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24
A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn"t say, "Katniss will pick whoever it
will break her heart to give up," or even "whoever she can"t live without." Those would have implied I was
motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I "can"t survive
without." There"s not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me. I"ll just conduct an
unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether
a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It"s a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute.
Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment,
the choice would be simple. I can survive just fine without either of them.
In the morning, I have no time or energy to nurse wounded feelings. During a predawn breakfast of liver
pate and fig cookies, we gather around Tigris"s television for one of Beetee"s break-ins. There"s been a new
development in the war. Apparently inspired by the black wave, some enterprising rebel commander came up
with the idea of confiscating people"s abandoned automobiles and sending them unmanned down the streets.
The cars don"t trigger every pod, but they certainly get the majority. At around four in the morning, the rebels
began carving three separate paths--simply referred to as the A, B, and C lines--to the Capitol"s heart. As a
result, they"ve secured block after block with very few casualties.
"This can"t last," says Gale. "In fact I"m surprised they"ve kept it going so long. The Capitol will adjust by
deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when their targets come in range." Almost within
minutes of his prediction, we see this very thing happen on-screen. A squad sends a car down a block, setting
off four pods. All seems well. Three scouts follow and make it safely to the end of the street. But when a group of
twenty rebel soldiers follow them, they"re blown to bits by a row of potted rosebushes in front of a flower shop.
"I bet it"s killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," says Peeta.
Beetee gives the broadcast back to the Capitol, where a grim-faced reporter announces the blocks that
civilians are to evacuate. Between her update and the previous story, I am able to mark my paper map to show
the relative positions of the opposing armies.
I hear scuffling out on the street, move to the windows, and peek out a crack in the shutters. In the early
morning light, I see a bizarre spectacle. Refugees from the now occupied blocks are streaming toward the
Capitol"s center. The most panicked are wearing nothing but nightgowns and slippers, while the more prepared
are heavily bundled in layers of clothes. They carry everything from lapdogs to jewelry boxes to potted plants.
One man in a fluffy robe holds only an overripe banana. Confused, sleepy children stumble along after their
parents, most either too stunned or too baffled to cry. Bits of them flash by my line of vision. A pair of wide brown
eyes. An arm clutching a favorite doll. A pair of bare feet, bluish in the cold, catching on the uneven paving stones
of the alley. Seeing them reminds me of the children of 12 who died fleeing the firebombs. I leave the window.
Tigris offers to be our spy for the day since she"s the only one of us without a bounty on her head. After
securing us downstairs, she goes out into the Capitol to pick up any helpful information.
Down in the cellar I pace back and forth, driving the others crazy. Something tells me that not taking
advantage of the flood of refugees is a mistake. What better cover could we have? On the other hand, every
displaced person milling about on the streets means another pair of eyes looking for the five rebels on the loose.
Then again, what do we gain by staying here? All we"re really doing is depleting our small cache of food and
waiting for...what? The rebels to take the Capitol? It could be weeks before that happens, and I"m not so sure
what I"d do if they did. Not run out and greet them. Coin would have me whisked back to 13 before I could say
"nightlock, nightlock, nightlock." I did not come all this way, and lose all those people, to turn myself over to that
woman. I kill Snow. Besides, there would be an awful lot of things I couldn"t easily explain about the last few days.
Several of which, if they came to light, would probably blow my deal for the victors" immunity right out of the water.
And forget about me, I"ve got a feeling some of the others are going to need it. Like Peeta. Who, no matter how
you spin it, can be seen on tape tossing Mitchell into that net pod. I can imagine what Coin"s war tribunal will do
with that.
By late afternoon, we"re beginning to get uneasy about Tigris"s long absence. Talk turns to the possibilities
that she has been apprehended and arrested, turned us in voluntarily, or simply been injured in the wave of
refugees. But around six o"clock we hear her return. There"s some shuffling around upstairs, then she opens the
panel. The wonderful smell of frying meat fills the air. Tigris has prepared us a hash of chopped ham and
potatoes. It"s the first hot food we"ve had in days, and as I wait for her to fill my plate, I"m in danger of actually
drooling.
As I chew, I try to pay attention to Tigris telling us how she acquired it, but the main thing I absorb is that fur
underwear is a valuable trading item at the moment. Especially for people who left their homes underdressed.
Many are still out on the street, trying to find shelter for the night. Those who live in the choice apartments of the
inner city have not flung open their doors to house the displaced. On the contrary, most of them bolted their locks,
drew their shutters, and pretended to be out. Now the City Circle"s packed with refugees, and the Peacekeepers
are going door to door, breaking into places if they have to, to assign houseguests.
On the television, we watch a terse Head Peacekeeper lay out specific rules regarding how many people
per square foot each resident will be expected to take in. He reminds the citizens of the Capitol that
temperatures will drop well below freezing tonight and warns them that their president expects them to be not
only willing but enthusiastic hosts in this time of crisis. Then they show some very staged-looking shots of
concerned citizens welcoming grateful refugees into their homes. The Head Peacekeeper says the president
himself has ordered part of his mansion readied to receive citizens tomorrow. He adds that shopkeepers should
also be prepared to lend their floor space if requested.
"Tigris, that could be you," says Peeta. I realize he"s right. That even this narrow hallway of a shop could be
appropriated as the numbers swell. Then we"ll be truly trapped in the cellar, in constant danger of discovery. How
many days do we have? One? Maybe two?
The Head Peacekeeper comes back with more instructions for the population. It seems that this evening
there was an unfortunate incident where a crowd beat to death a young man who resembled Peeta. Henceforth,
all rebel sightings are to be reported immediately to authorities, who will deal with the identification and arrest of
the suspect. They show a photo of the victim. Apart from some obviously bleached curls, he looks about as much
like Peeta as I do.
"People have gone wild," Cressida murmurs.
We watch a brief rebel update in which we learn that several more blocks have been taken today. I make
note of the intersections on my map and study it. "Line C is only four blocks from here," I announce. Somehow
that fills me with more anxiety than the idea of Peacekeepers looking for housing. I become very helpful. "Let me
wash the dishes."
"I"ll give you a hand." Gale collects the plates.
I feel Peeta"s eyes follow us out of the room. In the cramped kitchen at the back of Tigris"s shop, I fill the
sink with hot water and suds. "Do you think it"s true?" I ask. "That Snow will let refugees into the mansion?"
"I think he has to now, at least for the cameras," says Gale.
"I"m leaving in the morning," I say.
"I"m going with you," Gale says. "What should we do with the others?"
"Pollux and Cressida could be useful. They"re good guides," I say. Pollux and Cressida aren"t actually the
problem. "But Peeta"s too..."
"Unpredictable," finishes Gale. "Do you think he"d still let us leave him behind?"
"We can make the argument that he"ll endanger us," I say. "He might stay here, if we"re convincing."
Peeta"s fairly rational about our suggestion. He readily agrees that his company could put the other four of
us at risk. I"m thinking this may all work out, that he can just sit out the war in Tigris"s cellar, when he announces
he"s going out on his own.
"To do what?" asks Cressida.
"I"m not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what
happened to that man who looked like me," he says.
"What if you...lose control?" I say.
"You mean...go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I"ll try to get back here," he assures me.
"And if Snow gets you again?" asks Gale. "You don"t even have a gun."
"I"ll just have to take my chances," says Peeta. "Like the rest of you." The two exchange a long look, and
then Gale reaches into his breast pocket. He places his nightlock tablet in Peeta"s hand. Peeta lets it lie on his
open palm, neither rejecting nor accepting it. "What about you?"
"Don"t worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I"ve got my
knife. And I"ll have Katniss," says Gale with a smile. "She won"t give them the satisfaction of taking me alive."
The thought of Peacekeepers dragging Gale away starts the tune playing in my head again....
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
"Take it, Peeta," I say in a strained voice. I reach out and close his fingers over the pill. "No one will be
there to help you."
We spend a fitful night, woken by one another"s nightmares, minds buzzing with the next day"s plans. I"m
relieved when five o"clock rolls around and we can begin whatever this day holds for us. We eat a mishmash of
our remaining food--canned peaches, crackers, and snails--leaving one can of salmon for Tigris as meager
thanks for all she"s done. The gesture seems to touch her in some way. Her face contorts in an odd expression
and she flies into action. She spends the next hour remaking the five of us. She redresses us so regular clothes
hide our uniforms before we even don our coats and cloaks. Covers our military boots with some sort of furry
slippers. Secures our wigs with pins. Cleans off the garish remains of the paint we so hastily applied to our faces
and makes us up again. Drapes our outerwear to conceal our weapons. Then gives us handbags and bundles of
knickknacks to carry. In the end, we look exactly like the refugees fleeing the rebels.
"Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," says Peeta. It"s hard to tell, but I think Tigris might
actually blush under her stripes.
There are no helpful updates on the television, but the alley seems as thick with refugees as the previous
morning. Our plan is to slip into the crowd in three groups. First Cressida and Pollux, who will act as guides while
keeping a safe lead on us. Then Gale and myself, who intend to position ourselves among the refugees
assigned to the mansion today. Then Peeta, who will trail behind us, ready to create a disturbance as needed.
Tigris watches through the shutters for the right moment, unbolts the door, and nods to Cressida and Pollux.
"Take care," Cressida says, and they are gone.
We"ll be following in a minute. I get out the key, unlock Peeta"s cuffs, and stuff them in my pocket. He rubs
his wrists. Flexes them. I feel a kind of desperation rising up in me. It"s like I"m back in the Quarter Quell, with
Beetee giving Johanna and me that coil of wire.
"Listen," I say. "Don"t do anything foolish."
"No. It"s last-resort stuff. Completely," he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck, feel his arms hesitate before they embrace me. Not as steady as they
once were, but still warm and strong. A thousand moments surge through me. All the times these arms were my
only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone
forever. "All right, then." I release him.
"It"s time," says Tigris. I kiss her cheek, fasten my red hooded cloak, pull my scarf up over my nose, and
follow Gale out into the frigid air.
Sharp, icy snowflakes bite my exposed skin. The rising sun"s trying to break through the gloom without
much success. There"s enough light to see the bundled forms closest to you and little more. Perfect conditions,
really, except that I can"t locate Cressida and Pollux. Gale and I drop our heads and shuffle along with the
refugees. I can hear what I missed peeking through the shutters yesterday. Crying, moaning, labored breathing.
And, not too far away, gunfire.
"Where are we going, Uncle?" a shivering little boy asks a man weighed down with a small safe.
"To the president"s mansion. They"ll assign us a new place to live," puffs the man.
We turn off the alley and spill out onto one of the main avenues. "Stay to the right!" a voice orders, and I see
the Peacekeepers interspersed throughout the crowd, directing the flow of human traffic. Scared faces peer out
of the plate-glass windows of the shops, which are already becoming overrun with refugees. At this rate, Tigris
may have new houseguests by lunch. It was good for everybody that we got out when we did.
It"s brighter now, even with the snow picking up. I catch sight of Cressida and Pollux about thirty yards
ahead of us, plodding along with the crowd. I crane my head around to see if I can locate Peeta. I can"t, but I"ve
caught the eye of an inquisitive-looking little girl in a lemon yellow coat. I nudge Gale and slow my pace ever so
slightly, to allow a wall of people to form between us.
"We might need to split up," I say under my breath. "There"s a girl--"
Gunfire rips through the crowd, and several people near me slump to the ground. Screams pierce the air
as a second round mows down another group behind us. Gale and I drop to the street, scuttle the ten yards to the
shops, and take cover behind a display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller"s.
A row of feathery footwear blocks Gale"s view. "Who is it? Can you see?" he asks me. What I can see,
between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, is a street full of bodies. The little girl who
was watching me kneels beside a motionless woman, screeching and trying to rouse her. Another wave of
bullets slices across the chest of her yellow coat, staining it with red, knocking the girl onto her back. For a
moment, looking at her tiny crumpled form, I lose my ability to form words. Gale prods me with his elbow.
"Katniss?"
"They"re shooting from the roof above us," I tell Gale. I watch a few more rounds, see the white uniforms
dropping into the snowy streets. "Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they"re not exactly crack shots. It must
be the rebels." I don"t feel a rush of joy, although theoretically my allies have broken through. I am transfixed by
that lemon yellow coat.
"If we start shooting, that"s it," Gale says. "The whole world will know it"s us."
It"s true. We"re armed only with our fabulous bows. To release an arrow would be like announcing to both
sides that we"re here.
"No," I say forcefully. "We"ve got to get to Snow."
"Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," says Gale. Hugging the wall, we continue
along the street. Only the wall is mostly shopwindows. A pattern of sweaty palms and gaping faces presses
against the glass. I yank my scarf up higher over my cheekbones as we dart between outdoor displays. Behind a
rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper propped against a strip of brick wall. He
asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun. At the intersection, he shoots a
second Peacekeeper and we both have firearms.
"So who are we supposed to be now?" I ask.
"Desperate citizens of the Capitol," says Gale. "The Peacekeepers will think we"re on their side, and
hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets."
I"m mulling over the wisdom of this latest role as we sprint across the intersection, but by the time we reach
the next block, it no longer matters who we are. Who anyone is. Because no one is looking at faces. The rebels
are here, all right. Pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways, behind vehicles, guns blazing, hoarse
voices shouting commands as they prepare to meet an army of Peacekeepers marching toward us. Caught in
the cross fire are the refugees, unarmed, disoriented, many wounded.
A pod"s activated ahead of us, releasing a gush of steam that parboils everyone in its path, leaving the
victims intestine-pink and very dead. After that, what little sense of order there was unravels. As the remaining
curlicues of steam intertwine with the snow, visibility extends just to the end of my barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel,
citizen, who knows? Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively, and I"m no exception. Heart
pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy. Except Gale. My hunting partner, the one
person who has my back. There"s nothing to do but move forward, killing whoever comes into our path.
Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people everywhere. As we reach the next corner, the entire block
ahead of us lights up with a rich purple glow. We backpedal, hunker down in a stairwell, and squint into the light.
Something"s happening to those illuminated by it. They"re assaulted by...what? A sound? A wave? A laser?
Weapons fall from their hands, fingers clutch their faces, as blood sprays from all visible orifices--eyes, noses,
mouths, ears. In less than a minute, everyone"s dead and the glow vanishes. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over
the bodies, feet slipping in the gore. The wind whips the snow into blinding swirls but doesn"t block out the sound
of another wave of boots headed our way.
"Get down!" I hiss at Gale. We drop where we are. My face lands in a still-warm pool of someone"s blood,
but I play dead, remain motionless as the boots march over us. Some avoid the bodies. Others grind into my
hand, my back, kick my head in passing. As the boots recede, I open my eyes and nod to Gale.
On the next block, we encounter more terrified refugees, but few soldiers. Just when it seems we might
have caught a break, there"s a cracking sound, like an egg hitting the side of a bowl but magnified a thousand
times. We stop, look around for the pod. There"s nothing. Then I feel the tips of my boots beginning to tilt ever so
slightly. "Run!" I cry to Gale. There"s no time to explain, but in a few seconds the nature of the pod becomes clear
to everyone. A seam has opened up down the center of the block. The two sides of the tiled street are folding
down like flaps, slowly emptying the people into whatever lies beneath.
I"m torn between making a beeline for the next intersection and trying to get to the doors that line the street
and break my way into a building. As a result, I end up moving at a slight diagonal. As the flap continues to drop, I
find my feet scrambling, harder and harder, to find purchase on the slippery tiles. It"s like running along the side of
an icy hill that gets steeper at every step. Both of my destinations--the intersection and the buildings--are a few
feet away when I feel the flap going. There"s nothing to do but use my last seconds of connection to the tiles to
push off for the intersection. As my hands latch on to the side, I realize the flaps have swung straight down. My
feet dangle in the air, no foothold anywhere. From fifty feet below, a vile stench hits my nose, like rotted corpses
in the summer heat. Black forms crawl around in the shadows, silencing whoever survives the fall.
A strangled cry comes from my throat. No one is coming to help me. I"m losing my grip on the icy ledge,
when I see I"m only about six feet from the corner of the pod. I inch my hands along the ledge, trying to block out
the terrifying sounds from below. When my hands straddle the corner, I swing my right boot up over the side. It
catches on something and I painstakingly drag myself up to street level. Panting, trembling, I crawl out and wrap
my arm around a lamppost for an anchor, although the ground"s perfectly flat.
"Gale?" I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized. "Gale?"
"Over here!" I look in bewilderment to my left. The flap held up everything to the very base of the buildings.
A dozen or so people made it that far and now hang from whatever provides a handhold. Doorknobs, knockers,
mail slots. Three doors down from me, Gale clings to the decorative iron grating around an apartment door. He
could easily get inside if it was open. But despite repeated kicks to the door, no one comes to his aid.
"Cover yourself!" I lift my gun. He turns away and I drill the lock until the door flies inward. Gale swings into
the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. For a moment, I experience the elation of his rescue. Then the whitegloved
hands clamp down on him.
Gale meets my eyes, mouths something at me I can"t make out. I don"t know what to do. I can"t leave him,
but I can"t reach him either. His lips move again. I shake my head to indicate my confusion. At any minute, they"ll
realize who they"ve captured. The Peacekeepers are hauling him inside now. "Go!" I hear him yell.
I turn and run away from the pod. All alone now. Gale a prisoner. Cressida and Pollux could be dead ten
times over. And Peeta? I haven"t laid eyes on him since we left Tigris"s. I hold on to the idea that he may have
gone back. Felt an attack coming and retreated to the cellar while he still had control. Realized there was no
need for a diversion when the Capitol has provided so many. No need to be bait and have to take the nightlock--
the nightlock! Gale doesn"t have any. And as for all that talk of detonating his arrows by hand, he"ll never get the
chance. The first thing the Peacekeepers will do is to strip him of his weapons.
I fall into a doorway, tears stinging my eyes. Shoot me. That"s what he was mouthing. I was supposed to
shoot him! That was my job. That was our unspoken promise, all of us, to one another. And I didn"t do it and now
the Capitol will kill him or torture him or hijack him or--the cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break
me into pieces. I have only one hope. That the Capitol falls, lays down its arms, and gives up its prisoners before
they hurt Gale. But I can"t see that happening while Snow"s alive.
A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I
choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself back together.
Okay, I"m still an anonymous refugee. Or did the Peacekeepers who caught Gale get a glimpse of me as I fled? I
remove my cloak and turn it inside out, letting the black lining show instead of the red exterior. Arrange the hood
so it conceals my face. Grasping my gun close to my chest, I survey the block. There"s only a handful of dazedlooking
stragglers. I trail close behind a pair of old men who take no notice of me. No one will expect me to be
with old men. When we reach the end of the next intersection, they stop and I almost bump into them. It"s the City
Circle. Across the wide expanse ringed by grand buildings sits the president"s mansion.
The Circle"s full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. I fit
right in. I begin to weave my way across to the mansion, tripping over abandoned treasures and snow-frosted
limbs. About halfway there, I become aware of the concrete barricade. It"s about four feet high and extends in a
large rectangle in front of the mansion. You would think it would be empty, but it"s packed with refugees. Maybe
this is the group that"s been chosen to be sheltered at the mansion? But as I draw closer, I notice something
else. Everyone inside the barricade is a child. Toddlers to teenagers. Scared and frostbitten. Huddled in groups
or rocking numbly on the ground. They aren"t being led into the mansion. They"re penned in, guarded on all sides
by Peacekeepers. I know immediately it"s not for their protection. If the Capitol wanted to safeguard them, they"d
be down in a bunker somewhere. This is for Snow"s protection. The children form his human shield.
There"s a commotion and the crowd surges to the left. I"m caught up by larger bodies, borne sideways,
carried off course. I hear shouts of "The rebels! The rebels!" and know they must"ve broken through. The
momentum slams me into a flagpole and I cling to it. Using the rope that hangs from the top, I pull myself up out of
the crush of bodies. Yes, I can see the rebel army pouring into the Circle, driving the refugees back onto the
avenues. I scan the area for the pods that will surely be detonating. But that doesn"t happen. This is what
happens:
A hovercraft marked with the Capitol"s seal materializes directly over the barricaded children. Scores of
silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in this chaos, the children know what silver parachutes contain. Food.
Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes,
five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes simultaneously explode.
A wail rises from the crowd. The snow"s red and littered with undersized body parts. Many of the children
die immediately, but others lie in agony on the ground. Some stagger around mutely, staring at the remaining
silver parachutes in their hands, as if they still might have something precious inside. I can tell the Peacekeepers
didn"t know this was coming by the way they are yanking away the barricades, making a path to the children.
Another flock of white uniforms sweeps into the opening. But these aren"t Peacekeepers. They"re medics. Rebel
medics. I"d know the uniforms anywhere. They swarm in among the children, wielding medical kits.
First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing
child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called
her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to
account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her
name above the roar. I"m almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a
moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name.
And that"s when the rest of the parachutes go off.
25
Real or not real? I am on fire. The balls of flame that erupted from the parachutes shot over the barricades,
through the snowy air, and landed in the crowd. I was just turning away when one caught me, ran its tongue up the
back of my body, and transformed me into something new. A creature as unquenchable as the sun.
A fire mutt knows only a single sensation: agony. No sight, no sound, no feeling except the unrelenting
burning of flesh. Perhaps there are periods of unconsciousness, but what can it matter if I can"t find refuge in
them? I am Cinna"s bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that
grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself, but to no end.
Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick"s
eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to pain. When I am
adrift and unable to navigate, that"s when they come. The dead.
The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want
so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift them. The ones I hated
have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again.
Dragging me beneath the surface.
The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat.
"No, Katniss! No! You can"t go!"
But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she"ll be lost as well. "Prim, let go!" And finally she
does.
Deep in the water, I"m deserted by all. There"s only the sound of my breathing, the enormous effort it takes
to draw the water in, push it out of my lungs. I want to stop, I try to hold my breath, but the sea forces its way in
and out
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