I don't realize just how much time we'd spent saying nothing at all until I notice the digital clock in my bedroom. 11:35 PM, already? Being well-rested is vital for tomorrow, so that I can look my best during the chariot rides. I allow my muscles to relax and my breaths to slow. I focus on not focusing on anything. I think of random words and stare vacantly out at the countryside passing by, noticing a few things and missing the rest. I see the head of a man walking into a building and then it disappears and I wonder what he was doing there. I notice a single sheep cropping grass, but it quickly shrinks to a spec that eludes me. Wait, where did that grass come from? ... And then I drift off.
"Nope," Garbull's voice booms, "he's gotta die."
I try to explain to him how much Old Boone means to me, about all the time we spent together, about the connection that I'm sure has strengthened since we got to know each other better after Proddo's death. "Nope," the voice of Garbull booms, as if someone's just replayed a soundbyte. "He's gotta die."
I realize that Garbull is not going to budge. He just doesn't understand. Frustrated, my vision blurred by helpless tears, I run to the barn and lead Old boone out. I reach into my pocket and pull out the assault rifle I stole from the peacekeeper inspector yesterday and fire a dozen rounds into his skull from point-blank range. An instantaneous, quick death. It's the most merciful way for him to go; he didn't even see it coming. I sob and sob for hours, tears coarsing down my face into his hide so that a little puddle cascades around him. I'm so caught up in misery that I don't hear Garbull walking toward me. He says, from right behind me, "Wow, this makes our job much, much easier. Too bad his hide's all bloody, we could have gotten some real money for that."
"You don't even care," I screech out at him, my voice cracking like a little kid. "He was the only friend I had here." I lunge at Garbull and shoot him with the assault rifle too. He collapses alongside Old Boone, and they seem to look similar. In fact it looks like their bodies are moving closer and closer to each other and then the distance between the bodies is shrinking and I can't tell where Garbull's left side begins and Boone's right side ends. I hear an ominous humming noise and feel a vibration under my feet and the two bodies lift off the ground. I lunge for Old Boone's half of the body, hoping to give it a proper burial, but the entire construction blasts off into the sky like one of the old space rockets I've read about, and the last thing I see of them is Garbull's face flashing an evil grin at me.
No, it was just a dream. I realize I must have screamed. My throat is sore and I'm breathing far too quickly. Calm down, I tell myself. Only a dream. Only a dream. Moaning in a mixture of relief and horror, I stare out the window to ground myself in the present.
This is not the first time I've dreamed about Old Boone, about my powerlessness to save him, about Garbull's lack of empathy. But I've never tried to solve the problem by killing everyone. What am I? I'm definitely not human; I'm a wild beast in the shape of a human. A beast whose wrath is fearsome to behold. The perfect Hunger Games tribute, I think bitterly. Had Old Boone and Garbull been tributes in the games, I would have probably received a nice sponsor gift for killing them. Honestly, I don't know which is worse, especially with the prospect of the games only a week or so away.
I leave my bedroom because I feel stifled. I would love to be back on the range with the cattle, but I have to content myself with taking a leisurely stroll through the train instead. It is really a marvel of engineering that the train barely jolts, dips or tilts. It probably has something to do with gyroscopes or some other advanced technology. Then I hear hesitant footsteps behind me and turn to see that Jill has joined me in the dining car.
"Why aren't you asleep," I ask her. She just shrugs and glowers at me.
"You're one to talk," she says in a neutral tone. "I couldn't sleep."
"I suppose that would make sense; if you aren't asleep, a good reason for that is that you couldn't."
"So, uh, are you, like, ready for the games, or whatever," she asks hesitantly, as if she's dreading to hear the answer. Her face shows her apprehension. I shrug.
"Sometimes I think I'm confident and then I am hit with a curveball," I say. "My muscles are strong, my knowledge isn't all that bad, I don't think I'll die in the bloodbath because I am a quick runner and will just hightail it out of there. But then I wonder how I'll cope with actually killing tributes. I've never been in a situation like that before. I don't think I comprehended the implications until now. I had a dream about killing." And I proceed to tell her about the dream. I leave out the part where I tell Dad that I may have a relationship with Old Boone because I think that would just confuse or disgust her. After I finish, she says, "Wow...that's really scary."
"Did you dream about anything," I ask. She nods.
"Well, I was in my house and really tired after a workday in the slaughterhouse. That's a 14-hour shift, almost no breaks. I could barely move my right hand fingers because they'd been curled for so long as I gripped my knife so I was trying to get the blood back into them. And I suddenly heard our old television turn on, and the voice of Claudius Templesmith asked me if I liked to work in the slaughterhouse, and I said no. And then he made this horrible evil laugh and I flinched back from the screen because his teeth were filed to sharp points, and it was as if he were lunging through the tv screen toward me ready to bite, and he said, "Good. Prepare to die in the Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Then I heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed from far away, and then I saw a flash of light and the knife cut into my head and stuck there like a cow's horn. I felt the blood gushing down my face and I woke up screaming and could still feel the drip of liquid and I was thrashing around, and I threw all the covers off and the dripping just kept going, and I thought I was really dying, but then I realized it was only sweat, and I couldn't stay in that room."
I don't know which nightmare is worse. Killing a pair of innocent people, or being warned of your death beforehand and then dying. Neither option sounds more appetizing. I awkwardly reach over to pat her shoulder and say lamely, "Well, it was only a dream, right?"
She laughs bitterly. "Ha, are you crazy? You know both of those things are probably going to happen soon after we are dropped into the arena from the feedhole." The tributes for each games get 10 final minutes to say goodbye to their mentors in an enclosed chamber, which we call the feedhole, before being lifted into the arena. Cattle being readied for slaughter are fed a final, fatty meal in a building called a feedlot that is connected to one of the slaughterhouses, and that is where the name Feedhole originated. I just stare gloomily back at her because she's right and there's nothing I can say to change it.
The train's tunnel cams switch on and my eyes water as they readjust to the increased indoor lighting. Outside the window, I just see an endless stretch of gray, unyielding stone. Above us, a sprawling mountain range separates the Capitol from the eastern districts. At school, the history teacher devoted an entire lesson to emphasizing how much of an advantage the Capitol's aircraft were, due to increased visibility from mountaintops. That day in class, we got to control little avatars representing troops from the rebellion in a combat simulation similar to one of the bloodiest battles. I have to give it up to District 3 for giving the Capitol aircraft such potent artificial intelligence design. It was probably the most fun I'd ever had at school. It was definitely the most fun i'd had in a history class, which usually consisted of monotonous presentations about the Capitol's changing leadership over the years.
We exit the tunnel, and the Capitol appears over the horizon. Even from this distance, the scenery reeks of affluence. Impossibly tall buildings partially obscure the clouds in the sky. Rotating electronic signs with overly vibrant letters catch my eye as they move clockwise toward it, encouraging me to buy everything from a new zebra-skin wig to nostril-liner to an aardvark-bone knicknack. There is so much else to see that I quickly lose interest in the billboards and turn my gaze to a group of men holding a curtained litter, probably with a person inside. The litter itself sparkles in the light and probably looks more beautiful than I do. All kinds of people, adults and children, high-ranking officials and common citizens, well-dressed and raddy, crowd the streets to watch us ride by, cheering and clapping so loudly that I can hear it even through the soundproof walls of the dining car. I wave at the crowd-it's the customary thing to do-and Jill does the same. My arm grows more and more tired as we ride through the seemingly endless streets, but I keep going.
"Good to see you're trying to make friends," Tyson's voice says behind me. "Don't want the crowd seeing that you're really normal old surly teenagers. You're going to the remake center because those clothes make you look poor. Your prep teams are probably going to prod you a little bit, but you're used to prods, so get used to it. And your costumes will probably make you look like cows or slabs of tasty beef, so just be prepared for that right now. You're probably going to look like idiots during the chariot rides, but do your best anyway. A happy-looking idiot gets a few more dollars in sponsor money than a mopy one. Bye."
Tyson, with his trademark bluntness, quickly leaves before we can ask him any more questions. My gaze turns back to the wonders outside the window. Stores, restaurants, a huge amphitheater decked out with 360-degree television screens, it all flashes by. And I realize just how rich the Capitol is because of us. It makes me boil all over again.
The train finally stops at the remake center, and we get out in a small terminal with an emblem of a cow on the exit door. It looks like every district gets its own place to park so that the tributes don't have to wait, or get a chance to see one another, until remakes are complete. Inside the remake center, my prep team dashes toward me, apparently eager to get started.
"Dallas," one of them cries, in a high-pitched squeak of excitement. "Oh you look wonderful already. Those abs ... those biceps ... but we gotta get that hair off you first! Just follow us into the prep room and we'll get right to work snipping it off. Marius has just authorized a new pair of groosling-feathered scissors that will cut your hair off with the most efficiency and the least pain, and I can't wait to try them out!"
"Yep," the other agrees. She has a tatoo of a heart on her right arm, and has also pierced the words "I LOVE YOU FINNICK" beside it. The letters are fairly large and stretch all the way from her elbow to her wrist like a lizard tail.
"Who's Finnick? Your husband," I ask. She giggles as if it's the most hilarious thing she's ever heard. "Of course not! He and I met during his victory tour and instantly fell in love. He is just so attractive you see. We enjoyed ourselves for a night and then he disappeared, never to see me again. Broke my heart I tell you, but I quickly got over it because, well, you know that victor from the 66th games? He was twice as handsome as Finnick. But I got the tattoo just to show Finnick that I still care. We sometimes see each other in the monitor room during the games, because he mentors the tributes from 4."
I'm coming to realize that the culture of the Capitol citizens is majorly different from the culture in the districts. Before I can think more about it, we're inside the prep room, and it's time to look "truly handsome".