back to the lake? to a whole new
terrain filled with new dangers? i had just found a few hours
of peace at the pond when this attack began. would there be
any way i could travel parallel to the fire and work my way
back there, to a source of water at least? the wall of fire must
have an end and it won’t burn indefinitely. not because the
gamemakers couldn’t keep it fueled but because, again, that
would invite accusations of boredom from the audience. if i
could get back behind the fire line, i could avoid meeting up
with the careers. i’ve just decided to try and loop back
around, although it will require miles of travel away from the
inferno and then a very circuitous route back, when the first
fireball blasts into the rock about two feet from my head. i
spring out from under my ledge, energized by renewed fear.
the game has taken a twist. the fire was just to get us mov-
ing, now the audience will get to see some real fun. when i
hear the next hiss, i flatten on the ground, not taking time to
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look. the fireball hits a tree off to my left, engulfing it in
flames. to remain still is death. i’m barely on my feet before
the third ball hits the ground where i was lying, sending a pil-
lar of fire up behind me. time loses meaning now as i franti-
cally try to dodge the attacks. i can’t see where they’re being
launched from, but it’s not a hovercraft. the angles are not ex-
treme enough. probably this whole segment of the woods has
been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in
trees or rocks. somewhere, in a cool and spotless room, a ga-
memaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that
could end my life in a second. all that is needed is a direct hit.
whatever vague plan i had conceived regarding returning
to my pond is wiped from my mind as i zigzag and dive and
leap to avoid the fireballs. each one is only the size of an ap-
ple, but packs tremendous power on contact. every sense i
have goes into overdrive as the need to survive takes over.
there’s no time to judge if a move is the correct one. when
there’s a hiss, i act or die.
something keeps me moving forward, though. a lifetime of
watching the hunger games lets me know that certain areas
of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. and that if i can just
get away from this section, i might be able to move out of
reach of the launchers. i might also then fall straight into a pit
of vipers, but i can’t worry about that now.
how long i scramble along dodging the fireballs i can’t say,
but the attacks finally begin to abate. which is good, because
i’m retching again. this time it’s an acidic substance that
scalds my throat and makes its way into my nose as well. i’m
174
forced to stop as my body convulses, trying desperately to rid
itself of the poisons i’ve been sucking in during the attack. i
wait for the next hiss, the next signal to bolt. it doesn’t come.
the force of the retching has squeezed tears out of my sting-
ing eyes. my clothes are drenched in sweat. somehow,
through the smoke and vomit, i pick up the scent of singed
hair. my hand fumbles to my braid and finds a fireball has
seared off at least six inches of it. strands of blackened hair
crumble in my fingers. i stare at them, fascinated by the trans-
formation, when the hissing registers.
my muscles react, only not fast enough this time. the fire-
ball crashes into the ground at my side, but not before it skids
across my right calf. seeing my pants leg on fire sends me over
the edge. i twist and scuttle backward on my hands and feet,
shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror. when i fi-
nally regain enough sense, i roll the leg back and forth on the
ground, which stifles the worst of it. but then, without think-
ing, i rip away the remaining fabric with my bare hands.
i sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by the
fireball. my calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts.
i’m shaking too hard to move. if the gamemakers want to
finish me off, now is the time.
i hear cinna’s voice, carrying images of rich fabric and
sparkling gems. “katniss, the girl who was on fire.” what a
good laugh the gamemakers must be having over that one.
perhaps, cinna’s beautiful costumes have even brought on this
particular torture for me. i know he couldn’t have foreseen
this, must be hurting for me because, in fact, i believe he cares
175
about me. but all in all, maybe showing up stark naked in that
chariot would have been safer for me.
the attack is now over. the gamemakers don’t want me
dead. not yet anyway. everyone knows they could destroy us
all within seconds of the opening gong. the real sport of the
hunger games is watching the tributes kill one another. every
so often, they do kill a tribute just to remind the players they
can. but mostly, they manipulate us into confronting one
another face-to-face. which means, if i am no longer being
fired at, there is at least one other tribute close at hand.
i would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if i
could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. i make
myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall of flames
that lights up the sky. it does not seem to be pursuing me any
longer, except with its stinking black clouds.
another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. swirls of
smoke catch the sunbeams. my visibility is poor. i can see
maybe fifteen yards in any direction. a tribute could easily be
concealed from me here. i should draw my knife as a precau-
tion, but i doubt my ability to hold it for long. the pain in my
hands can in no way compete with that in my calf. i hate
burns, have always hated them, even a small one gotten from
pulling a pan of bread from the oven. it is the worst kind of
pain to me, but i have never experienced anything like this.
i’m so weary i don’t even notice i’m in the pool until i’m
ankle-deep. it’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in
some rocks, and blissfully cool. i plunge my hands into the
shallow water and feel instant relief. isn’t that what my moth-
176
er always says?
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