My favorite chapter yet! Enjoy the early update :)
Ps. I edited the very ending to try and eliminate any confusion.
Caero Doneven (District 1)
It's cold. Really, really cold. All five of us sit huddled in our sponsor supplied fifteen by fifteen foot survival structure while the storm rages outside. I am drying my sodden boots by the electric heater in the very middle, Morgan is taking stock of what food we have left, Rosella is sleeping in a pool of blankets on a plastic air mattress and Paroque and Harkon are arguing about where to hunt next. No, not arguing, "spitting nonsense" is more like it.
Harkon and Paroque both see themselves as alpha male and the tension is getting to be palpable. Not that it terribly concerns me. Between the two of them, they have about a half a fully functional brain. Hunting, regardless of where, is obviously out of the question now. The weather has us huddled in our plastic home until some unlucky tribute dies of pneumonia or something. It would be beyond foolish to stumble around looking for kill. I rub my half frozen fingers together and watch as their voices rise.
"No way anyone is on the mountain in this cold!" barked the boy from district 4. "We would freeze half to death before we made it a mile!"
A vein in Paroque's throat swells as he retorts. "We have been all over that damn forest!" Harkon rolls his eyes at the larger boy and says something under his breath. "What did you say, 4?" shouts Paroque.
"I said 'idiot', idiot!" the dark haired boy responded. "There is no way anyone will not be in the woods!"
Paroque jumps up in Harkon's face to continue their shouting match and I spy Morgan shake her head in exasperation. Even Rosella knows there is nothing we can do with the snow making stealth nearly impossible. A gust of wind rocks the tent and Morgan slips a knitted cap on her dark-haired head.
"Like you know anything, Paroque!" laughs Harkon. "Those two little girls must have really tested your physical prowess."
Paroque's already beady eyes narrow further, making him bear an uncanny resemblance to a great, dumb dog. "Weren't you the one crying over that scrape on day one?"
"I swear," exclaims Harkon, jumping up and standing half an inch away from Paroque's crooked nose. "When the time comes, I'm going to sl-"
"Really?" shrieks Rosella, pulling her chiffon sleeping mask off in a huff. "Does it look like I'm painting my nails here?"
"Fooled me, Rose," I offer. She scowls at me for a moment before I send a casual wink her way. She slips her mask back on and turns away from me, but I see her cheeks redden slightly. We have a final two deal, Rosella and I. I don't plan on honoring it, but it's always nice to have a contingency plan. Besides, stupid girls are kind of fun to mess with.
Harkon sits back down in his seat, composure regained once again. "I still say that we focus on the woods," he declares, arms crossed. Paroque opens his mouth but another voice cuts him off.
"Quiet!" growls Morgan, hand on the hilt of her sword. Rosella leans back up and gives her an appreciative glance, but Morgan isn't paying attention.
"Don't tell me t-" starts Paroque.
"Shhh!" I blurt out. I hear it too. Outside, there's the regular howling wind and shaking trees, but I hear an unfamiliar fumbling too. The noise ceases for a second, then we all see a dark clad tribute dart past the clear plastic window.
Harkon and Paroque are at the door in a flash, zipping up the two plastic flaps and unleashing a flurry of snow into our safe haven. They head out with nothing but the clothes on their backs and two spears between the two of them. Morgan hops out right after them, sword drawn and a sleek backpack on her shoulders. I fumble with my now dry boots. By the time I've laced up one, Rosella ducks out as well. She yells something I can't quite piece together to our allies. Damn it! I think to myself.
I grip my bow and exit our over sized tent. The wind chills me nearly instantly. The girl, I have no idea which tribute she was, looked to be searching through the crates too big to be kept inside. The snow on top of all of them is disturbed when it should be glossy and pristine. Curiosity getting the better of me, I decide to poke around before giving chase.
The first, containing food and water, seems virtually untouched. More curiously, there's a small puddle of slush surrounding the front of it. I poke the half frozen water with my foot. Did she just pour out a full water container? Why would she do that? That doesn't make the slightest bit of sense but, then again, most of the tributes from outlying Districts are known to be a bit more stupid than the rest. Just last year, a boy from District 11 challenged half the career pack with a hammer. Most attribute it to dehydration, but I think even the most desperate tribute would know better. I move to the next crate and find our neatly coiled wire, rope, lighter fluid, matches and lanterns. This one had definitely been searched through and shuffled away in a hurry.
I lift the canister of oil and feel that it is significantly lighter, then think hard for a moment. It's been a few minutes since everyone fled. Shouldn't I have heard a cannon by now? My dumb allies. Probably out lost in the snow already. I think of their, particularly the boy's, stupidity and know that something is not quite right.
The icy wind whips at everything in striking distance while I consider my temporary truce. Should I stick around with my allies who are sure to turn on one another before long? I think of Paroque and Harkon's argument. Their face off will be soon, no doubt about it. And who will be left after that? I see the tentative trust we've created with one another shatter at such direct conflict. The boom! of a cannon sounds and I've made my decision.
I don't want to be there when the alliance falters. Now has been the only real time I've been alone and I may not get an opportunity like this again. Better to be off in the woods somewhere and see my allies faces in the sky than risk my neck.
I hurry to the first crate and fill my bag half full with food and, after it is nearly full of dried beef, fruit and protein bars, I head back inside and pick through the rest of the supplies. Who knows what I might need later on? I shove a plush sleeping bag into my nearly full bag along with several knives, a blanket and one of our three compression tents. I then don another thick coat, a pair of sleek gloves and a hat with little ear flaps. All of this, along with my bow and quiver of arrows, and I am a one man army.
As I grip the handle of the oil canister outside, I hear another boom! of a cannon. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel the smallest knot of dread swell in my muscular stomach. I hurry inside and slosh the liquid over everything; the walls, the supplies, the electric space heater, hell, even on Rosella's bed.
Another boom! sounds as I rush out to grab a thick box of matches. Three dead? I silently praise my intuition. In these games, spontaneity is everything. I take one last look at our home base…then I drop a lit match.
I jog quickly out of the clearing while the black smoke clogs the sky. I don't look back because, let's face it, Victors never do.
Genevieve Knight (District 8)
I fumble with the lid of the last crate. The top slides open and closed, but the "tongue" of the top refuses to slide back into place. Some ice or snow must of made its way inside causing the jam. The careers, the five killers who's supplies I'm stealing, are just feet away but the yelling male voices tell me they are far too preoccupied with their own affairs.
Along with the lantern oil that is crucial to Roxanne and I's plan, my small pack is filled with a match box, a small package of dried beef, and a pair of fur mittens. Not exactly necessities, the last two, but it was cold and the Gamemakers were insisting on us going hungry. I look back at my ally's fair face peering around a tree. I know I'm fast, so I volunteered to go get the supplies if she watched for the careers. Roxanne is intelligent and more than capable and an even better friend. I know I'm supposed to want my male counterpart to win and feed District 8 for the year, but if I die in this arena, I want Roxanne to take the crown. I focus back on the lid.
I give the cap one last heave and hear the wood crack loudly. I freeze when someone says "quiet!" inside the tent. The arguing stops. I slowly wiggle it back on, hoping against hope that someone was just breaking up the dispute.
No such luck.
I take off, feet crunch-crunch-ing with every step. I hear someone fumbling with the zipper behind me, desperate for my blood. I steal a glance at my friend. Roxanne looks at me, absolutely petrified and helpless, and I try to shake my head. It's okay, I think. Just hide and I'll try to lose them. I am one of the fastest back home when we exercise at school, but what good is running when an arrow can travel two-hundred feet per second? Dread coats my body, penetrating my skin much like the cold when I hear the door to the tent open.
Roxanne dips back behind her tree just in time. I cross into the forest's threshold about twenty yards to her right and know on instinct that they will follow me. I am the trespasser.
I slip less in the woods where the snow isn't piled so high, but the same is said about my pursuers. I hear them, three sets of thunderous footsteps, and crank up the intensity of my running as high as possible.
The chase feels like it lasts forever. The careers coordinate with each other as we go but never manage to cut me off. They have incredible stamina and muscle and would easily grab me within minutes on a level playing field, but I know the path I'm taking and am nimble as a cat. Finally, finally, I enter the sparse area that has been my home since I teamed up with the girl from District 3. Although I can't hear them, I know my hunters will find me soon enough. I rip open my bag as I run and grab my pair of mittens.
Roxanne and I booby trapped the surrounding area as best as we could in paranoia. A few snares, one stabbing contraption I learned in the training center, but what I head towards is the neatly concealed net I wove yesterday. I cautiously avoid the snowy patch of ground and place my mittens as far in as I dare. I take cover behind a half rotted tree, careful to cover my footprints, hang onto my jug of oil and the cold bark and wait. The tree is the dead weight part of our trap and will, in theory, hoist up our woven ropes when it topples to the ground. It's a long shot, I know, but I can't run forever.
They don't take long. In under a minute they have followed my footprints and arrive, red faced and panting. Two boys and a girl hurriedly look around, wary of some sort of trap and armed with spears and a sword. However, the largest boy doesn't hesitate to go retrieve my gloves once he sees them. The other two follow closely. As he bends down to pick them up a cannon booms! in the distance. I heave with all my might at the sound.
The girl is the only one to see me while the boys are distracted by the noise, but it's too late. I dive from my cover as the trunk falls with a earth shattering crash. Like a spider web, the net swoops up all three careers with ease and pulls them, swearing profusely, into a ball of arms and legs. Before they get their heads back and cut the trap wide open, I am there sloshing the entire jug of oil on them.
"You brainless little thief," one boy spits out through a mouthful of liquid. He's the one who meant to take my gloves. "You are so dead! Morgan, cut us-!" He stops when he sees what else is clutched in my sweaty palms; a book of matches.
As I light the match and flick it into his big ugly face, the fire envelops their bodies in seconds. They scream in shock and then pain. I must have spilled some liquid on my hands in my hurry and my hands roast right along with them. My screams intermingle with the ball of flaming teenager feet from me as I stick my hands into the snow with a hiss. It's complete agony. I pull my raw, red hands from the cold slush and sob in pain, scooting backwards. At that point the ropes of my trap are damaged enough that the thrashing bodies inside split it wide open. The snow screams in protest as they hit the ground, remains of the net still alight. I try to stumble away while they roll and scream on the cool ground, attempting to smother the angry flames. Two flail while the third lays still on the ground. Boom!
I make it a few steps from the reeking flesh before the girl, having extinguished the blaze on her back, puts her sword through my back. I hang on for a moment, but the trauma is too much, and everything ends in a disorientating flash of fire and blood and crying.
Wow, three dead tributes! The first cannon that sounded will be explained next chapter. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! I really appreciate the feedback, it fuels the fire inside me (I like bad puns, okay?). Tell me, who do you think that first cannon was?