by the time i’ve scrambled up
the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached
the horn, and one or two i might be able to pick off, but say
there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down
with the spears and the clubs. or their own powerful fists.
still, i won’t be the only target. i’m betting many of the oth-
er tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored
an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.
haymitch has never seen me run. maybe if he had he’d tell
me to go for it. get the weapon. since that’s the very weapon
that might be my salvation. and i only see one bow in that
whole pile. i know the minute must be almost up and will have
to decide what my strategy will be and i find myself position-
ing my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but
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toward the pile, toward the bow. when suddenly i notice pee-
ta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance,
still i can tell he’s looking at me and i think he might be shak-
ing his head. but the sun’s in my eyes, and while i’m puzzling
over it the gong rings out.
and i’ve missed it! i’ve missed my chance! because those
extra couple of seconds i’ve lost by not being ready are
enough to change my mind about going in. my feet shuffle for
a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
and then i lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a
loaf of bread. the pickings are so small and i’m so angry with
peeta for distracting me that i sprint in twenty yards to re-
trieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything be-
cause i can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing.
a boy, i think from district 9, reaches the pack at the same
time i do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he
coughs, splattering my face with blood. i stagger back, re-
pulsed by the warm, sticky spray. then the boy slips to the
ground. that’s when i see the knife in his back. already other
tributes have reached the cornucopia and are spreading out
to attack. yes, the girl from district 2, ten yards away, running
toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. i’ve seen
her throw in training. she never misses. and i’m her next tar-
get.
all the general fear i’ve been feeling condenses into at im-
mediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in
seconds. adrenaline shoots through me and i sling the pack
over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. i can hear
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the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack
up to protect my head. the blade lodges in the pack. both
straps on my shoulders now, i make for the trees. somehow i
know the girl will not pursue me. that she’ll be drawn back in-
to the cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. a grin
crosses my face. thanks for the knife, i think.
at the edge of the woods i turn for one instant to survey the
field. about a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one
another at the horn. several lie dead already on the ground.
those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or
into the void opposite me. i continue running until the woods
have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a
steady jog that i think i can maintain for a while. for the next
few hours, i alternate between jogging and walking, putting as
much distance as i can between myself and my competitors. i
lost my bread during the struggle with the boy from district 9
but managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as i walk i fold
it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. i also free the knife — it’s a
fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle,
which will make it handy for sawing through things — and
slide it into my belt. i don’t dare stop to examine the contents
of the pack yet. i just keep moving, pausing only to check for
pursuers.
i can go a long time. i know that from my days in the
woods. but i will need water. that was haymitch’s second in-
struction, and since i sort of botched the first, i keep a sharp
eye out for any sign of it. no luck.
150
the woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed
with a variety of trees, some i recognize, some completely for-
eign to me. at one point, i hear a noise and pull my knife,
thinking i may have to defend myself, but i’ve only startled a
rabbit. “good to see you,” i whisper. if there’s one rabbit, there
could be hundreds just waiting to be snared.
the ground slopes down. i don’t particularly like this. val-
leys make me feel trapped. i want to be high, like in the hills
around district 12, where i can see my enemies approaching.
but i have no choice but to keep going.
funny though, i don’t feel too bad. the days of gorging my-
self have paid off. i’ve got staying power even though i’m
short on sleep. being in the woods is rejuvenating. i’m glad for
the solitude, even though it’s an illusion, because i’m probably
on-screen right now. not consistently but off and on. there
are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekk-
ing through the woods isn’t much to look at. but they’ll show
me enough to let people know i’m alive, uninjured and on the
move. one of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when
the initial casualties come in. but that can’t compare to what
happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.
it’s late afternoon when i begin to hear the cannons. each
shot represents a dead tribute. the fighting must have finally
stopped at the cornucopia. they never collect the bloodbath
bodies until the killers have dispersed. on the opening day,
they don’t even fire the cannons until the initial fighting’s over
because it’s too hard to keep track of the fatalities. i allow my-
self to pause, panting, as i count the shots. one . . . two . . .
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three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. eleven dead in all.
thirteen left to play. my fingernails scrape at the dried blood
the boy from district 9 coughed into my face. he’s gone, cer-
tainly. i wonder about peeta. has he lasted through the day?
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