CHAPTER 9 – RATTLE / BLOODBATH
Tackle Auger
Staring at my bedroom ceiling, I examine the cracks in the tile and wonder if other victor's rooms have imperfections. They're barely-visible, in a space hidden away from the prying eyes of hungry Capitolites. It's comforting that they haven't been spackled, buffed out, and re-painted. They're a testament to the stress of holding the foundation of the building, a visible companion to the state of my mind.
I wish Mali was back from her interview. The stream's been over for an hour, it doesn't usually take this long to take off makeup and change clothes.
Stillness only leads to swirling, spiraling thoughts, so I spring out of bed and pace. I debate going into the common room and half-listening to the other victor's chatter, in an attempt to distract myself, but I must calm down. My fluttering heart and shiny skin betrays my nervousness, I'm in no state to be seen by other people.
A run, it is.
As quickly as possible, I change into exercise clothes, then tread carefully down the hall. My attempts to evade attention fail- when I pass the kitchen, Jig's head turns.
"Hey, Tackle!" Jig calls, boisterously. "Wait!"
I contemplate ignoring him and making a break for the front door, but instead, I politely turn around and lean against the hallway wall. Jig pokes his head out, sees me, then walks over with a suspicious expression.
"What?" I say.
"What were you and Florence talking about last night?" He puffs out his chest.
"Panem, Jig, none of your damn business." I turn to leave, but he grabs my shoulder. I plant my hands on his chest and shove him, hard. "Hands off."
"You getting some insider information on D1?"Jig steps closer, getting in my face. "That's not fair to Wyatt, it gives Mali an advantage."
"We weren't talking about the Games, Jig!" My voice rises.
"What do you mean, you weren't talking about the Games? Were you trading crochet patterns?" His tone is obnoxious, clearly not believing me.
"We weren't talking about the Games." I repeat firmly.
"Then what was it?" Jig isn't backing down.
"It's personal." I say.
"You're full of shit." Jig stares.
My temper flares. "You're fucking full of shit." I jab my finger in his chest, then walk away.
He follows. "Tell me what Florence said."
I round on him, shaking with irritation, needing to run. "Jig. Fuck off. I'm not lying." My tone's clipped.
Jig shakes his head in frustrated confusion, pausing, looking me over. "What is going on with you, man?"
I glare at him, then walk away. As I'm crossing the threshold of the apartment, I pause and say, "Come get me when Mali's back."
I don't wait for his reply before slamming the door.
The D4 gym is adjacent to our apartments, separated from the hallway by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall. I immediately locate the treadmill. Buttons whir and click, the track starts moving, and I take off.
I try to focus, to remind myself who I am, but nagging deprecation pulls apart my mind. Worry I haven't trained Mali well enough, worry about who amongst my peers is- or is not- a pedophile. I'm no longer a grown man, leader of the District 4 academy, victor of the Hunger Games. I'm ten years old, terrified to breathe. Painful memories overtake my mind, and I feel like I'm flashing in and out of consciousness. They're so vivid, I'm stuck in the moment experiencing everything again; the hunting trips, academy locker rooms, Riel's truck, his garage.
When he died, I thought part of me would go with him, but I was foolish for not realizing that part was already dead. Since I was a child, I haven't been able to trust anyone's intentions. All I see are violent ends. Disappointment. Kindness is no longer pure, rather a means to an end.
Some of that changed when I met Mali. I saw so much of myself in her- a terrified, but resolved kid desperate to make something of herself. I taught her to fight, and made sure nobody fucked with her.
If she dies, I don't think I'll make it.
I try to focus on my feet pounding on the treadmill, but my minds frays.
My nose wrinkles, I can still smell Riel's sweat, sense memory torturing me. The storm continues, I hear him grunt.
I can't take it.
I run to the gym bathroom and vomit, then rinse my face with ice-cold water. When I examine myself in the mirror, I recoil. A vessel popped in my left eye, it's disgustingly bloodshot. My face looks hollow, skin pale and thin. I slide my tongue around my teeth, and the molars feel gritty, almost eroded. Panem, I look awful.
Back to the treadmill.
Five miles pass before I feel calmer, but I'm nowhere near done.
I'm finally in the zone, warm, covered in sweat, taking breaths at regular intervals. Memories are pushed to the fringes of my mind, quieter than the pounding of my feet. It's meditative.
Another three miles pass, and I begin feeling hunger pangs. I run until I don't feel them anymore. The digital distance monitor reaches double digits.
Blackness begins encroaching on the edge of my vision, but I don't stop.
Black spots expand over my vision, any suddenly, I can't see anything at all.
…
"Tackle…
"Tackle…
"Tackle?"
Someone's repeating my name. It sounds muffled, like a dream.
Tepid water splashes over my face, and my eyes spring open. I sputter and push myself up to a seated position. Immediately, I'm overcome with a pounding headache. My vision lags. I'm on the floor behind the treadmill. Jig crouches next to me, brows furrowed, holding an empty cup.
My arms give out, but he catches me before I face-plant into the ground. He holds my shoulders until I'm balanced, then releases his grip.
"What happened?" Jig asks.
I close my eyes, and my head lolls forward. Jig stabilizes me again.
"Umm…" My throat is sandpaper.
Jig rubs his forehead, earlier frustration gone. He's looking at me like a wounded animal.
It's pathetic.
"What do you need?" He asks.
"I'm fine." I snap.
"Tackle…" He trails off, exhaling slowly.
I drop my pounding head into my hands, and manage not to fall over.
"I'll be right back." Jig says, then walks off.
Minutes later, I hear footsteps return. I struggle to open my eyes, the brightness of the lights stabs at my retinas. Jig places an electrolyte drink and a package of trail mix beside me. I refuse to think about how humiliating this situation is.
I sip and eat until I regain the ability to form complete sentences.
"I want to see Mali." I say.
"Do you want me to call a doctor first?" Jig asks.
"No." I say, too quickly. "I'm fine, Jig, I just had a light lunch. I didn't mean to pass out, it won't happen again." I try to sound convincing.
"Hasn't it already?" Jig broods.
"What?" I squint at him, eyes still adjusting.
"It's already happened. When I saw you by the trail, back in D4. You ran into a tree. You're telling me you did that fully conscious?" He looks rattled, unsure of what to make of me.
"Now's not the time for the third degree." I say, defensive.
"I just…" The unsettled expression hasn't left Jig's face.
"What?" My tone's provoking, challenging him to call me out.
"Whatever this is, Tackle, you need to do something about it... You could have a heart attack." Jig looks at me like I can't understand simple logic.
"Nothing's going on. You're acting like you've never seen someone accidentally push themselves too hard!" I'm aware of how petulant I sound.
"Accidentally?" Jig takes a deep breath.
"What, Jig?" I shake my head, unwilling to discuss this with him, unable to explain the storm. I don't understand why I do it to myself. Feeling worse doesn't actually make me feel better. But, I guess, it lets me escape for a while.
"Nothing." He sighs, backing down.
"There's more important things to think about, okay? Let's go find our tributes, they must be back by now." I say, bringing the matter to a close.
Jig doesn't look satisfied, but nonetheless he stands, offering me a hand up. I accept the help.
Back in the D4 apartments, I walk to Mali's door. I knock, but get no response. Bolt and Aelia look over at me, from the living room.
"They're not back, yet." Bolt calls.
Something isn't right. My heart starts pounding, and I sprint into Mali's room. She's not there. Next, I run to Wyatt's room. Nothing.
I run out, pushing through our front door. Jig follows. We take the stairs down to the District 2 apartments, and pound on the door. Prism opens the door, with a pensive expression.
"Are your tributes back?" I ask, panting, not bothering with formalities.
"No, they aren't." Prism answers.
"Have you checked with D1?" Jig says.
"Yes. And other Districts. None of the tributes have returned from the Interview." Prism answers, grim.
"What?!" I'm shocked. "Do we know anything?"
"No, nobody's come to update the mentors. Also, the front door of the training centre's locked. I'd guess the service entrances are, as well." Bevel appears beside Prism.
Jig and I exchanged perplexed expressions.
"This has never happened before, has it?" I say, reflexively inhaling nervously.
"No..." Prism says, expression still tight and troubled.
"Do you guys want to come in? Stay with us for a while?" Bevel asks, batting her eyes.
"Thank you for the hospitality," I'm too wound up, and Bevel's the last person I want to hang out with. "but I'm gonna go."
"No use in worrying yourself. We won't know anything until they want us to. Are you sure you don't want company?" Bevel responds.
"Thanks, but…" I start. "I need time to think."
"Okay. Jig?" Bevel asks. "We have good liquor."
"Tempting." Jig replies. He glances over at me, looking contemplative. "I'll go back with Tackle, though. Appreciate the offer. Try to have a good night, okay?"
"Yeah, you too. Come get us if you hear something?" Prism asks.
"Of course." I say.
"Thanks. Night." Prism closes the door, leaving Jig and I in the hall.
"What the fuck is going on?" I say, looking at him.
"I have no idea." He pushes a coif of black hair from his face.
We go back to our apartments, and update the other D4 victors. Confused expressions are shared by all, it's deeply unlike the Capitol to alter their procedures. Even the older victors can't offer any useful insight.
People start throwing around theories, and I announce that I'm going to bed, preferring to think the matter through by myself.
I plod down the hall, head heavy.
"Tackle. Wait." Jig calls after me.
The last thing I need is another confrontation. I sigh heavily as I turn around.
"Come with me." Jig begins walking away before I agree.
For some reason, I follow without protest.
He walks to the kitchen. "What do you want?" He begins taking out pots and pans.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"We need to eat before bed. I'm making something anyways, and I'm not picky. So, what do you want?" Jig continues.
My stomach's in knots, my head's still pounding, but all I crave is falling into an exhausted slumber. "I'm fine. Thanks, though."
Jig rubs with forehead. "Tackle, please."
"Why…" Panem, I almost ask him why he cares. The question's too embarrassing, though. "Fine. Umm…" I clear my throat, awkwardly agreeing.
I wrack my brain, trying to think of something appetizing. He stays silent, giving me time to think. Ideas race through my head, but I can't seem to decide. I nervously rub my stubble, and close my eyes. "Sorry. Just give me a minute."
"It's fine." Jig leans against the counter, expression open. It's unfamiliar, experiencing his softer side.
"Umm, dumplings." I start. "The ones with the meat, veggies, and soup." They take less than ten minutes to make, I can escape to bed sooner than later. "But… obviously I can take care of that. You don't need to." My humiliation grows by the second.
Jig pulls a stool out at the kitchen bar. "Sit." He begins filling a pot with water.
I don't want to argue, knowing I'll make a fool of myself. I sink onto the stool. Admittedly, taking the weight off my feet is incredibly relieving. I cross my arms over my growling stomach. Jig keeps looking over at me. I can tell he has questions, but thankfully, he doesn't press me. It's a wise decision, I wouldn't respond.
I'm a porcupine, prickly and volatile. Waves of guilt make me sink further into myself, who am I to snub someone's attempts to care? It scares me to death, though, the idea of sharing myself. I don't want the perception, the judgment. It'll crush me.
Jig makes enough dumplings to feed us twice over. As he's finishing, I mix a simple sauce. He dumps the food into a large bowl, gets two pairs of chopsticks, and joins me at the bar. I don't keep track of how many I eat, scarfing them down. The flavorful soup fills my mouth, warmth fills my stomach. I sigh with relief. Jig glances at me, but again, doesn't say anything.
Nourished, I feel myself coming back from the edge of bone-crushing exhaustion. I'll sleep better tonight, properly fed. The value of the his favor hits me. Jig saw I was struggling, and helped. It wasn't a bit deal. He didn't ask a million questions, respecting my reticence. Gratitude fills me.
Against my restrained nature, I tentatively reach out and touch his forearm. His eyes rise to mine. "Umm… thank you." I say awkwardly, gently squeezing his arm. I snatch my hand back after a moment.
"Don't mention it." Jig replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Mali Cypress
Lights flash, successive strobes. Tendrils of hair curl around my face. I'm utterly weightless, floating- but not through open space. My limbs bounce off a barrier. I'm not afraid, though, the gentle motion is relaxing. My brain's only half-functioning: I can't smell, I can barely hear, my vision's hazy...
I drift, enjoying the meditative state. The sensation is strange, both the lack of gravity, and weight of surrounding fluid.
I have no memories of how I got here, what happened before…
What a strange dream…
Although I'm disoriented, I've had worse dreams. At least nobody's burning.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Pounding surrounds me. My brain begins to come online, piece by piece. Senses becoming sharper; I can see clearly through the glass, when the light strobes on. Rows of coffin-like glass tanks surround me, with people squirming inside.
Anxiety creeps through my brain, overtaking the docile calm. This dream is becoming a nightmare. My heart pummels my ribcage, my muscles become thick with tension. I push against the roof of my tank, but it doesn't budge. I pound on it, screaming and thrashing, trying to wake myself up.
Somewhere beyond the glass above me, in the sky, a void, or oblivion, an enormous neon number is displayed: sixty.
After a pop and a hiss, I see the glass above me rise. Instinctively, I sit up and gasp. Immediately, I choke, like the space above is devoid of oxygen. I flop back down into the liquid so I can breathe. I'm so, dreadfully confused. Why won't I wake up?
The number above begins counting down. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven…
I look around and see others sitting up, choking as well. Others lay catatonic, looking lifeless. To my right, a small figure flops over the edge of their tank.
Flames and gore explode, as their body's blown to pieces. Chunks rain down into my tank, and the water reddens. I shriek, terrified, and feel the corners of my mouth splitting. I hear others screaming, too. I don't dare sit up, fearing more fire and death.
Cannons start booming when the countdown reaches ten, one for each second. When the timer reaches zero, the cannon booms so loudly, it sends a shockwave through the liquid encasing me.
The floor bottoms out, and I'm falling, suddenly surrounded by light. My eyes hurt, and I squeeze them shut. I try to scream, but I can't breathe. I open my mouth wide, trying to find oxygen, but nothing.
The free-fall lasts less than five seconds, then I hit something hard, cold, and wet. If I had any breath, it would have been knocked out. My body breaks through the surface tension, and I flail my limbs, but can't find anything solid to hold onto. I still can't breathe.
I'm sinking.
Can you die in a dream?
"Welcome to the 51st Hunger Games!" A voice soars through the sky.
My eyes shoot open, and I'm surrounded by blue water. I hold my breath. I see a group of others in various stages of shock. Some aren't moving, some are screaming.
I bring my head above the surface to breathe, but still find myself choking. I panic in true, and clutch my throat. It feels wrong. I'm suffocating.
Something tugs me under water. I kick, but my head's dragged below the surface. I instinctively try to hold breath, but I can't any longer. I'm going to drown. I'm going to die.
As the seconds tick by and water rushes over my skin, I feel oxygen return to my blood. I gasp, but find I can't fill my lungs.
"Mali! Relax!" Wyatt's voice yells. His words are muffled through the water.
An unfamiliar instinct overtakes my brain. This time when I inhale, I don't try and force the pathway to my lungs open. My neck flares, a new natural motion.
When I look down, I see Wyatt. He looks strange.
The visible skin on his face seems thicker and smoother. His hands and feet have been elongated and webbed. But, the most jarring difference, is slits in his neck. As he breathes, they open and close.
Gills.
I reach up and feel the slits in my own neck. I look at my hands and feet: same as Wyatt's. I want to react to the horror, but there's no time.
All around me, tributes begin to recover their wits. I see colors of every District, each person dressed in wet-suit looking outfits. Finally, I look down, and see a golden coral-reef, with weapons and supplies poking out. Sea floor plummets down from the raised cornucopia into stone formations.
It hits me far too late, I'm not dreaming.
I locate the colors of other career Districts, then start swimming towards the reef.
Xio follows the girl from D3-Tasha, as she tries to flee the bloodbath. Xio grips her feet, pulls her back, then puts her in a headlock. She jerks her forearms, and Tasha stops struggling. Xio releases the body and it drifts motionlessly, suspended in the ocean.
Other tributes aren't close enough to one another to instigate a fight. Some out-district kids are closer to the cornucopia than careers, sinking sooner, unable to tread water. A girl wearing District 7 ironstone brown, is almost at the gleaming reef.
The last of the out-district tributes hover above the careers near the surface, screaming in horror at the alterations to their bodies, and the threats between them and refuge. Despite their webbed limbs, they're too panicked to kick, let alone properly swim, mechanics escaping them- if they had them in the first place. Their spastic movement makes me wonder if they've ever set foot in a pool, before. I don't know much about the lives of kids from other Districts, it could be true.
The worst swimmers, by far, are Kazra-D8 and Grizz-D7. They fight the water instead of trying to pull themselves through it, sinking slowly, only weighed down by their bodies. As they sink, they rotate, unable to discern up from down. Their faces are sheer panic, sheer terror.
I swim faster, becoming attuned to the extra skin on my hands and feet. It's like swimming with paddles, but I can fold my hands as I reach forward, lessening resistance. Once I regain my wits, I fly through the water. I can't spare any more thoughts for nonsense or panic. I soar parallel to other tributes, racing to the reef.
Wyatt and I reach the cornucopia, second to arrive after the D7 girl, and investigate the contents. Other tributes are less than a minute away from arriving.
I see a satchel of throwing knives, my weapon of choice, but falter in my decision to choose them. With the resistance of the water, I'd have to get close and stab instead of throw. Close quarter combat always holds more risk, so instead of the satchel, I reach for a trident. The spears on the end extend from the long shaft, giving it a broader range.
Most of the other weapons are fairly simple, various short and long blades. There's a few heavier weapons- morning stars and maces, but I can't imagine they'd be very useful, considering they'd have to be swung through water resistance.
I never considered an under-water Games, there's so much to process. Many weapons that are deadly in open air, are rendered practically useless in the water: projectiles and heavy-weapons especially. The special weapons us careers have trained with all our lives are obsolete, reducing the Games to a battle of blades. I wonder what else the gamemakers will do to level the playing field, after last year's disastrous career victory.
The strong D12 boy, Paxton emerges around the cornucopia, holding a short-sword. His District mate, Lyra, follows closely behind. They spot me, and hone in.
The 10 girl, Wait pulls herself onto the reef, retrieves a knife, and attacks Wyatt.
I engage Paxton and Lyra in battle, and see Wyatt do the same with Wait.
D2 careers arrive at the cornucopia, retrieve weapons, then swim away to pursue other tributes, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I wouldn't expect anything less.
Paxton's over-ambitious, and lunges, leaving his left side open. I slide my hand up the shaft of my trident, then slide the spears into his ribs. He groans in pain, and stares at me with an expression that etches into my brain. As I retract the blades, blood gushes from his wounds, muddying the water. I hear Lyra scream.
Red surrounds me, trapping me. I can't see anything, vision completely blocked. I freeze, moments stretch out. Spouts of heat pour over my stomach, as Paxton bleeds out on me. I almost lose the ability to breathe.
Something clatters behind the cloud of blood. I break myself out of my stupor, and thrust the trident in the direction of the noise, but don't find purchase. I swim through the cloud towards Lyra, but when I emerge from the other side, I see nothing but reef and rock formation.
I don't waste time pursing her, my priority is guarding the cornucopia.
When I turn, I see another red cloud expanding through the water. Wait's body drifts out, trailing blood. Wyatt emerges next, shaking his head, trying clear his eyes.
As soon as I see he's alive, I swim to the top of the cornucopia, ready to defend our position. Nobody's close enough to fight. Most tributes are making a break for the outer reefs and rocks, trying to find cover.
Xio and Bristol hunt Kazra and Grizz.
Kazra's feet are missing, cleaved off by Xio's scythe.
Bristol purses Grizz from behind, and stabs him in the calves, hamstrings, then back. His own healing stab wound doesn't appear to be a hinderance.
Kazra stops moving, bleeding out from the amputations. Grizz is motionless, as well.
Xio and Bristol swim away from the murky water, looking for more kids, but there's no one left to kill.
Most of the out-district tributes have found cover. The rest are dead. I scan my surroundings, again. The water's crystal clear, aside from the pockets stained with blood. Parish and Star are nowhere to be seen, presumably chasing tributes deeper through the rock formations. Xio and Bristol begin swimming back to the cornucopia.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the D6 tributes, Swerve and Crash, emerge from a rock formation about fifty meters from the cornucopia. Bristol eyes them, too, then alters his course. Xio follows. Wyatt and I stay put, in case anyone tries to raid the cornucopia while the careers are distracted.
Bristol is meters from Swerve, when a horde of tributes materialize from behind the rock formation. The formidable tributes from D9, the D10M- Praise, and Lyra (D12) beeline it for Bristol. They're each holding knives. Lyra must have been able to grab the satchel of throwing knives as she fled the cornucopia, then was able to find her alliance and distribute them. I should have tried harder to kill her.
Xio stops, and momentarily assesses. It appears she doesn't like the odds of six on two. She calls for Bristol, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't see the other tributes until his knife is in Swerve's throat. Xio turns and begins swimming towards the cornucopia.
Bristol reaches for Crash and gets ahold of her wetsuit, swinging her like a human shield. The other six tributes descend at once, plunging their knives into Bristol. Crash catches strays as Bristol hauls her around. The blood begins to muddle the water. Bristol slashes Crash's throat, in a last ditch effort to hide himself. It doesn't matter, though. There's too many of them, stabbing repeatedly. The cloud of blood expands.
Bristol's eviscerated body drifts from the cloud. For all his strength, training, and hubris, he was no match for the alliance of angry tributes.
Xio's almost halfway back to the cornucopia. The alliance doesn't pursue her, instead disappearing behind the rock formation.
"Hey." Star calls from behind me, pushing herself onto the reef.
I swivel, startled, and immediately panic over my lack of awareness. It's an amateur mistake, but Bristol's death was so… distracting. I'm still overwhelmed from the beginning of the Games as well, coming to terms with the fact this isn't a nightmare.
Trying to regain my wits, I focus on what's immediately in front of me. "Hi." I greet Star, hoping my voice doesn't sound as shaky as I feel.
"What happened over there?" She stares at the fog of gore surrounding Crash and Bristol.
"Bristol's dead." Wyatt says, swimming over to us.
"Where's Parish?" I ask.
"I don't know. We got separated." Star says.
Xio finally makes it to the cornucopia. "Why didn't you come help us?! I saw you staring." She gets in my face.
"There's nothing I could have done! Look how long it look you to get back here. We needed to guard the cornucopia, anyways." I retort, not letting her project her emotions.
"I could be dead if they came after me!" Xio complains.
"And?" My anger grows, I didn't expect this petulance from her.
"And?!" Xio raises her knife. I square up, as well. Wyatt and Star look apprehensive.
"Hey! What's going on?!" Parish swims out from a rock formation, observing the confrontation.
At the sight of Parish, Xio rushes over, and embraces her District partner. It's fortunate she's easily distracted.
"Where's Bristol?" Parish asks.
"Dead." Xio shoots Wyatt and I a dirty look. Her disdain for us this early on, isn't ideal.
The five remaining careers gather in the cornucopia. We take a moment to settle, to gawk at our altered bodies. Blood stains the water all around, dissipating from a thick red to a translucent pink. The bodies of the dead float to the surface, dragged up by dead arms, like rag dolls. I count eight. The movement is unnerving. I wonder if the trackers in our arms are magnetic, and the hovercrafts activate them, when our hearts stop.
I stare at the trident in my palm, and can't help but hear the pained groan Paxton made as he died. I hope it doesn't stick with me, as the cries of those burning on the fishing boat from my childhood have, but it plays in my head on repeat. I thought because I'd faced death already, I'd have an advantage. I thought I'd be able to shake the deaths of the other tributes. It's the opposite, though. Paxton's eyes communicated so much in his last moments- sadness, betrayal, grief, hopelessness… The thought of seeing those expressions again jars me.
Wyatt's wrong. No matter how I try to rationalize it, there's no honorable way to take a life. It's pure cruelty. I don't want to see the horror in their eyes as they die, don't want to feel the life leaving their bodies.
I can't imagine what it was like for Paxton, the fear of winning this terrible lottery, facing trained killers. I've craved glory all my life, but this can't be what glory is. I feel like I've been lied to, like the foundations of my identity have been shaken and cracked.
I'm so selfish and stupid, how could I have volunteered for this?
BLOODBATH DEATH COUNT: (9)
D1M (Bristol)
D3M/F (Tinker-Blue / Tasha)
D6M/F (Swerve / Crash)
D7M (Grizz)
D8M (Kazra)
D10F (Wait)
D12M (Paxton)