Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
As we weave our way to the knife range, I notice a few camera crews covering training and a smattering of Peacekeepers patrolling the gymnasium. To our left, the top section of the bleachers is full of Gamemakers draped in snowy gowns. They mosey around, drinking coffee and making notes on the tributes below. In a few days, we will each receive a score, one to twelve, which ranks our likelihood of winning the Games. People will use it as a guide on whether or not to sponsor us.
We join a group with the tributes from 7, clad in russet brown. Everybody sizes one another up while a Capitol woman, Hersilia, instructs us in knife throwing. Ampert said 7 had already agreed to join his alliance, and they make a favorable impression. They seem confident, but not full of themselves. One of them – a slim girl with a lot of glossy black braids and a small carved pin of a tree on her shirt – tells me her name, Ringina, so I tell her mine.
Once we all grasp the basics – how to hold the blade, the straight arm motion, no flicking the wrist – we line up to throw. On a stand, there’s a basket of about a dozen different knives, but only one tribute can have their hands on a weapon at a time. You throw, then a guy in white collects the knife and returns it. Hersilia selects the model for the next tribute. A lot of knives bounce off the target, although Maysilee hits more than she misses, and, not to brag, I stick it every time. The throwing unwinds me a bit, since all my associations are good ones, hanging out with my friends in the woods and messing around. When Ringina hits the bulls-eye, I forget where I am and give her a “Nice shot.”
As Ringina accepts the compliment with a quick grin, the energy shifts. I know I’m never going to kill this girl any more than I’m going to kill Maysilee or Wyatt. So I might as well be 7’s ally and join Ampert’s team for real.
I open the negotiation with “So, Ampert says you all are -” when there’s a blur of snot green to my left, the clatter of knives as the basket’s upset, and the sensation of a sledgehammer hitting my ribs.
If you’ve ever been sucker punched, you know there’s the double outrage of the pain and the unfairness of the attack. As I lie gasping on the mat, watching Panache close in, my fingers grip a knife handle. Before I can rise, a Peacekeeper tases him and three more drag him off. Wyatt offers me a hand up as the other tributes gather the knives.
There’s this moment, just as I get to my feet, where I look around, and I’m armed, and they’re armed. A half dozen of us hold sleek, deadly knives. And I see that there aren’t many Peacekeepers here today. Not really. We outnumber them four to one. And if we moved quickly, we could probably free up some of those tridents and spears and swords at the other stations and have ourselves a real nice arsenal. I meet Ringina’s eyes, and I’d swear she’s thinking the same thing. When Hersilia holds out the basket, it takes Ringina some effort to drop her knife in.
The two of us resume our places at the end of the line, hanging back a little, just out of earshot, as the training continues.
“Raise your arms,” Ringina says.
I gingerly reach up, and she feels my rib cage where Panache’s blow landed. “Not broken, I think.” She steps back, her lips pressed tight in consternation. “We could’ve taken them.”
The more I think it over, the more my dismay grows. Every year we let them herd us into their killing machine. Every year they pay no price for the slaughter. They just throw a big party and box up our bodies like presents for our families to open back home.
“We could’ve at least done some damage,” I tell Ringina.
“At least a little. Possibly a considerable amount,” someone says behind me. I turn to see Plutarch. He waves his camera crew over to record the knife training, but his attention stays on me. “The question is, why didn’t you?”
Sore ribs and all, I think about punching the question right off Plutarch’s face. Because the implication is clear: He isn’t just asking why we didn’t start a mini rebellion in the gym. He means back in District 12 as well. Why do we let the Capitol brutes rule us? Because we’re cowards? Because we’re stupid?
“Why do you submit to it all?” he presses.
“Because you have the guns,” Ringina says flatly.
“Is it really about the weapons, though? I grant you, they’re an advantage. On the other hand, when you consider the sheer difference in numbers . . . district to Capitol . . .” Plutarch muses.
Yes, we far outnumber the Peacekeepers in 12. I think about the weapons we could lay our hands on. Pickaxes, knives, possibly some explosives. But in the face of automatic rifles, aerial bombings, gases, and the Capitol’s menagerie of mutts?
“I don’t think we ‘submit,'” I say.
“It’s implied. You accept the Capitol’s conditions.”
“Because we don’t want to end up dead!” I snap. “Do you really not see that?”
“No, I do. I see the hangings and the shootings and the starvation and the Hunger Games. I do,” Plutarch says. “And yet, I still don’t think the fear they inspire justifies this arrangement we’ve all entered into. Do you?” We stare at him. He’s not taunting or mocking us, he’s genuinely asking. “Why do you agree to it? Why do I? For that matter, why have people always agreed to it?” When we don’t respond, he shrugs. “Well, it’s something to think about.”
“You’re up, Haymitch.” Hersilia offers me a knife. Which I could (a) throw or (b) drive into a Peacekeeper’s heart, ensuring my immediate death. I’m a little wobbly but I still hit the target.
Plutarch waits for me at the end of the line. I try to ignore him, but he keeps yapping. “You put on quite a show last night.”
“Yeah, well, I bet you card-stacked it right into a compliment for the president.”
“No need to. The broadcast to the public ended when that firecracker went off. The Capitol News coverage is presenting the opening ceremony as flawless.”
“I doubt that people who take Capitol News seriously will spend much time questioning that,” I say. “They don’t care what happens to us tributes, dead or alive.” I wonder what they did with Louella’s body. I hope it’s been sent home to the McCoys. Their family plot’s right next door to ours, so Louella and I will be reunited soon enough.
I start to turn away, but Plutarch lays a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry about Louella, Haymitch. She was a person of substance. I could see that right off.”
Is he actually giving me condolences? “Why do you keep dogging me?” I snap at him. “There’s a gym full of people just aching for some exposure. Why don’t you spread yourself around a little?”
“I’m assigned to cover Twelve.” He raises his hands and backs away. “But I’ll try to give you some space.”
Aggravated by his probing, I pull Maysilee and Wyatt aside. “Listen, if we join Ampert’s alliance, these folks from Seven will be on our team. Now I’m going to introduce you to Ringina over there.” I give Maysilee a hard stare. “You have to be nice. Don’t comment on her hair, don’t comment on her nails, don’t comment on how she looks in brown, don’t ask to examine her pin because you’re an authority on jewelry.”
Maysilee sniffs. “I like her hair.”
“And, Wyatt, don’t be weird. Don’t start spouting out the odds on their deaths.”
“Can I do other people’s deaths?”
“No! Not yet. Maybe not ever. It’s creepy! If you have to do odds, do gifts or sponsors or something,” I say. “Forget about being loose cannons. We need to seem like people you’d want to be your allies. Like people you’d hope were beside you in a mine accident. Steady. Smart. Trustworthy.”
Ampert, glowing in electric blue, runs up, swinging a loop of black cord over his head. “Hey, Haymitch! District Ten is in. They’re the ones in crimson. I met them in knot tying. One of the guys, Buck, made me this lariat. I’m thinking of turning it into some kind of token, since I didn’t bring one.” He wraps the cord in loose bands around his hand, pulls it over his head, and drops his voice. “Then I can unwind it and use it in the arena.”
Maysilee’s lips twitch. “Well, you can’t wear it like that. It’s not the least bit ornamental. You look like a weasel caught in chicken wire.”
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