Chapter Six

Before the Dark Days, the Capitol Arena had served as a venue for sports and entertainment, hosting events ranging from circuses to athletics competitions to military displays. The sports and the entertainment had stopped during the Dark Days, but the military displays had continued as the Capitol's armed forces sought to demonstrate their might. Soldiers and Peacekeepers performing complex drill routines. Marching bands parading round the main amphitheatre, playing stirring music. Displays of propaganda designed to show the citizens of the Capitol (and anyone in the districts who might have a working television) that Panem's government was as powerful as ever.

Later in the war, a number of high profile rebels had been executed here, men and women tied to stakes as firing squads riddled their bodies with bullets. Sometimes, as many as twenty to thirty rebels had been killed this way. And the Capitol had made a point of showing these executions on television, so those who couldn't attend in person could see for themselves the consequences of opposing Panem's rulers. Of course, this only made the Arena a prime target for rebel bombers, but though the structure was badly damaged the Arena remained standing, and now it was about to serve a new purpose.

The truck came to a halt by a side entrance, one which had been used by those who provided entertainment before the war and through which condemned prisoners had later been led to their doom. The tributes, of course, fell into the latter category and, as if to remind them, a squadron of Peacekeepers was waiting for them, standing stiffly to attention, all of them armed. Fern counted at least fifty of them, meaning they would have had the tributes outnumbered even if all twenty-four had made it this far, but she had no time to think about it before the truck's driver climbed out of the cab and went round to unlock the cage containing the tributes.

"All right! Everybody out!" the driver yelled as the cage clanged open.

A few tributes (Flicker, Cabochon, Hector, Fern and Roots) scrambled out of the truck immediately and were quickly seized by pairs of Peacekeepers. Everyone else held back, some trying to lie flat on the floor of the truck to avoid being seen, but they were only delaying the inevitable. A barked command from the driver to "move it" prompted Ursula, Zack, Caddie, Heddle, Anthea, Waylon and Shaft to join their fellow tributes, leaving seven tributes still in the truck. These were quickly hauled out by Peacekeepers who barked insults at them all the while. Reminding them that they were inferior to those who lived in the Capitol, that they were here to pay the price for the treason committed by the districts.

With Peacekeepers surrounding them on all sides, the tributes were led up a long passage, past what had once served as a backstage area and onto the field. Several of them gasped at the sheer size of the place, the fifteen-foot wall which surrounded them, the tiers of seats looming above that. The rebels had clearly left their mark; the once pristine Arena was strewn with rubble, the wall pockmarked, the grass on the field dying from neglect. But this was not what drew the attention of most of the tributes. The thing which did was the ring of chalk circles and the pile of weapons in the middle. Swords, axes, maces, spears, anything that might prove useful in a battle to the death.

As the tributes were led towards the ring, Cabochon took the opportunity to whisper to Flicker, who was directly in front of him. "Hey, remember our agreement? We fight together, us and Hector. Right?"

"Right," Flicker whispered back. Before she could say anything else, the Peacekeepers escorting her prodded her with their guns, as those escorting Cabochon did likewise.

"No talking!" one of the Peacekeepers barked as they reached the ring and the tributes from District 1 were made to stand in chalk circles which were several spaces apart. Flicker attempted to move closer to Cabochon, but the Peacekeepers who had escorted her promptly trained their guns on her and sternly told her no-one was to move until sixty seconds after the last tribute was in position. Faced with this, and knowing from what had happened to Cowrie, Skipper and Brett that the Peacekeepers would kill her if she disobeyed them, Flicker contented herself with eyeing the pile of weapons, trying to decide which of them might be the most effective when it came to killing people. The sword right in front of her. That would do nicely.

One by one, the other tributes were led to the ring of chalk circles and forced to stand in one of the circles. Fern found herself standing between Mercury and Anthea, with Logger six spaces to her left, not that she cared who was next to her or where her fellow District 7 tribute was. They were not her friends; she had decided that on the way to the Capitol. They were her enemies who were out to kill her - unless she could kill them first. Which meant she would have to try and get her hands on one of the weapons. Such as the axe she could see in the middle of the pile. But could she reach it before any of the other tributes?

The moment Shaft had been forced into his chalk circle (between Cabochon and Ida) the Peacekeepers marched back the way they had come. As the last of them disappeared, a metal barrier slammed shut behind them, trapping the nineteen tributes who had made it this far in the Arena. However, they had no time to react before a voice was projected through the Arena's speaker system, echoing around the field.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the First Hunger Games begin!"

The minute which followed was the longest of Fern's life, dragged out by the fact that she had no way of knowing how much time had elapsed since the words announcing the start of the Games were broadcast over the speakers. She gazed at the other tributes, noting the expression that was etched into all their faces. Tension. Fear. Desperation. No doubt one of those expressions was also etched on her face, not that she had any way of knowing because she hadn't seen a mirror since she left her cabin in District 7 on the day of the reaping. How long had it been now? Two days? Three?

A gong sounded at that moment, projected through the speakers as the voice had been. The tributes remained where they had been placed for a few moments before realising this was it, the First Hunger Games had truly begun. A grim expression settled across several young faces and the owners of those faces began to sprint towards the pile of weapons, each of them wanting to do only one thing: survive. But it was an ambition only one person in the Arena would be able to fulfil and, in order to do so, they would have to kill their opponents. That was the twisted punishment the Capitol had devised for the failed rebellion, pitting kids from the defeated districts against each other in a battle to the death. This would serve to remind the districts that the Capitol was all-powerful and could do whatever it liked to them. Including forcing their young people to murder each other.

Shaft was the first to reach the pile of weapons, at which point he hesitated, trying to choose between a sword and an axe. It was a delay which cost him dearly. Just as he decided on the sword and reached out to take it, Cabochon came up behind him and thrust a spear into his back. A look of stunned disbelief etched itself on Shaft's face as he fell to the ground, never to get up again. Since Malt had died from natural causes, Cowrie had (along with Skipper and Brett) been killed by Peacekeepers while trying to escape, and Morag had hanged herself, this was the first time in the history of the Hunger Games that one tribute had died at the hands of another. It also marked the start of District 12's dubious honour of being among the districts most likely to be knocked out of the running early. A few tributes from the coal mining district would buck this trend in the years which followed, but not many, and even fewer would make it to the latter stages.

Cabochon yanked his spear out of Shaft's back and looked around for Flicker, quickly spotting her stabbing Caddie through the heart. As the District 6 girl fell to the ground with a red stain spreading across her chest, he hurried over to Flicker, who was wiping the sword she had used to kill Caddie on the grass.

Flicker glanced up as Cabochon drew level with her. "Hey, you killed anyone yet?"

"Boy from 12," Cabochon replied. There was no need for him to ask if Flicker had made a kill; Caddie's corpse lying at her feet, plus the fact that he had seen the killing with his own eyes, told him all he needed to know. "You seen Hector?" he added, recalling that they and the District 2 boy were a team, at least until no other tributes were left. They were going to work together to prove their loyalty to the Capitol by wiping out the other tributes before he and Flicker teamed up to take Hector out, leaving District 1 as the first district to win the Hunger Games. First, though, they would have to find Hector.

Georgette had tried to make a run for it the moment she heard the gong, knowing her bad leg meant she had no hope of making it through the pitched battle that was sure to follow. Her best chance was to get as far from the fighting as possible, find a quiet corner and conceal herself until all the other tributes were dead, at which point she would become the victor of the First Hunger Games. At least that was the plan she had concocted the night before. A desperate plan, but still a plan. And it might have worked - if she'd been able to stay on her feet long enough to get clear of the field.

Unfortunately, as it had done so often in the past, her leg had buckled under her and she'd ended up sprawled on the ground, an easy target for anyone looking to eliminate weaklings. She tried to get up, but her leg refused to co-operate and she remained where she was. Tears welled up in her eyes and she cursed the misfortune that had not only caused her to be born with a bad leg, but had also landed her in a situation where not having two fully functioning legs was sure to get her killed. She could already hear the sounds of battle around her; it was only a question of time now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone running towards her. But who? She didn't know who was alive and who was dead, but she knew whoever was coming after her would almost certainly add her to the list of the latter. They might not want to, but they would have no choice, not if they wanted to survive. Ravinstill had said this was a fight to the death and that the last tribute alive would be declared the victor. Georgette did not know who that would be, but she was certain of one thing; it wouldn't be her. Unless she could somehow crawl away from the fighting. She . . .

The blade sliced across her throat before she knew what was happening. She coughed as her blood welled up and she began to choke. Driven by a desperate instinct, she clutched at the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it wasn't enough and her struggles soon ceased. She lay on her back, looking up at the blue sky above the Arena, her last glimpse of a world she would never see again. One final blood-filled attempt to get air into her lungs and it was over.

Blood-stained knife in hand, Heddle looked down at the lifeless body of the girl who like him had been chosen as one of District 8's tributes. He'd had to do it, had to kill her. Had this not been a situation where there could only be one survivor, he would have done all he could to help her, but this was a situation where there could only be one survivor, and Georgette's bad leg had meant she'd never really stood a chance of being that survivor. Better she die quickly. Heddle had originally intended to avoid the fighting and seek refuge in the stands, but the moment he saw Georgette's leg give way, he knew what he had to do. So he'd grabbed the knife he now held in his hand, then hurried over to her and slit her throat before she'd had time to react.

Now, as he looked down at her, he felt . . . What did he feel? Not sorrow or grief; he'd never known Georgette before the reaping, much less had any feeling about her. It was a feeling that all this was . . . wrong, that he had taken something that was not his to take. A human life. He told himself it had been an act of mercy, but the nagging feeling of wrongness wouldn't go away. The sight of her lying on the ground with her throat sliced open, the knowledge that he was the one responsible would haunt him for whatever remained of his life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Not that this would undo what he had done. He turned to go.

And immediately found himself face-to-face with Waylon.

There was a feral look on the District 10 boy's face as he came at Heddle with the knife he held in his hand, a look which said he meant to treat his fellow tributes like the animals his district sent to the slaughterhouses. He was out to kill and he'd chosen Heddle as his first target. Heddle had no idea why Waylon had picked on him, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the fact that his life was in immediate danger and there was only one way he could save himself. He rushed at Waylon and pushed him to the ground. The two boys grappled with each other for a while, each trying to stab the other to death, but it ended up being Heddle who delivered the fatal blow, burying his knife right up to its hilt in Waylon's stomach.

The moment Waylon stopped groaning and went still, Heddle pulled his knife free and looked down at the corpse in front of him. Another tribute dead at his hands. Again he felt a sense of what he could only describe as wrongness, but he quickly reminded himself that Waylon had been trying to kill him, that it could easily have been his corpse on the ground with Waylon looking down at it. And there were still several other tributes who would be more than ready to do what Waylon had tried to do. Which meant he would have to kill again, and again. As many times as it took until he was the last tribute alive.

Axe in hand, Fern circled around in search of a chance to attack. Not that she wanted to, but she knew her only chance of surviving this sadistic game was to kill her opponents. Her opponents. That was how she thought of the other kids in the Arena. Not friends. Not even allies. Opponents who were out to kill her unless she killed them first. Even Ursula and Nigella, the two youngest of the tributes who had made it this far, were potentially dangerous, though she couldn't see either of them in the chaos which surrounded her. Had they already been killed? Or had they managed to escape the field and make it to the relative safety of the stands? Fern had no way of knowing one way or the other, but she knew they couldn't be trusted. None of her fellow tributes could.

She sensed a movement behind her and turned to see Pasture coming at her with a sword in her hand. Reacting instinctively, she swung her axe which sliced right through Pasture's neck, knocking her head right off her shoulders. Fern watched, dumbstruck, as Pasture's head fell to the ground and landed face-up, a look of stunned disbelief permanently etched on her features. The decapitated body of District 10's female tribute remained standing for a second or two, then it . . .

. . . toppled over like a tree felled in the forest. Fern almost wanted to yell: "Timber!" But she didn't. She didn't, couldn't say anything, too shocked by what she had done to speak. She'd known she was in a situation where she had to kill or be killed, but she hadn't been prepared for the reality of actually killing someone. She looked down at Pasture whose corpse lay sprawled on the ground, intact from the neck down while her head lay nearby, detached from the body it had once been a part of. It was hard to believe that, moments before, the headless body she was looking at had been a living girl.

A living girl who'd been planning to kill her, Fern reminded herself. It was Pasture who'd attacked her, not the other way round. Not that she was entirely innocent herself; after all, she'd been on the lookout for tributes to target. Pasture just happened to be the one who ended up on the wrong end of her axe. Her first kill. For a moment, she wondered if Pasture had anyone waiting for her back in District 10, any parents, siblings, other family members, friends. But she quickly dismissed the thought, reminding herself that she was not going to think about such things when it came to her fellow tributes. Doing so would only make it harder for her to kill them.

"I had to do it," she told herself, before turning away and running for the stands. As she ran, she caught a glimpse of Ursula crawling into a narrow crevice that looked like it would be too small for most of the tributes, and wondered if the District 2 girl was planning on holing up there for the duration of the Games. If so, it was a smart plan; after all, none of the other tributes would be able to get at Ursula as long as she remained in her bolthole. Except Nigella.

Dismissing Ursula from her mind, Fern looked up at the rows of seats towering above her, noting the high wall which separated the seats from the field. Gates were set into the wall at intervals and several of them appeared to be damaged, but what lay beyond them? For all she knew, Peacekeepers could be lurking behind each one, waiting for any tributes who might be tempted to try and use the gates as an escape route. Besides, there was no telling where those gates might lead. Climbing into the stands was her best bet. The wall, she noted, was pock-marked from bomb damage and contained several potential hand- and foot-holds, which meant scaling it should be easy. especially for someone from District 7 whose citizens were taught to climb trees almost as soon as they could walk. Trouble was, unlike the lumberjacks back home who always wore belts to carry their tools, she had nowhere to put her axe while she made the climb, and the wall didn't look like it could be climbed one-handed.

She was still considering her options when someone grabbed her from behind and looped a rope around her neck.

Zack had managed to grab a length of rope from the pile of weapons and had been looking for someone to use it on. Then, he saw her. The girl from District 7. He'd seen her take out the District 10 girl with the axe in her hand, so he knew she was capable of killing, but if he could take her by surprise, he might stand a chance. So he'd waited until her focus was on the stands and not on what was happening behind her, then he struck.

Fern, however, was not about to go down without a fight. The moment Zack grabbed her and put his rope round her neck, she elbowed him in the stomach. Hard. Startled, he let go of her and Fern immediately swung round, her axe in her hand. Before Zack had time to realise what was happening, the blade sliced clean through his arm, severing it at the elbow and sending it falling to the ground with his fingers still gripping the rope. Zack looked at the bleeding stump where his upper arm used to be, a look of stunned disbelief on his face, before falling to the ground, moaning in pain. Fern immediately took the opportunity to finish him off by burying her axe blade in the back of his skull.

"I had to do it," she told herself again as she pulled her axe out of Zack's skull and wiped the blade on the ground. Zack had been trying to kill her, so she'd killed him first. Kill or be killed.

All the same, she avoided looking at Zack's body as she knelt to retrieve the rope which was still held in his severed hand. She looped the rope around her waist and, trying not to think about how much it resembled the makeshift belt Morag had used to hang herself, tied a knot to secure it. She tucked the handle of her axe into it, then turned back towards the wall.

It took her only a few seconds to scale the wall, gaining the relative safety of the stands. As she pulled herself over the ledge, she looked back at the field where six of her fellow tributes now lay dead. With the five who had died before the Games, eleven had fallen in total, leaving thirteen still in the running. Thirteen. The number of districts Panem had contained before the war which had ended with the Capitol nuking District 13 and forcing the remaining twelve to sign the treaty which had led to her being sent to the Arena to fight for her life. That meant there were still twelve tributes she had to outlive. Twelve tributes, any one of whom could be her killer. Unless she killed them first as she had done with Pasture and Zack.

By now, she noted, there were only a handful of living tributes left in the field. Everyone else had either already fallen or, like her, found what sanctuary they could in the stands or among the rubble left by rebel bombings. But it was a sanctuary which could not last. Sooner or later, and since decent hiding places were pretty thin on the ground in the Arena it would probably be sooner, she would have to face another tribute. But, she told herself, she was ready for them. She had her axe and she was prepared to use it, not that she wanted to. She hadn't wanted to kill the tributes she'd already killed, but she'd had no choice. They'd had to die so that she could live and the remaining tributes would have to die as well, at least one of them at her hands. That was why she couldn't let herself think of her fellow tributes as anything other than enemies to be eliminated.

Including Logger. He might be from the same district as her, but she would kill him if she had to.