第113章
kill it!” i’m shouting, and although i can’t
quite see what’s happening, i know he must have stabbed the
thing because the pull lessens. i’m able to haul him back onto
the horn where we drag ourselves toward the top where the
lesser of two evils awaits.
cato has still not regained his feet, but his breathing is
slowing and i know soon he’ll be recovered enough to come
for us, to hurl us over the side to our deaths. i arm my bow,
but the arrow ends up taking out a mutt that can only be
thresh. who else could jump so high? i feel a moment’s relief
because we must finally be up above the mutt line and i’m just
turning back to face cato when peeta’s jerked from my side.
i’m sure the pack has got him until his blood splatters my face.
cato stands before me, almost at the lip of the horn, holding
peeta in some kind of headlock, cutting off his air. peeta’s
clawing at cato’s arm, but weakly, as if confused over whether
it’s more important to breathe or try and stem the gush of
blood from the gaping hole a mutt left in his calf.
i aim one of my last two arrows at cato’s head, knowing it’ll
have no effect on his trunk or limbs, which i can now see are
clothed in a skintight, flesh-colored mesh. some high-grade
body armor from the capitol. was that what was in his pack at
the feast? body armor to defend against my arrows? well,
they neglected to send a face guard.
cato just laughs. “shoot me and he goes down with me.”
he’s right. if i take him out and he falls to the mutts, peeta
is sure to die with him. we’ve reached a stalemate. i can’t
shoot cato without killing peeta, too. he can’t kill peeta with-
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out guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. we stand like statues,
both of us seeking an out.
my muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might
snap at any moment. my teeth clenched to the breaking point.
the mutts go silent and the only thing i can hear is the blood
pounding in my good ear.
peeta’s lips are turning blue. if i don’t do something quick-
ly, he’ll die of asphyxiation and then i’ll have lost him and cato
will probably use his body as a weapon against me. in fact, i’m
sure this is cato’s plan because while he’s stopped laughing,
his lips are set in a triumphant smile.
as if in a last-ditch effort, peeta raises his fingers, dripping
with blood from his leg, up to cato’s arm. instead of trying to
wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers off and makes a deli-
berate x on the back of cato’s hand. cato realizes what it
means exactly one second after i do. i can tell by the way the
smile drops from his lips. but it’s one second too late because,
by that time, my arrow is piercing his hand. he cries out and
reflexively releases peeta who slams back against him. for a
horrible moment, i think they’re both going over. i dive for-
ward just catching hold of peeta as cato loses his footing on
the blood-slick horn and plummets to the ground.
we hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and
then the mutts attack him. peeta and i hold on to each other,
waiting for the cannon, waiting for the competition to finish,
waiting to be released. but it doesn’t happen. not yet. because
this is the climax of the hunger games, and the audience ex-
pects a show.
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i don’t watch, but i can hear the snarls, the growls, the
howls of pain from both human and beast as cato takes on the
mutt pack. i can’t understand how he can be surviving until i
remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck
and i realize what a long night this could be. cato must have a
knife or sword or something, too, something he had hidden in
his clothes, because on occasion there’s the death scream of a
mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with
the golden horn. the combat moves around the side of the
cornucopia, and i know cato must be attempting the one ma-
neuver that could save his life — to make his way back around
to the tail of the horn and rejoin us. but in the end, despite his
remarkable strength and skill, he is simply overpowered.
i don’t know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so,
when cato hits the ground and we hear the mutts dragging
him, dragging him back into the cornucopia. now they’ll finish
him off, i think. but there’s still no cannon.
night falls and the anthem plays and there’s no picture of
cato in the sky, only the faint moans coming through the met-
al beneath us. the icy air blowing across the plain reminds me
that the games are not over and may not be for who knows
how long, and there is still no guarantee of victory.
i turn my attention to peeta and discover his leg is bleeding
as badly as ever. all our supplies, our packs, remain down by
the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the
mutts. i have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of blood
from his calf. although i’m shaking in the biting wind, i rip off
my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as
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swiftly as possible. that brief exposure sets my teeth chatter-
ing beyond control.
peeta’s face is gray in the pale moonlight. i make him lie
down before i probe his wound. warm, slippery blood runs
over my fingers. a bandage will not be enough. i’ve seen my
mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate
it. i cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his
leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. i don’t have a stick,
so i take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twist-
ing it as tightly as i dare. it’s risky business — peeta may end
up losing his leg — but when i weigh this against him losing
his life, what alternative do i have?