Chapter Five: Allies?

As the powerful smell of sulfur descended, Haymitch jumped to his feet and pulled up his undershirt to cover his face. As fast as he could, he scaled the tree under which he had slept, ascending up to the very top of it. Clinging hard to the swaying branches, he looked west and saw it: the mountain. Its pointed top was gone, and now from the jagged remnants poured a bright yellow river of lava. The ash spilled into the sky, covering it up from horizon to horizon and turning a bright morning into a dark nightmare.

The cannons started booming almost at once. The first three were almost on top of each other, and then in succession the rest came: four, five, six, seven. Eight, nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Haymitch closed his eyes and ducked his head down as the wind from the blast reached him at last and hot ash descended. Blindly, he made his way back down the tree, his mind racing.

He sat on the lowest bough of the tree, pondering his next move. There was no knowing - how controlled the volcano was and how far they would allow the lava to spread. Would they let it reach as far as the cornucopia? How many of the remaining tributes would now be running in his direction and would the woods, long quiet, now see the main action of the games?

Damn it. He jumped down to the ground and looked up at the sky. But now there was no telling the direction from the sun - it was as blotted out as if by the night. He could only follow the hot wind, and he ran with it on his back.

And then it happened - at long last. He had been on the move for only a short time - maybe an hour - when he found himself suddenly clear of the trees. He found himself standing on a rocky surface staring at a wall. It was a thick hedgewall, and so tall he could not see what was on the other side of it. To his left and his right, it continued on as far as he could see.

So, he thought in excitement - this was it: the edge of the arena. Beyond this hedge ….

He pushed aside the leaves, but found this bit of arena vegetation as unnatural as everything else. Behind the leaves, the branches of the hedge were woven together in a tight structure through which he could not even see the other side. It resisted every pull and twist of his hands. It resisted all of his knives. Of course. Well.

He bit his lip and looked up and down the hedgewall, pondering. Perhaps there was a weaker spot? He turned northward and followed the line of hedges for a time, until it curved inward and led him back into the trees. Then he doubled back and went the opposite direction. But eventually he found himself back in the trees again.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. Clearly, he was on the right track, or else the arena wouldn't be trying so hard to thwart him. He needed … something. Something else.

And he needed to eat. All this effort had him lightheaded. And he was out of supplies. It was maybe time to hunt down squirrel and see if it was a viable food option.

But he was so tired. He blinked wearily. The sweat hurt the cuts on his face.

He took a drink and tried to think through all of the options, but his brain just wouldn't cooperate. It was not just the hunger and exhaustion, but this sulfurous air and the heavy sky. Impossible to concentrate.

He staggered back to the end of the woods. He figured he was so far at the end of them, he had at least a day's advantage on whomever survived the volcano eruption and was heading toward the woods. He'd solve the food problem tomorrow. Tomorrow.

He fell asleep sitting upright against the stubborn hedgerow.

The anthem woke him up that night, just in time to get the reckoning of the day. And it had been a day. No fewer than five careers had died, including two from 1, two from 4 and one from 2. In addition, a boy from 5, both girls from 7, a boy and girl from 8, a boy from 9 and the last tribute from 11 had perished.

So - thirteen left. But more than a third of that number were still Careers.

The morning began with the sun still covered with ash. In fact, it did not seem to have dispersed a bit. He wondered if the rest of the Games would be held under this poisonous darkness. Well, he had no choice now. He had to hunt either for food or for tributes, and to be equally prepared to be killed by both. He gripped the largest of his knives in one hand and headed back into the trees.

Sleep had helped clear some - some - of the fog from yesterday. Today he was more responsive to the sounds of the woods than he had been since the first day. He had grown so used to the melodic birdsong, crunchy leaves and random chirruping over the last few days. He walked slowly and kept one eye on the tree branches above him, watching for any movement that might alert him to the presence of the deadly squirrels.

He did eventually spot a nest. This surprised him - for what reason would these manufactured birds need to build a home for eggs they would never lay? Another clue?

Too confusing. He shimmied up the tree and made for the nest - only to be disappointed, as it was completely empty. His head spun as he looked back down at the ground, at a total loss.

Now what?

Cornucopia - maybe? With so many of the Careers gone, maybe there were stray food supplies to be in the center of the arena.

No - that's a surer death than starving. You have water, at least.

For now.

He slid back down the tree, and at the exact moment his feet hit the ground, the three tributes stepped out of the trees.

Adrenaline shocked Haymitch's consciousness awake and he pulled up his knife without even thinking about it. For a split second, they all stared at each other - Haymitch taking account in his quick and dispassionate way.

Two boys, one girl. One of the boys he definitely remembered as being from District Two. All certainly Careers, based on height and weight, and general lack of signs of hunger. No visible sign of injuries - maybe a breakaway pack from the group of careers that died in the explosion. Weapons? A couple of swords. A big knife - and a spear, of some kind. This last he noted as he ducked quickly out of its way. It embedded itself in the tree he had just climbed down.

"That was your best shot," he said, running toward them. His voice was surprisingly hoarse after four-plus days of no one to talk to.

He bull-rushed the girl with the knife and killed her first. It was just that simple. She made a stabbing motion toward him, he twirled out of the way, grabbed her hair and pulled back her head. The cannon sounded for her before she even hit the ground.

He got hit by the flat of a sword and staggered backward - but crucially did not completely lose balance. He ducked down to pick up the dead girl's knife and flung it, almost blindly, at the nearest boy. It hit him in his right shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon. The other boy charged Haymitch with his sword and Haymitch made a zig-zagging retreat - or what looked like one. He stopped abruptly in the middle of his run, ducking and rolling into his pursuer's feet. They both wrestled for a moment on the ground, but Haymitch's knife was far more effective in close quarters than the other boy's sword. A second cannon sounded.

Haymitch scrambled up as the third Career rushed toward him. His knife was now dripping with blood and for a moment - just a moment - as he watched another teenage boy come at him, hacking at the air with his sword while he himself straddled a dead body, Haymitch felt that nothing was real, that everything was a nightmare - that he had never actually existed. This was too strange to be true.

He ducked aside again to avoid the hacking blade, but tripped a little over the body. He spun around, trying to figure out how to get past the sword and to the heart of his enemy. Finally, he just shouted - offering himself up to whatever controlled life and death - and plunged in. He managed to avoid the sharp edge of the blade and was struck by the flat again. But the knife flew out of his hands.

"Shit!" he shouted, and punched wildly at the other boy with one hand while trying to hold back the sword-wielding wrist with the other. He had some success for a few hopeful-looking seconds - the wounded shoulder had weakened the boy's grip. But eventually he was pushed back and fell to the ground. He made an effort to reach out and grasp his knife, which was close to where he had fallen, but the other boy stepped on it - leaned down - and picked it up.

Dropping the sword, the boy knelt down and pinned Haymitch to the ground by the chest.

"That was your best shot," Haymitch was told, mockingly, as his own knife came toward his throat.

And then the boy started, a look of shock and pain on his face, and keeled over. As Haymitch pushed him off of himself, the cannon sounded for a third time.

Haymitch stood up and looked around, thoroughly confused. He looked down and saw that there was a feathered dart sticking out of the back of the dead boy's neck. He reached down and picked it up.

"We'd live longer with the two of us," said a quiet voice, as a slight figure stepped out of the trees. Maysilee Donner, holding up her hands.

Haymitch rubbed his neck and felt his mouth drop open in a surprised appreciation that he could not control. "Guess you just proved that." He didn't have time to weigh the pros and cons. He'd do that later. "Allies?" he asked shortly.

Maysilee nodded.

"Then let's get these packs and anything we can off of them before the hovercrafts come."

She jumped nimbly over and grabbed the girl's backpack and knife, and pulled the spear out of the tree. Haymitch grabbed the rest and then they hurried away from the spot.

During the walk, Haymitch had the time to ponder the indefensibility of this alliance. Careers were taught from a very young age that to have a winner from their district - any winner - benefitted the district overall, and that to sacrifice yourself for this cause was good and right. So, there was no such thing as an actual 'betrayal' of a tribute from your home district, if his or her death was in service to this cause. In none of the other districts was this the case. Most, like District Twelve, had a subset of poorer kids whose need to take out tesserae (food in exchange for reaping chances) kept some kids safer than others, and it was everyone for him or herself, in the arena. But because there was no expectation to sacrifice yourself for the District, there was no mindset in place that justified killing your fellow district tribute. It was not only non-strategic, it was considered highly treasonous.

Further, it was asking a lot of himself to put any kind of trust in this girl. Even if she didn't kill him outright, she might otherwise be a drag on his strategy, a threat to his safety. On the other hand, he was interested in finding out what she knew about what had been going on in the rest of the arena. And how her weapon had worked so well. And - she had saved his life. That was at least worth a day.

They stopped after a twenty minute walk. Haymitch's hunger, exhaustion and dizziness was rapidly returning. And these career packs were incredibly heavy.

They sat down, facing each other, and pushed all the supplies into a pile between them.

"Well," sighed Maysilee, as Haymitch started opening packs. "That's three more down - and all Careers."

Haymitch closed his mind off from the memory of his knife blade slicing through the soft flesh, catching on the tendons of the neck. That way ran to madness.

"Oh, hell yes," he said softly, pulling out a plastic bag stuffed with dried meats, dried fruit, crackers, nuts and raisins.

"Thank goodness," said Maysilee. He threw her a meat stick and she hesitated. "Shouldn't we divvy it up, first?"

"We'll do that," he said. "But I gotta eat something first. I can barely think."

She smiled. "It's been a rough couple of days."

He looked at her as he ate, measuring her appearance against that night on the balcony. Her face was streaked with ash and her wild hair sat flatter against her cheeks, but she looked otherwise much the same. "Nice dart work," he said.

And then she told him how her games had gone.

Like Haymitch, she had been instinctively mistrustful of the mountain and, after picking up a small pack had also run toward the trees, following a stream that ran from the cornucopia into the woods. She had only made it as far as the outskirts of the woods when the bloodbath ended, and it was on the outskirts that she had remained for most of the days since. She had found it easy to hide in the lower boughs of the trees when needed, and furthermore had discovered the poisonous qualities of the arena vegetation early on. Her pack had only contained a small supply of dried beef, a small bowl and a blowgun with darts.

"That was interesting," she said. "But I figured it must mean something. I mean - as a weapon, these darts are about as useful as sewing needles, so I figured there must be some other way to use them. On the second day, I saw Ellanda die - she was coming toward the woods along the stream, like I did. I guess she was thirstier than she could bear, and, before I could warn her - she took a drink and died. That confirmed my suspicions about this place. So, I went out into the meadow and picked some flowers. The petals are acidic to the touch. I used the bowl to collect the nectar and got to test my theory later that day.

"The Careers spent the first night in a huge pack, going into the woods. But when they went back to the Cornucopia, they either decided to split up into separate hunting groups or they argued and split up. Some went into the woods - most of District 2. Some went toward the mountain. The rest stuck to the meadow and have been essentially circling the cornucopia the last few days. One of the boys from District 4 came pretty much right up to where Ellanda died and I blew one of the darts at him. It wasn't even a very good hit - it stuck him in the arm. But he died almost instantly. I got some food and water off of him and that's what I've been living on and where I've been hiding, until the volcano forced everyone this direction. Most of my time, I've been practicing my aim. What about you? You look like you ran into some trouble even before today."

"Butterflies," he said, touching his face. "Razor-sharp wings." He went on to describe his time in the arena.

"So," she said. "How many of us are left? I lost count yesterday."

He pulled the stick out of his pack and showed her how he had been keeping track. Every tribute had a label - the number of their district followed by A or B (male tributes) or C or D (females) - and he had been crossing them off at night when learning who exactly had died. "Here's us," he said. "12A and 12D."

"You made a label for yourself?"

He shrugged. "So, anyway - here's who was left after last night: Me, you, both girls from 1, two boys and a girl from 2, both boys from 3, one boy from 6, one boy from 7, one girl from 9 and one girl from 10. That's thirteen. And we just killed three."

She whistled softly. "Holy crap. We're top ten. Just two away from getting our friends and family featured on television. Who would've believed it?"

Haymitch thought of the girl whose identity he was keeping secret back in District Twelve, and hoped no one would point her way if the Capitol cameras did come. "Well, if nothing else we've given District 12 a show they likely haven't seen since - when was the last winner again?"

Maysilee frowned in thought. "Tenth? I think? That sounds right. Forty years ago. She was from the Seam, right?"

"Sort of. My grandmother was a friend of hers, or maybe a cousin - I don't remember - and they weren't miners - but they also weren't townies."

"I guess they didn't televise the games back then - I don't think I've seen a game older than twenty years."

"I think they did, but maybe they just weren't that interesting back then."

"Interesting," she mused. "Such a funny way to describe the games."

Haymitch looked down at his hands and this time he could not keep the images out of his head. There was literal blood there - the blood of other teenagers, whose names he didn't even know. From now on, whether or not he left this arena alive, he was a killer. And so was the girl opposite him. This had not been true a week ago. But it was forever, now.