England had to slam his hand over Italy's mouth to stifle his scream, so as not to give away what had happend here, and make Germany or Prussia come back to kill him. England looked down at the Italian. He was crying weakly, his eyes glossy and tears streaking down his face. The Brit pulled his knife out of Italy's chest, causing him to scrunch up his face in pain. Slowly, England removed his hand from the Italian's mouth. Italy was still sobbing a bit, and a large, gaping and bloody stab wound took up his chest. Italy was convusling, breathing hard, then going still, then breathing once more. His end was near.
"Goodybye, Big Brother..." Italy murmered weakly, his last statement barely audible. Then we went completely still. A canon fired. England stood up, his knife in hand. For good measure, he took Italy's spear, too. Now this was a weapong his could make good use of. Deciding he wouldn't need his knife as much now, he tucked it into his belt, and fingered his spear. It was a good one, with a mahogany shaft and a sharp steel tip. Near Italy, he found another identical spear tip. He could use this as an extra.
Suddenly, the night sky was filled with the loud buzz of something. A hovercraft approaching. Seconds later, the craft appeared, and lifted Italy Veneziano's body up into it with a rope, then took off as quickly as it had appeared. England knew that Italy would be taken to the Capitol, be cleaned and dressed in nice clothes, the shipped back to the Hetalian town where family members would choose to bury him. In the forest edge, the yells of a fight filled the air. England though that should mean France was fighting Germany and Prussia. He should've been helping the Frenchman now, but all hopes of continuing their feeble allaince had ended. England had killed France's younger brother.
The full realization of what he had done kicked in. For a moment, England was crushed by guilt. Italy had family back home. Family who thought he might come back. Family that now loathed England. A scream for close to England snapped his train of though. France was running, or limping, toward the Cornucopia, his right lef bloody and disfigured, and a nasty cut on his left cheek. "I got him!" Prussia shouted, sprinting out of the trees in hot prusuit of France. With a mighty leap, the self centered Germany hurled his sword at France like a throwing knife. It stuck in the Frenchman's back, as France shreiked in pain, and fell to the grounnd. Another deafening canon blast.
That was what brought England back to reality. He ran for it, his spear in hand and his pack still on ihs shoulder. he sprinted toward the scent of salt water, hoping nobody was chasing after him. The land sloped downhill, and the salty scent grew in intesnsity. England could hear the burbling roll of water, and a comforting breeze rustled his hair. This seemed like a good place. England finally stopped running, panting heavily and clutching his side. In front of him, a large expense of water was layed out, no doubt salt. Waves crashed on a sandy beach, which he was stading on now, and large sand dunes dotted the land scape. Tall grasses grew around him. Perhaps these could be good hiding places. It was night, and the sky was still dark. Above him, England saw stars twinkling and shining at him like beautiful diamonds in the sky. It was hard to believe scenes this beatiful could still exist in the Hunger Games.
England looked behind him. He couldn't see the Cornucopia or forest from here, but the large, snowy mountain still loomed in the far distance. He wondered which tributes were hiding there, or fighting each other. Probably Liechtenstein, her country was made up of basically all mountains. Or maybe Russia. The thought of big, scary Russia fighting tiny Liechtenstein made him kind of sad. Luckily, no sounds or signs of a pursuer were evident, things seemed to have calmed down. England wondered how the Germans were reacting to Italy's death. The Italian being gone could only mean one thing.
Abruptly, Panem's national anthem began playing across the entire arena, and its seal flashed across the black sky, followed by Italy's and France's faces. Good, Sealand was still alive. Last night, England learned that there were nineteen tributes left. Two more gone left seventeen Hetalian tributes still standing. The waves lapped against the beach, as England took out some bread and drank a little bit of water, thinking that Sealand may be close to him. He wanted desperatly to have more food and water, but these supplies needed to last. England was lucky to even have them. He pulled out his knife and spear heads, and washed them clean in the salt water, then dried them with his shirt. The Brit wondered if there were any fish or shellfish he could scavenge here. He'd been sweaty profously for the last few days, and his mouth began to water at the prospect of something nice and salty.
"I should be getting to sleep now..." England yawned to himselt. He chose a spot behind a sand dune, so he would be safer in case the Gamemakers decided to pull out a tidal wave or something against him, that also had tall grasses to keep concealed in. Like the previous night, he used his pack as a pillow, but there was no need for a blanket. It was rather warm here, and less creepy or foreboding than the nightime forest. Of course, there was not telling if the Gamemakers would make it ice cold, or seering hot. They could do whatever the wanted, whenever they wanted. The tributes were just pawns in the Hunger Games, and nothing more. This make England wonder if the Gamemakers would pull out anything on England tonight. Perhaps not. Two tributes had died today, and it was only the second night of the Games, so there was still plenty of opening betting going on in the Capitol. The last thing England saw before dozing off was a pair of gleaming eyes glaring right at him.
Uh oh, what gonna happen next ? Well, England was right to be wondering who's hiding in that mountain. Next chapter we'll switch viewpoints for a bit and see what's going on there...