Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
My escape path leads me farther down the avenue toward the president’s mansion. Several of the chariots are pulled over along the parade route. It’s a clear shot to the mansion, but I’ll never make it. The Peacekeepers’ shouts get closer. Louella’s growing heavy. My toes blister in the tight boots. My chest aches and I haven’t drawn a full breath since I hit the ground. What difference does it make, me handing her over now or later?
Some of the big screens over the crowd have gone to the waving flag, but a handful of others still display the parade route. I catch sight of myself on one. Louella looks peaceful, like she’s asleep in my arms. If this is still being recorded and possibly aired, at least in the Capitol, maybe it does make a difference if I resist as best I can. Maybe this is where I paint my own poster.
Ahead I spot the District 1 chariot, a glimmering golden thing drawn by snow-white horses. The tributes have dismounted and stand off to the side, except Panache, who’s pulling on the bridles of the horses. “Come on,” he yells at them. “Move it!” He no doubt wants to continue the parade, to be the only tribute who makes it to the president’s mansion by chariot. A grand entrance for a future victor. But the horses resist, stamping their feet and throwing back their heads. Silka removes one of her fancy stiletto heels and begins to beat the flank of the outside horse, drawing blood. The horse neighs in pain and kicks, throwing the team into confusion. Silka’s knocked to the ground and Panache has to dive sideways to avoid being trampled.
Peacekeepers on my tail, my arms giving out, I seize the moment and spring into the chariot just as the horses’ distress overcomes their training. Panache had a great idea, and now I’m stealing it right out from under him. I want to be the tribute who arrives by chariot, and I want Louella to be with me, for all to see.
As the team jumps forward, I get tossed into the railing, letting it bear some of Louella’s weight. I hear Panache’s howl of rage behind me but ignore him. The horses resume their normal pace and I manage to straighten up. I lost my cheesy imitation coal miner hat in the accident and, rid of the headgear, our outfits become merely neutral, black and forgettable. Our tokens catch the eye – Louella’s bright beaded necklace, my exquisite flint striker. For the first time, in the gorgeous rig, with our fine ornaments, we look like tributes of consequence. Not long shots. Or at least long shots you might consider sponsoring. A shame one of us is dead.
The horses come to a stop directly under the balcony. I look up and freeze, too intimidated to breathe. President Snow. Not on a screen, but in the flesh. The most powerful and, therefore, the most brutal person in Panem. He stands calm and erect, surveying the calamity of the opening ceremony. His head dips slightly and a lacquered silvery blond curl falls onto his forehead. Our eyes meet, and a smile plays on his lips. No anger, no outrage, and certainly no fear. I have not impressed him with my performance. The reckless mountain boy with the dead girl in his arms seems foolish, a trifle amusing, and nothing more.
Something steels inside me, and I think,
You are on a high horse, mister. And someday someone will knock you off it straight into your grave. I dismount the chariot and lay Louella down, taking a step back so Snow can’t pretend he doesn’t see her broken little bird body. Then I gesture to him and begin to applaud, giving credit where credit is due.
Spin this, Plutarch, I think.
Suddenly, the president’s expression changes. He turns his attention to the screen to my right, which features a shot of me from the waist up, clapping. His fingers move to the signature white rose in his lapel, straightening it as he looks down again. The blue eyes narrow, but he’s not focused on my face. Is he looking at the flint striker?
I’m grabbed from behind and dragged away. Medics descend on Louella, but I know there’s no bringing her back. I hate leaving her behind, but what would I do with her, even if I held on to her? Did her family get to see her send-off? Did mine? But they wouldn’t have shown this in 12. They probably cut out when our horses bolted.
I struggle for a bit, then feel I’m working too hard. Going limp, I make the Peacekeepers tow me down the long road back to the stable. They catch on and flip me around, cuff me, and make me walk myself. That’s when I become aware of the crowd, still in the stands, and hear the voices shouting.
“Hey, you, where are you from?”
“Over here, boy! What’s your name?”
“Twelve, right? Are you from Twelve, kid?”
That catches my attention. Me? Are they talking to me? My head twists from side to side.
“Speak up, boy! Can’t sponsor you if we don’t know who you are!”
These people want to sponsor me? Send me food and supplies in the arena? Then bet on me like a starved dog in a fight? Maybe I should be grateful, or at least smart, but it’s impossible with Louella’s blood coating my hands. I hawk and send spit directly at a man’s face, which is bloated and twinkling with tiny embedded mirrors. It lands on his cheek, and the crowd roars with laughter.
“You tell him!”
“I like your style!”
“Haymitch or Wyatt? Which are you?”
That last from some woman who wears a bird’s nest on her head. She waves her Hunger Games program, which has a shiny gold
50 against a background of the flag of Panem on the cover. I’m working up another loogie when one of my guards warns, “Enough of that.” I spit anyway. He elbows me hard in the side and the crowd cheers, I’m not even sure for who.
Fed up, the Peacekeepers toss me into a chariot filled with the District 4 tributes, and I get to ride to the stable holding on to some guy’s fake trident so I don’t get tossed out again. He’s not supportive of this, and we barely make it back before he shoves the butt of it into my solar plexus and I’m on the ground again.
“Nice one, Urchin,” laughs a girl from 4, flipping her fishtail at me as they walk away.
Doesn’t seem to be any particular reason to get up, so I just lie there, not caring if I get trampled or not. The memory of Louella’s lifeless body under Snow’s balcony has burned itself onto the back of my eyelids. Seems like that’s all I’ll ever see again.
Things settle down as the place begins to empty out. No one’s in any rush to move an unruly District 12 tribute, though. After a while, Maysilee appears above me, her fountain of curls drooping to one side of her head. “Well, you got the last word tonight, Mr. Abernathy.”
“Did I? What exactly did I say again, Miss Donner?”
“Don’t mess with District Twelve.”
Half my mouth manages a smile. “Scared them pretty good, you reckon?”
“I don’t. But at least now they know we’re here.” She helps me to my feet. “I’d rather be despised than ignored.”
Wyatt walks up. “Nice work with the crowd. Should bring you a few sponsors. Our odds have improved slightly with the crash. All of District Six is injured. Ten’s beat up, too.”
I resist the impulse to hit him. “And Louella’s dead.”
“Yes, but it’s unlikely Louella would have killed any of us. And as an undersized thirteen-year-old from Twelve, she barely factored into the rankings anyway,” says Wyatt.
I stare at him, amazed by his coldness. “Just what odds do you think your pa’s giving on you winning, Wyatt?”
Shame creeps across his face. But he only says, “About forty to one.”
“So, if you’re the victor, and I’d bet a dollar on you, I’d get forty dollars back?”
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