Chapter Seven

Mercury, in pain from the kicking he'd received from the Peacekeeper the previous day, had barely been able to stagger away from the field and towards a nearby snack stand. He'd hoped to hole up there while the rest of the tributes wiped each other out, but it was locked and he had no means of breaking in. "Damn!" he yelled, looking at the stand with increasing frustration. If only he'd been able to grab something from the pile of weapons that he could have used to force the door open . . . But that would have meant running the gauntlet of his fellow tributes and he'd seen what some of them were capable of. He was in no condition to fight and he knew it. All he could do was get clear of the field and find some sort of cover.

Well, he'd managed to get clear of the field all right, but it looked as though he would have to find somewhere else to hide. But where? Climbing into the stands as he'd seen some of the other tributes do was out because of his injuries. One of the boxes which had once been used by wealthy Capitol citizens so that they could enjoy a show without having to mingle with the common people, perhaps? Yes, he could see one of these boxes nearby and it looked like the door was hanging off its hinges. If he could just get over there . . .

Suddenly, something pushed him from behind, causing him to fall forwards. He coughed and blood came out of his mouth, staining his hand when he held it in front of his face as a searing pain shot through his back, worse than the pain from the kicking. It was . . . Then, it dawned on him. He hadn't just been pushed; someone had thrust a blade into his back, someone who meant to kill him. As other tributes had already died at the hands of their fellows, so would he. For a moment, he wondered which of the others had stabbed him, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered any more.

Mercury made a few desperate efforts to pull himself up by his arms, but his strength was rapidly failing and it wasn't long before it gave out completely. His hand outstretched as if to cling to that of a non-existent saviour, he slumped forward and was dead within moments, his eyes gazing blankly at the box he had hoped would provide him with sanctuary during these deadly Games.

The First Hunger Games had officially been underway for less than an hour and seven of the tributes who'd made it into the Arena were already dead. With five having died in the build-up to the Games, only twelve now remained, half the original number. And, in the coming hours, eleven out of those twelve would also die.

Hector planted his foot between Mercury's shoulder blade and brandished his sword in the air triumphantly. This, along with Flicker's killing of Shaft and Cabochon's killing of Caddie, would prove that Districts 1 and 2 were loyal, that their citizens would do whatever the Capitol asked of them. Including killing others. And Hector was ready to kill anyone who stood in his way, no matter who they were, including his allies from District 1, who had raised their weapons in triumph at the same moment he raised his. Apart from anything else, he knew they were almost certainly planning to kill him, and they had him outnumbered by two to one. So if he wanted to have any chance of taking them out, he would have to separate them somehow. Divide and conquer.

But not right now. Not while there were still several living tributes to eliminate. Taking his foot off Mercury, he turned to Flicker and Cabochon. "So where do we start? Get the weaklings first or go after the ones who could be trouble later?"

Flicker shrugged. "Whatever. It's not like any of them are going anywhere and there aren't many places to hide around here."

"We've got to find them first," Cabochon reminded her. He glanced up at the stands, into which he had seen some of the other tributes disappearing; they must be there right now, concealing themselves as best they could. And no doubt others had done what Mercury had clearly been planning to do and sought sanctuary in the various booths the Arena contained. But Flicker was right about one thing; the number of places the other tributes could hide within this confined space was pretty low, so all he and his allies had to do was hunt them down and . . .

"Look!"

Cabochon and Hector glanced round at the sound of Flicker's voice to see her pointing at the small figure still standing in one of the chalk circles, seemingly frozen to the spot. "It's the kid from 11," Flicker told them. "The girl. And I think she's crying," she added as she heard the sound of sobbing coming from the figure she had just pointed out. A malicious grin crossed her face as an idea occurred to her. "Want to put her out of her misery?"

"Why not?" Hector replied, more than ready to shed some more blood, as Cabochon nodded in agreement. And, with that, the tributes from District 1 and the boy from District 2 began to make their way over to their victim, weapons held ready to attack. Soon, they told themselves, they would add another tribute to their list of kills. And after that another, then another until one of them (or two if Cabochon's theory that he and Flicker would both be allowed to live if they were last two left proved correct) had won the Games.

When the gong had sounded, Nigella had remained rooted to the spot, unable to run towards either the pile of weapons in the middle of the circle of tributes or the perimeter of the Arena in the hope finding at least a temporary refuge. Paralysed with fear, she could do nothing but watch the bloodbath unfolding around her, seeing Shaft getting speared in the back, Caddie getting stabbed to death . . . She'd tried to look away, but she couldn't even do that. Why? Why was she here? Why was she being forced to take part in such a cruel game? It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

Tears began to roll down her cheeks to land on the dying grass at her feet. Dying grass. That and a few weeds was probably going to be the last bit of plant life she, a girl born in a district of fruit and vegetable farmers, would ever see. Not that life in District 11 had been easy and it had become even harder since the defeat of the districts and the subsequent clampdowns, but it was home and she longed to go back there. But the only way she could hope to do that was to win the Games and she knew the chances of her doing that were slim, to say the least. She was smaller and younger than all but one of the tributes who'd made it into the Arena, and she'd seen how prepared some of those in here with her were to kill. She'd been overlooked so far, but she knew that couldn't last. Sooner or later, one or more of the other tributes would single her out as a target and . . .

Through her tears, she saw them running towards her. The tributes from District 1 and the boy from District 2, all of them armed, all of them pointing their weapons straight at her. She needed no-one to tell her what they meant to do to her; the only question was, which of them would actually do it?

"No . . . please," she sobbed, knowing she was helpless to save herself. Even if she could break through her paralysing fear long enough to make a run for it, the tributes running towards her were taller than her, which meant they had longer legs. It would be all too easy for them to catch up. All she could do was plead desperately for her life. "Please . . ." But her words fell on deaf ears; Flicker, Cabochon and Hector meant business and they were not about to let the tears of a frightened thirteen-year-old put them off.

"What's the matter, little girl?" Flicker asked, a sadistic smile on her face. "Realised you're too young to play with the big kids?" She gave Nigella a shove, sending her sprawling on the ground, then stood over her, flanked by Cabochon and Hector. All three of them continued to point their weapons at the girl they had chosen as their next victim.

Nigella closed her eyes, telling herself she was not here. She was back in District 11, with her parents and Oregano, with Bounty and Ripe. Her family. Her two closest friends. She was never going to see any of them again, not in reality, but at least she could picture their faces one last time. Her father's warm smile, showing pale teeth that contrasted with his dark skin. The battered old hat which her mother always wore. Oregano in the patched overalls which he always wore with no shirt underneath. The mass of frizzy, black curls which surrounded Bounty's face. Ripe . . .

An agonising pain shot through her abdomen as a sharp object was thrust into it, piercing her internal organs. She had no time to even think about crying out before the shock of what had just happened caused her to lose consciousness, though she continued to twitch on the ground for a few moments before she went still, her chest falling one last time. Her eyes had remained closed, so she never knew who had dealt the blow which killed her.

Flicker, Cabochon and Hector looked down at Nigella's lifeless body, which had Flicker's sword buried in its belly right up to the hilt. She lay on the ground, her eyes closed. There was no doubt in any of their minds; the District 11 girl was dead. Or if she wasn't she soon would be. After all, who could survive having the blade of a sword thrust into their belly? Another tribute eliminated at the hands of their alliance - and a young one at that. This should prove that Districts 1 and 2 were loyal to the Capitol. Unlike the other districts whose citizens had tried to overthrow their rulers and caused a civil war which had torn Panem apart. The people in those districts were traitors who deserved everything they got.

Flicker took hold of her sword by the hilt and yanked it free from Nigella's belly. "Ugh!" she cried as the smell of pierced guts assaulted her nostrils, making her feel sick. However, she resisted the urge to throw up; her stomach was empty enough as it was, her last "meal" having consisted of nothing but bread and water, and there was no telling when, or if, she would get to eat and drink again. All she knew was that most of the tributes would never have that chance.

The Hunger Games. Whoever came up with that name couldn't have picked a more appropriate one. Just as the districts (especially Districts 4, 9, 10 and 11) had used food as a weapon against the Capitol during the Dark Days, so the Capitol now did the same to them. And forcing kids from the districts to fight to the death on empty stomachs should really drive the lesson home. The only trouble was, with all district citizens branded traitors the tributes from 1 and 2 had received no special treatment. They too had been allowed very little food since being reaped and nothing at all since the previous night. Nothing to drink either and it was shaping up to be a hot day. If the Games went on long enough, tributes could start dying from dehydration.

Dehydration. That was another reason Flicker couldn't afford to throw up; it would rob her body of vital fluids she might not be able to replace. She and Cabochon had to stay alive no matter what. They had to prove their loyalty to the Capitol by winning the Games.

She scraped the blade of her sword against the dying grass, wiping off Nigella's blood, then looked around. Apart from herself and the two boys with her, there wasn't a living soul in sight, just eight corpses strewn across the field. The other tributes who had survived the initial fighting must have gone to ground. Not that it would do them any good in the end; she, Cabochon and Hector would still find them.

After a brief discussion, the three of them decided to check out the stands. That was where they'd seen most of the surviving tributes heading and that was where they were most likely to find more victims.

Fern crouched in the gap between the rows of seats just above the perimeter wall, her axe tucked into her makeshift belt, ready for her to grab it if she needed to. She tried not to think of how she had used that axe to behead Pasture, to slice open Zack's skull. They had both been trying to kill her, so she killed them first; that was what you had to do in this sadistic game. Kill your opponents before they killed you.

"I had to do it," she whispered to herself, repeating the words she had uttered after both her kills. And, she knew, she would have to do it again if she wanted to get out of here alive. There was no way she could avoid the other tributes forever; sooner or later one of them would try to kill her, as Zack and Pasture had already tried to do. But when the time came she would be ready with her axe to eliminate another of her opponents. That was what the other tributes were to her: opponents who had to die if she wanted to live. And that meant she had to be prepared to kill some of them. It wasn't that she wanted to, but the Capitol had given her no choice.

She reached into her skirt pocket and felt for her father's wedding band. How long had it been since she'd taken her parents' wedding bands out of the box in the drawer, given her mother's band to Teresa and kept her father's for herself? It felt like a lifetime ago, but she knew it had only been a few days. How were things back in District 7? Were her siblings and the Masons watching her right now, willing her to come through this alive? What would they do if she didn't? How would they cope? Especially Aspen, who always worried about everything. If she was watching the Games right how, she must be hating every minute. Had she been watching when . . .?

The sound of ragged breathing jolted Fern out of her thoughts and she glanced round to see Anthea from District 9 running up the passage which separated the rows of seats. From the frightened expression on Anthea's face, Fern knew she was in trouble and there was only one place trouble could come from in the Arena. And there they were. Flicker, Cabochon and Hector, hot on Anthea's heels, their weapons held in readiness. Anthea had no weapons, at least none that Fern could see, but even if she had been armed she was outnumbered by three to one. That must be why she had tried to run, but she was clearly tiring; it was only a matter of time before her pursuers caught up with her.

Fern knew there was nothing she could do. Even if she hadn't decided to treat all her fellow tributes as enemies, there was no sense in saving Anthea's life and possibly forming an alliance with her, only to have to kill her later. Besides, showing herself would only encourage Flicker, Cabochon and Hector to target her. So, before any of the four tributes could see her, she ducked into the space between the seats and covered her ears, trying to shut out the sounds of pursuit, trying to think of anything other than the murder which was about to take place. Just as she'd had to kill Pasture and Zack, she had to allow Flicker and the others to kill Anthea. But that didn't mean she had to watch.

Meanwhile, Flicker, Cabochon and Hector pursued Anthea all the way to the top of the stands, keeping their weapons aimed at her at all times. Finding herself trapped between a sheer drop and three armed tributes out to kill her, Anthea lost it completely. Tears streaming down her face, she fell to her knees, pleading in vain for someone - anyone - to help her. She'd seen what these three had done to other tributes and had no wish to join the list of their victims.

The only response she received was Cabochon thrusting his spear right through her heart, immediately silencing her desperate pleas.

From her position in the stands, Fern heard cheering behind her as the voices of Flicker, Cabochon and Hector were raised in celebration. She did not need to look round to know what they were celebrating and nor did she want to. How could they do it? How could they cheer the fact that one of them had taken a human life? She'd killed because she'd had to, because Zack and Pasture would otherwise have killed her, but she hadn't cheered her kills. The fact that Flicker, Cabochon and Hector were not only prepared to kill, but also to celebrate their kills made them . . .

With a start, she realised just what it made them. Ruthless. Dangerous. Deadly. They thought that, by showing the Capitol they were prepared to play along with this sick game of district kids killing district kids, they could prove their loyalty. Or at least Flicker and Cabochon did; Hector, as far as she could tell, was just there for back-up, but that didn't make him any less of a threat than his two allies. And that meant they had to be removed from the Game. Which could be easier said than done since there were three of them and only one of her,

But there had to be a way. If she wanted to survive the Games and get back to District 7, she would have to face the alliance sooner or later. Face them and kill them before they killed her lik they'd already killed other tributes. But how? Use her axe as a projectile weapon? That would allow her to attack from a distance, but she could only target one tribute at a time. If she took out, say, Hector by throwing her axe at him, she would still be vulnerable to attack by Flicker and Cabochon. Team up with one or more of the other tributes not in the alliance? That would provide her with back-up, but she'd already vowed not to form alliances with someone she might then have to kill. Besides, she had no way of knowing if her fellow tributes would be prepared to team up or if they would attack her on sight.

But there had to be a way to take the alliance out and, as she gripped the handle of her axe in her hand, Fern vowed that she would find it.

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, there was a lull in the action in the Arena, with most of the surviving tributes seeking whatever shade they could find. Only Roots, whose upbringing in District 11 meant he was used to being out in the hot sun, remained visible, but he did nothing more than sit around with a spiked mace clutched in his hand and showed no sign of going on the hunt. So, after panning around the corpse strewn field a few times, the Gamemakers (who were operating out of a makeshift studio nearby) switched to the cameras which showed what was happening outside the Arena.

A crowd was gathered at the main entrance, their gaze focused on something just above their heads. What that something was became clear when the cameras panned upwards to reveal a metal framework which had four lifeless figures strung up on it by their wrists. Cowrie and Skipper from District 4 and Brett from District 5, their bodies riddled with bullets. Morag from District 12, her neck bearing the ligature mark from the scarf she had used to hang herself. All the tributes (apart from Malt from District 9 who had died from natural causes) who hadn't made it into the Arena. They hung limply, their eyes staring sightlessly ahead, sending a silent message to anyone who might be watching. And that message was that they were traitors and cowards who had refused to take the punishment laid out for the districts and must therefore be made an example of even in death.

But it was also a reminder to the people in the districts that they were inferior, that the Capitol could do what it liked to them whether they were living or dead. And there was nothing they could do to stop this or save the remaining tributes. The Games would go on until all but one of the kids in the Arena were dead.

It was late afternoon before there was any movement within the Arena. Ursula from District 2 crawled out of the crevice in which she had been hiding and stood blinking in the light of the setting sun. As her vision came into focus, she scanned the field of corpses, the expression on her twelve-year-old face unreadable. Then, she walked purposefully over to the nearest body, that of Waylon from District 10, and without showing any sign of fear or disgust knelt down beside it. She slowly reached out and closed his eyes, giving the illusion that he was merely sleeping and might wake up at any moment. Then, in a voice that was hoarse from lack of water, she uttered six words.

"Sorry, I don't have any bread."