed. Acting overconfident, becoming a target at the bloodbath. It's also what got Mother killed. The grief of losing her twin sister.

Poor Father. Losing his sister-in-law and his wife to the Games.

Not his daughter.

Once I've sucked the bone dry and flung it to the side – who cares if someone will find it, I'll have moved on – I decide it's time to take flight. I'm about a minute uphill when I realise the problem. It hadn't been an issue further down, where the snow had been thinner, but with the piles getting heavier and heavier the closer to the top I get, the bigger my boot prints become. Tracking me will be a piece of cake, if the other tributes wanted to.

And so, instead, I decide on a change of plans. Heading back towards the rock formation from earlier, I turn east instead of north, travelling alongside the rocks. It's risky business, but I've managed to gauge both what the craters look like, and the tells that one of them is about to burst. Other than the uneven ground and necessary caution slowing down my travel, I make good pace.

I notice the birds about two hours into my trek. At first there's only one; a flash of dark wings high above my head, shading the sun. It's a massive thing, its wingspan must be about the same length as if I held my arms wide, and its talons glint in the sunlight. At first, I take no notice of it, only mild irritated that it might attract someone to my location. But one bird becomes two, and then three, and I get the curious feeling that they may be following me. My grip on my knife tightens.

"Oi," I call, as loudly as I dare. This must be a Gamemaker trick – I can tell now. Normal birds would have far more easy prey to target. The fact that they're tracking me isn't a good sign. "If you guys would kindly fuck off, I'd appreciate it."

The birds continue to circle.

I reach for my other knife.

The second my hand reaches the handle, they dive. I'm lucky that I see them coming, and I'm able to leap out of their line of fire, the soft snow cushioning my fall. The first one grazes me, sharp talons ripping into my forearm, tearing at the jacket and leaving dark red stains on the fabric. It's enough to make me screech in pain, blood spurting from the deep wound. It won't kill, but it'll hurt like a motherfucker.

I'm lucky that the adrenaline has kicked in, because I'm able to dodge the other attack without any damage. I swing my knife wildly in the direction of feathers. If they can't fly, they can't get me. The tell-tale screech of pain tells me I've hit my target.

The fight goes on for god-knows how long. Maybe a minute, maybe ten. It's all I can do to stab in the general direction of my feathered assailants and try to keep my vital organs and veins unharmed. I remember hearing about a girl who'd gotten skewered through the neck by some birds about half a decade ago. That doesn't exactly seem like the most pleasant way to go.

I take one down fairly easily, and another with a bit more of a fight, but the third one – the one who dove first – is proving a bit of a pain. We're both injured – both my arms and my left cheek have received pretty ugly scratches, and both its wings are looking worse for wear – but still standing. I know exactly why the Gamemakers have brought on this attack. I've given them a taste of spice at the Bloodbath. Now the audiences want to know if my bite is as good as my bark.

I'll give them a show.

The bird dives for me again, but I'm quicker. My knifework is sloppy when they're in my hands, but I've been throwing axes since I was a child, and I can hit a target with my eyes closed. The knife is lighter than I'm used to, and I don't get it straight in the eye like I wanted but embedding it somewhere in the skull is good enough, and the dying squawks of the creature are like music to my ears.

I collapse to the floor, panting heavily. It takes a few minutes before my hands are steady enough to grab handfuls of snow and place them to my wounds. The sting is agonizing, but pain is temporary, and infected cuts are not. The ones on my face and right arm are shallow; they'll heal up in a few days. The one on my left arm might be more of a problem, it's still bleeding profusely, and my jacket arm is in ribbons. Deciding to ditch it for now, cutting off the sleeve and wrapping it around the wound, I sigh. It's midday now, but at night, no jacket will be an issue. I wonder if I could makeshift something out of the blanket I received. I'd always thought being from Eight was hopeless in the games, but now I'm wishing I was a steamstress.

Now, I think, looking around at the bloodstained snow and dead birds. What to do with these carcasses?

HAZEL

Balbina talks for hours about the birds.

I'm partially grateful to the Gamemakers. Not for setting loose mutts on my tribute, of course. But for setting the spotlight on her. There'd needed to be a distraction, of course – after the unfortunate display of gore this morning by the boy from Six. I'd never seen something so disgusting in all of the Games so far in my life. Even Brutus looked ill. Needless to say, cannibalism doesn't go down well with the Capitol.

But next to Titus, Johanna is a star. She's proven herself not only capable at survival, but also as a skilled killer. Her dry quips have gone down stunningly well, and they've already been spotlights on her. 'Johanna Mason – Actress of the Century?" And compared to the brutality of the boy from Six, even her delicateness from the pre-Games is being awarded as admirable. Her odds have skyrocketed.

I had to leave Blight with the phone and the tracker – with strict orders to contact me if anything happened. He'd been mad that I hadn't told him, obviously, but not as much as I'd expected him to be. Perhaps it had been because of hope, or perhaps because of the glazed look in his eyes. If I wasn't certain that the Gamemakers weren't going to bother Johanna anyone, I wouldn't have trusted him in my hotseat.

But the phone had rung, and kept on ringing, and Balbina pays well. Her penthouse suite is conveniently located next to the Training Centre, and the food is good. The company is not, but it's a necessary evil. Luckily, this time, the conversation isn't on me.

"You cheeky girl, Hazel, keeping that from me," Balbina says, sliding her hand up my arm. In front of me sits a half-eaten slice of berry tart. I've struggled eating berries since my own Games, for reasons I should think are obvious. Balbina doesn't seem to get the hint. "How long have you been hiding that from us?"

"Oh, only about a week ago. Believe me, I was desperate to tell someone." My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my face feels heavy with makeup. There's nothing I'd rather do than be in the Donum Room right now. Hell, let me watch Titus eat another tribute's heart. It'd be better than this.

"Well, I'd almost be hurt, if it wasn't so exciting. You know, people are saying she should be credited with the kill for the boy from Five. Apparently, if she hadn't disoriented him, he wouldn't have seen the knife."

"I'm sure the boy from Two would love to hear his kill has been taken away from him."

"Oh, you know how I love Two," Balbina says. Ah yes. I'm sure Enobaria loves your company just as much as I do. "But this year, Seven just feels special."

"We are special," I retort. "Only, the climate this year is harsh. And for Johanna to make it, she might just need some help."

"Hazel. Of course, I'll sponsor your girl." I breathe a sigh of relief. "But, of course, I'll need something in return. Johanna looks like lovely company."

My blood runs cold. No. I won't. Not when it's up to me – I can't make that decision. It's something Johanna will have to face on her own if she makes it through, and even the thought of that alone makes me feel ill. But not when it's on me.

"Oh Balbina, but she's young. Surely you'll have to wait at least two more years."

"I'm a patient woman," Balbina says, but I can spot the doubt in her eyes. I'm sure if she had her own way, Johanna would be hers the second she steps out of the arena.

"Perhaps current gratification could put you in a better mood for an easier offer?"

"Hazel?" Balbina's eyes widen. "I thought you weren't doing that anymore."

"I can make an exception. For you."

"Well," Balbina stands up. "Consider that a deal well made."

Biting down the sick feeling in my chest as I follow her into the bedroom, I hope this is worth it.

It's two more hours before I'm back in the Donum room. I haven't had time to change, so I'm back in the lavender frock I wore for dinner, my makeup smeared and hair messy. I managed to wipe off most of the tear stains in the elevator – for my own dignity, not to hide anything. Everyone in that room knows what goes on when you leave for an appointment. If I'm lucky, by the time I've sunk down in my chair, the money will have already appeared.

Blight's still there, thankfully, but his eyes are deeply trained on his screen. Above, on the bigger monitor, the recap plays; the girl from Five dies for the second time today. I make eyes with Seeder from across the room, and she gives me a sad smile. Perhaps she's gotten too old to be considered Capitol eye candy, but the look she gives tells me enough to know that she's been in my position. I sink down into my chair, ready for a boring old recap from Blight. Instead, what I hear is the opposite of anything I expected.

"Johanna's got an ally."