Title: Awake and Sing
Author: A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"
Category: Action/Adventure/Drama
Chapter Word Count: 2,904
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: Continuing thanks to you all for your comments and support I love hearing what you have to say! Thanks everyone!
Warning! This chapter contains some decently graphic violence (at least for me), more or less throughout. It is the end of the Games after all. If that bothers you, I apologize and encourage you skip over the worst of it.
13 – Endgame
It's a bad night.
After Girl 5 and the croc-mutts. After Zeke.
It's just me again in my little metal cubby and it has never felt so empty. I shake and snuffle as I wring out my socks and lay out my clothes to dry. I choke down a cracker and a strip of jerky. I curl into the sleeping bag after the faces of the fallen flash in the sky and sob.
It's foolish. A waste of energy and a distraction from my surroundings.
I don't care. Like the first night on the train, I can't control the wracking sobs and snuffling wails. I hold onto the small metal cube Thom sent like a child's security blanket, the last tangible reminder that someone, somewhere cares even a little about me. I muffle my cries into my woven mat and the material of the sleeping bag. I sob miserably until I wear myself completely out and fall into a terrible sleep full of croc-mutts, faces in the sky, dying Zekes and haunting adventure songs.
It's a light sleep and I wake at the sound of a cannon just before sunrise.
Three.
Pentheus, probably Flynn because Zeke had said something about getting a hit in on Lace, and me.
There's a awful feeling of triumph at the sound and the knowledge that I am almost home. It's a welcome relief from the grief and terror that's been plaguing me all evening, but I still get a shot of guilt too.
I'm pleased to learn that someone has died.
I'm turning into some horrible Capitol-created monster. I've killed, watched my friends be killed and reveled in the deaths of others. I've become the very thing Gram ordered me not to. The terrible thing Papa fought to stop.
The Capitol has won again.
The worst part of it all is that I can push myself to not care. To not think about it. I can still pack away every awful thing into a far corner of my brain, just like I've always done when something bothers me, and focus on the day's tasks.
Today's task is to go home.
I promised Zeke I would and when it comes down to it, I want to go home. I want tell Zeke's mother how much he loved her. I want to see my own family again. My brothers and my grandparents. Fillipa and Thom and Saoirse, even Minerva Holmes. I want to see District 4. I want to stick my feet in the ocean and sleep in my own bed. I want to listen to Gram's scolding and the sounds of the surf as I fall asleep.
I want to go home.
So I swallow my misery. I wipe away the tear tracks and screw on a determined face. I eat a small breakfast of mostly water and a few crackers. I dress in my cold, damp clothes and consolidate my resources.
I'll never be able to carry three packs on my own and there's a fair amount of gear I don't particularly need. The tent from Doil's bag and his short sword stay behind. The rope and my woven bowls stay. I don't need them with three canteens.
I keep what's left of Doil's food and the canteens. I keep the magnesium strip, the matches, my foil blanket, and the sleeping bag. I keep the first aide kit, the parachute and the Capitol medicine. I even tuck Thom's note into my bag, but I leave the metal cube. I keep the awl, the knife, and the slingshot, but I leave Zeke's ax and his hatchet. They're a lot of added weight for tools I don't particularly need.
I loop the compass back around my neck, just to be sure of my position and tuck the awl into my jacket pocket. I roll everything else into the tarp to keep things mostly dry and tuck things into Zeke's pack. The other two, plus my woven bag-basket and the grass mat stay behind. I go ahead and pack the remaining gear into both Doil's pack and my little red one. I tuck them in the deepest corner of the cubby and cover them with the grass mat and some rubble. I don't plan to come back for any of it, but I certainly don't want anyone else spotting it either in case I come back to the cubby.
I spend the morning boiling rainwater. Starting a fire is no small task in the damp, but filling the canteens is easy.
The weather's getting worse and the waters are rising again. There's no sign of the croc-mutts, but I steer clear of the floodwater's edge just in case, moving parallel to the currents some yards off.
When my drinking water's boiled, I hike west, still following the canal. Around midmorning, I hit more flooding. I follow the edge of that south which around noon shoots me back to lake and Pentheus's camp.
The Gamemakers are flooding us in.
They want this over.
Today.
Ten days is a decent length for the Games. With last year going on nearly a month and of course the complete disaster that had been Doil, I'd bet money the Gamemakers are ready for this to end.
I don't even bother checking the shore. Instead, I hike back the way I came and tuck myself into a ruined doorway. It's mostly out of the rain and I finish off the last two strips of jerky for lunch. I leave the crackers in the off chance things last a bit longer than I think they will.
When I'm finished with my meager meal, I hike back towards the shore, then north a ways. Back to the flooded canal and familiar grounds. If they spot me here, I'm familiar enough with the terrain and the floodwaters to give myself a good chance at hiding from any pursuers.
When I check the shore from the ruins, both of my remaining adversaries are there. Flynn must have been flooded out or picked a ration-less pack from hoard because he's back on the beach. Pentheus must have gotten a sponsor gift during the night because he's moving like his old Training self. They're duking it out over the supplies and I have a tough time figuring out who's got the upper hand.
Pentheus is the superior fighter to be sure. He's bigger, even after just shy of two weeks in the Arena. He's stronger, more capable with his mace and just about any other weapon he gets his hands on.
But Flynn is faster. Smarter. He's not too terrible with a variety of weapons either and can block nearly all of Pentheus's hits.
I stay hidden. I'm not stupid enough to intervene or join in. Flynn might not kill me with everyone from home watching, but Pentheus certainly would. So I tuck myself into a ruined building where the second floor keeps me mostly out of the rain and patiently watch the fight.
They're getting tired.
Pentheus is breathing hard and moving like his stomach wound is acting up. Flynn misses a block and takes a slice to his shoulder. They're slowing down. Missing opportunities and wasting energy.
When even I can see they're both hurting, Flynn decides he's in trouble. He gets in a dazing hit to Pentheus's face, not unlike the hit Lace gave yesterday and bolts. But instead of running back into the ruins and the cover of the trees, Flynn runs for the flooded canal. Past my hiding spot again with Pentheus on his tail. In horror, I recognize his plan.
Flynn's hoping to get Pentheus somewhere he knows and he's spent his whole life in the water. Flynn must think that even injured, he'll be able to use the currents against Pentheus. So that Pentheus will spend more time and energy keeping his head above the water while Flynn can get in and either skewer him or drown him.
It's a good plan, but with one major flaw. It plays to his strengths and Pentheus's weaknesses, but Flynn doesn't know what's in the water. The terrible croc-mutts that will surly smell the fresh blood from Flynn's shoulder wound. Flynn may be my adversary. May be ready to kill me once he's dispatched Pentheus. But he is still my district partner. Still someone I recognize from school and from town, who, while not my friend, has, even now, never been terrible to me in any way. Flynn does not deserve this death and I cannot stop the shout from tearing its way out of my throat.
"D-Don't!"
But it's too late. By the time my voice reaches them, Flynn is in the water and I can all ready see the huge leathery backs peeking out of the murky gloom. Neither of the boys notice the stealthy mutts, still too shocked to see me. Pentheus just grins hungrily and I realize my mistake.
He'll save Flynn for later. I'm an easy catch.
I don't stick around to see Flynn's fate because Pentheus makes a dash for me. I know what comes next for my district partner. I'd rather not watch. And then, the same adrenaline fueled, self-preservation instinct that got me through my encounter with Doil kicks back in.
I run.
Flat out, as fast as I can. I'm still not in top shape. I slept horribly last night and overdid things yesterday on top of losing my last friend in the awful place. But the adrenaline lets me ignore it. Besides, I haven't spent the afternoon dueling nor am I carrying a dozen small knives and a mace.
I manage to out distance him, but only just. The rain's picking up again and I'm not sure if it's to rise the waters further or to increase the drama of our final confrontations. Possibly both.
Flynn's cannon fires as I run. A touch of sadness cuts into my rush. Flynn was a good sort, for my part. He didn't deserve to be torn apart by giant croc-mutts a thousand miles from home. His folks and his dozen brothers and sisters surly shouldn't have had to watch it. But I don't let the feeling linger. Like everything else, all the other horrible, miserable feelings that have been mounting get pushed to the side so I can focus very, very intently on the task of not dying.
I hit more floodwater just beyond the metal cubby. The canals are still rising and low points are filling up, creeping high into the ruins so that I'm boxed in by rubble and water. The rain keeps pouring.
The Gamemakers want us to fight head on.
I whirl around, the awl in my hand. I'm backed into one of the corners created by the deeper puddles and ruined buildings. I'm also just in time for Pentheus to barrel out of the soggy under brush, the raging canal behind him. He's nearing exhaustion, but the thrill of being one death away from home and the adrenalin rush of our chase seem to keep him moving.
"Hello, little mouse." Pentheus snarls. He isn't quite as leering as Doil had been, but he's certainly hungrier. I am not just something pretty to break for him. I am all that stands between him and victory for himself and his district. I am the last obstacle to honor and glory from the Capitol.
"P-P-Pentheus." I try to sound brave, but it's difficult when he's toting a mace and I've only got an awl. The knife and the slingshot of course are both safely tucked in my pack. It had seemed perfectly logical this morning. No good shot for the slingshot and no sheath for the knife made them no good to have out for hiking, after all.
"Surprised everyone, didn't you?" Something smug and confident slips into the snarl on his face. "Making it this far. You should have been dead at the Cornucopia." My voice fails me. He ignores the small cracked sounds from my throat. "But you'll make me an easy victory." Pentheus continues. There's triumph in his voice. "Don't worry, little mouse. You'll have a worthy death." He assures me.
My voice is entirely gone now. Completely lost and I am washed in fear and panic. Worse than that day at the plaza with Doil. I am entirely alone here because this is it. There is no plan. No allies to rescue me. No enemies to distract him. This is what everything has come down to.
Me and the hulking boy with a bloodlust in his eyes in the rainy ruins of an ancient city where croc-mutts swim in the dark waters around us.
Again, I hope my family isn't watching. I'm fairly certain Pentheus wouldn't follow Doil's example, but I wouldn't put it past him to take his dear sweet time carving me up. Actually, I'm quite sure he'd adore giving them a good show of hacking me to pieces. A grand finale for the viewing audience. My family has all ready watched me kill a boy on national television. They certainly don't need to watch my slow and agonizing death.
"Let's go, mouse." Pentheus sneers at me, inching closer as the water behind him creeps in. The crumbling wall behind me keeps me from moving back and I can only hold out my awl to keep him at bay. He finds my attempts at self-defense particularly hilarious and he snorts a menacing chuckle. "That's it? A straight pin? You're almost making this too easy, little mouse."
I'm within range now. Still shaking and still terrified, but that awful self-preservation instinct, the one that wipes away things like morality and reason in favor of just trying to stay alive kicks in behind the fear. I drop my pack as he moves to strike.
Pentheus swings his mace, but I'm faster. Smaller. The heavy weapon buries itself in the ancient brick behind me and I dive down, scrambling out between his legs. It isn't terribly dignified dodge, but I'm small enough for it to be effective. To buy me a little more time, I slam my awl into his left calf as I scramble away.
It works.
Pentheus howls and his stance falters as blood bubbles up around the wound. I tug back my awl and struggle to my feet in the growing mess of mud that the shoreline has become. The fear and panic well up again.
My escape options are quickly running thin and it becomes clear that I'm going to fail at today's task. With water on two sides, Pentheus on the other, this is going to be then end. I'm going to fail Zeke. I'll just get my pick of end. Foolishly, I'm certain, I muster up some sort of courage in between the adrenaline and pick the lesser of the two evils.
I dive into the raging canal.
If I die here, at least it's in the water. Somewhere, if only a little, like home. The current is strong. It slows me down considerably as I struggle upstream, but overall, surprisingly, it's not impossible to manage. I'm immensely grateful I'm not bleeding too. I haven't even a scab left, thanks to the Capitol medicine and the bloodied awl is washed clean in moments. I just hope it enough to get me across to a pile of rubble, large hunks of cement on the opposite shore before the croc-mutts close in.
A splash from behind tells me that Pentheus has decided to pursue me. I don't glance back to be sure and it occurs to me through my adrenaline-fueled panic-swimming that he doesn't know about the croc-mutts. He'd run before he'd seen Flynn's fate and he's so angry, so completely consumed by rage, I can't imagine he's thinking clearly at this moment.
Pentheus shouts and snarls in my direction as he splashes his way towards me. I don't look back and I can't make out much of what he's saying over the rushing of the water, only occasionally something that sounds like my name. I just keep swimming. Keep pushing upstream, away from him and his bleeding leg wound.
If the mutts weren't coming before, they certainly are now.
The leathery back that breaks the water several yeards off to my left sends me into a panic. The sheer terror is so overwhelming I can't even scream. I just keep pushing, swimming harder into the currents, as fast as I can for that glorious pile of cement only yards away.
I hear Pentheus shout again when my fingers, amazingly meet concrete. This time it's in pain. He howls in agony as I haul myself up out of the water and scramble up the pile of rubble. Pentheus is still screaming when I reach the top, panting and still clutching my awl.
The water is blotted in red by the time I finally glance behind me down at the horrible scene. Pentheus isn't screaming anymore. I'm trembling something fierce and my knees give out as the croc-mutts roll, splash and growl. Huge, horrid and cruel monsters, reveling in the red bloom of the floodwaters.
And then the cannon fires.
The last cannon fires.
Somewhere above, but somehow all around me, Julius Flickerman's voice calls out over the sounds of the rain. Over the floodwaters and the croc-mutt growls. Far away, like some sort of dream.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the 10th Annual Hunger Games, Margaret Benoit!"