第53章

  which
  gets a round of appreciative hoots.
  so they’re fighting in a pack. i’m not really surprised. often
  alliances are formed in the early stages of the games. the
  strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the
  tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. i
  don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. it’ll
  be the remaining career tributes from districts 1, 2, and 4.
  two boys and three girls. the ones who lunched together.
  for a moment, i hear them checking the girl for supplies. i
  can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good. i won-
  der if the victim is rue but quickly dismiss the thought. she’s
  much too bright to be building a fire like that.
  “better clear out so they can get the body before it starts
  stinking.” i’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from dis-
  trict 2. there are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, i
  hear the pack heading toward me. they do not know i’m here.
  how could they? and i’m well concealed in the clump of trees.
  at least while the sun stays down. then my black sleeping bag
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  will turn from camouflage to trouble. if they just keep moving,
  they will pass me and be gone in a minute.
  but the careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from
  my tree. they have flashlights, torches. i can see an arm here,
  a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. i turn to
  stone, not even daring to breathe. have they spotted me? no,
  not yet. i can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.
  “shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”
  “i’d say yes. nothing to prevent them from going in imme-
  diately.”
  “unless she isn’t dead.”
  “she’s dead. i stuck her myself.”
  “then where’s the cannon?”
  “someone should go back. make sure the job’s done.”
  “yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”
  “i said she’s dead!”
  an argument breaks out until one tribute silences the oth-
  ers. “we’re wasting time! i’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”
  i almost fall out of the tree. the voice belongs to peeta.
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  thank goodness, i had the foresight to belt myself in. i’ve
  rolled sideways off the fork and i’m facing the ground, held in
  place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack
  inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. there must
  have been some rustling when i tipped sideways, but the ca-
  reers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch
  it.
  “go on, then, lover boy,” says the boy from district 2. “see
  for yourself.”
  i just get a glimpse of peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to
  the girl by the fire. his face is swollen with bruises, there’s a
  bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait
  he’s limping somewhat. i remember him shaking him his head,
  telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all
  along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick of
  things. just the opposite of what haymitch had mid him to do.
  okay, i can stomach that. seeing all those supplies was
  tempting. but this . . . this other thing. this teaming up with
  the career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. no one from
  district 12 would think of doing such a thing! career tributes
  are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because
  they’re the capitol’s lapdogs.
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  universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own
  districts. i can imagine the things they’re saying about him
  back home now. and peeta had the gall to talk to me about
  disgrace?