Day Eleven
Sparkle crouched over Cleo, sword in hand. It was early morning, and Cleo was fast asleep, making the mistake of leaving Sparkle the only one awake. She wanted to kill Jayson first, but she decided to go for Cleo, then kill him later. She knew there was no way she could get out of the gang alive, and if she was going to leave while they were asleep she might as well kill them and be done with it.
'What're you doing?' she cursed under her breath at the sound of Jayson's grunt. He was lying against a backpack next to the dying embers of the fire, his eyes half open.
'What does it look like I'm doing?' Sparkle hissed back.
'You shouldn't do that,' he grunted, sitting up. 'You shouldn't. I'm gonna stop you!'
'Don't you dare! And will you shut up?'
'No!' he got to his feet and started to lumber towards her. Sparkle raised her sword to slit Cleo's throat, but before she could a hand clamped around her wrist. She looked down and saw Cleo scowling up at her, a murderous look in her eyes. She kneed Sparkle in the stomach and sunk her nails into Sparkle's wrist, forcing her to drop the sword.
'How dare you!' snarled Cleo, rolling over on top of her. 'You dare to think you could kill me?' Sparkle fought against her, kicking and struggling. She bit down on Cleo's arm making her spring backwards. Sparkle jumped to her feet, grabbing her sword, but Jayson caught her and held her tight.
'Let me go!' shrieked Sparkle. 'Let me GO!' Cleo walked slowly towards her and opened her jacket, revealing her collection of throwing knives, slightly dirty and battered but still wickedly sharp. She pulled out one, a long, wide edged, slightly serrated, made for cutting through bone and sinew.
'Like this one? He's useful, but a bit of a brute, like Jayson here,' she said, smiling and placing it back, pulling out another. 'This one is my favourite. It's like me. Small, quick, fits my hand perfectly – I always hit bulls-eye. And this one? Slender, silvery, made for slicing and quick movements, I think of it as similar to you. I think it fitting that the knife that kills you, should be the knife I think of as you! Poetic justice, don't you think?' Cleo moved backwards again, readying the knife. Sparkle started to struggle again against Jayson again, tears pouring down her cheeks, but Cleo's wrist whipped around and the knife embedded itself in her chest.
She let out a short shriek, turning into a gurgle, before slumping, her eyes glazed. A cannon boomed and Jayson threw the body away, a look of disgust on his face as he tried to wipe off the blood on his arm. Cleo plucked the knife away and kicked the body off down the slope, before turning back to Jayson.
'We're splitting,' she said. 'There's only four of us left, and frankly I'd rather pit the other two against you before I try and come up against you myself. Your lack of intelligence wouldn't make it fun.' And before Jayson could register in his slow mind what she had said, she turned and pranced off down the slope.
O
Diesel slowly peeled off the blood-stained linen, wincing as the fabric stuck to his cut. The gash itself had healed up a lot – the work of the ointment, he knew – but it was almost to the bone, and cuts like that don't heal up overnight. At least, not without a shedload of money and some Capitol medicine.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the arms of his chair and hoisted himself up, carefully putting weight on the injured leg. Before he couldn't put his entire weight on his leg, and only walk at a slow pace. That was why he set up the tripwire, though sadly it only tripped up the tribute he was desperately hoping he wouldn't have to kill. He still wasn't sure why he let her go. Plain stupidity, perhaps.
Turning his attention back to his leg, he tested it, slowly bending it and squatting down, before straightening up again and walking normally around the hut. Back home, the District doctor would have told him to take it easy, have a few days resting and trying not to strain it. But he was in the Hunger Games, and taking it easy meant death.
He jumped up and down a few times, trying not to wince. The sudden, jolting movement still send bolts of pain up his leg. But he ignored it, and strode out into the dusty street. There was no one about, and he decided to throw caution to the wind.
Eyeing a thin, gnarled old tree, he bent his legs and sprinted towards it. After a few steps his injured leg seized and he staggered the last part, grabbing the tree to stop himself collapsing. He clung onto it, half hanging over one of the branches. His leg throbbed and ached, and sweat beaded his brow. He let out a mirthless laugh, forcing himself to stretch and bend the leg. Perhaps his doctor was right. But then, he was probably also right in thinking that his doctor's suggestions meant death in the arena.
O
Jessalyn was floating in cool water – the ocean back home. She was a few metres underneath, the light above just visible. She smiled, blissfully happy. She was home, safe and sound, the Hunger Games were just a horrible dream. Though underwater, she let out a joyful laugh, kicking and swimming smoothly through the water.
To her surprise, her hands hit a slimy wall of mud. Suddenly she wasn't in the sea, she was in a perfectly circular pool, filled with weeds and mud. She spun around in the water, and came face to face with a piranha. Its hundreds of razor fangs were bared, its eyes full of bloodlust. And then she was surrounded, they were on all sides of her, as one they shot forward and attacked.
Frantically, she splashed around, scrabbling for the surface of the water, for an escape. But the sunlight seemed miles away now, and the piranhas were ripping and tearing at her limbs. Her lungs seemed to be about to burst, straining for oxygen. And the piranhas were dragging her deeper, down into the depths…
She sat bolt upright, only managing not to scream by clamping her hand over her mouth. She still let out a muffled cry. Her skin was all cold and clammy, beaded with sweat, and she struggled to breathe, as if the lungs that had cried out for oxygen in her dream now did not know what to do with it.
Her dream. Her horrible, horrific nightmare. She leant against the wall of her shelter, feeling tears prick her eyelids. Her dream, but Skye's fate. For him, the piranhas, the ripping and the tearing and the teeth had all been real. At least he had not drowned as well. The drowning had been her imagination.
She wondered where that part of the dream had come from. In District Four, it is rarely heard of for someone to drown. People were swept out to sea or dashed on the rocks or killed from hypothermia, but even little kids could swim like fishes. In Four, people could swim before they could walk, often.
A memory came back to her. She was five years old, and Pater had taken them out onto the cliff tops for endurance training – workouts and running long distance. Sharkey had started wrestling with Bruce. They were only seven and twelve. Her other siblings and Pater were watching, but I wandered off onto the edge of the cliff. It was a stormy day, the waves lashing against the rocks, spraying up and soaking some birds perched a few metres above.
The current and waves looked harsh, and she was exhausted from the training, but suddenly she was ignoring all of that. All she wanted to do was jump in that water, feel the power and strength. Everyone was concentrating on the boys, so she quietly slipped off her shoes, and jumped off the cliff.
The fall was fine, but as she hit the water, the cold and current hit her like a punch, knocking the breath out of her. Waves crashed over her head as she struggled to swim and realised that she was well out of her comfort zone. Her arms and legs seemed to be made of lead, she could barely move them.
The sea sucked all energy out of her, her clothes were sodden, the weight was dragging her down. She closed her eyes and felt herself sink slowly down, beneath the raging torrent above, down into the cold, black deep.
She wasn't sure if she was conscious or if it was just her imagination, but she felt some strong arms grab her and pull her upwards. Then she was lying in the sand, coughing salt water from her lungs, while a voice muttered "stupid" over and over again. And finally she was in her bed back home, the thin blanket feeling incredibly warm and the hard mattress the softest thing she had ever lain on.
Shaking herself out of the memory, she looked around, taking in her surroundings. She was in a house in the Arena, near the edge of the blast zone – half the building was collapsed and the other half was shaky, but she chose it because she imagined the other tributes would want to stay away from there.
It was late morning, from the heat and the position of the sun. She couldn't hear any nearby tributes – and she had set up a number of snares to alert her if a tribute was near, including string that would trip you up and make you yell out in surprise. She took the idea from Diesel, of course. Diesel. She still didn't understand why he let her go. She hoped it wouldn't end up with the two of them facing each other.
She looked up as something caught her eye. It was a grey parachute, with a smallish package hanging from it. She snatched it up and opened it. Inside lay a medium amount of food – two rolls, strips of dried beef, and an apple. With a grin, she snatched up a roll and ate half of it in one bite. She hadn't realised how starving she was, and this food meant she wouldn't have to go hunting for a couple of days, perhaps until the end of the Games.
But the food had made her thirsty. Fumbling slightly, she unscrewed the cap on her water canister. Only a tiny amount of water was left. She sighed and stood up, sipping at the last few drops before tying it back on, pocketing the food and heading out of the house towards the lake.
O
Demetrius smiled. 'Two hundred, please, dear Publius.' Publius cursed and pulled out a handful of notes, shoving them at Demetrius. 'Come now, don't tell me you were going to use her as a concubine? She was fourteen!' Publius shrugged, scowling at his plump little hands. Demetrius just laughed and turned to the girls.
'You'd better get your notes ready too, I don't think yours are going to last long,' he said in a smug, satisfied voice. Spurnia stuck her tongue out at him, and Felina shook her head.
'I'm not giving up on Four. The girl has a survivor feel to her.'
As ever, sorry for making you all wait for the chapter. I'm afraid you might have to wait awhile for the next few chapters – I'm going off travelling up California for the next few weeks, and my computer access will probably be next to nothing. So you'll have to be patient – the next chapter is likely to come mid-September.
List of the Dead
Hareld Wyre
Jenna Monroe
Nathaniel Merezald
Pau Furnely
Ginevra Helena di Cosimo
Patrick Volta
Trix Lexon
Amore Gemini
Odio Gemini
Tabytha laDawn Carmahel
Dawn Shentell
Sephiria Raven
Scott Fosters
Violet Queens
Ember Gildern
Kai Septor
Lottie Blacilla
Skye Coral
Niall Hoult
Sparkle Velia
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