Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
When my thirst begins to get to me, I stop by a stream. Propping my pack against a tree, I scoop up a few handfuls of icy water. It’s a little metallic, but not so much as our well water back home. I slow down, though, because guzzling cold water on a hot day can give me a bellyache.
As I lean against my pack, a dove-colored rabbit hops up across the stream from me and helps itself to a good, long drink. It sits on the bank, ears twitching, reminding me that I’ve helped Burdock set snares on occasion. I don’t have any wire, though. And could I possibly kill a creature that brings to mind my girl?
I’m pondering this when the bunny starts squealing like a baby bird, goes stiff as a board, then falls over dead. A trickle of red stains the fur on its chin.
Poison. That’s what’s running in this stream. I press my hand against my stomach, registering that what I took for cold-water pangs are too sharp and burning. I immediately stick my finger down my throat and manage to gag up some acid before I remember that’s not always the best way to deal with poison. It can hurt you as much coming up as it does going down. An antidote’s best, like the one President Snow carried in his pocket. But I have no antidote.
I dig through my pack for something that might soak up the toxic fluid. Something spongey like bread, but there’s nothing of the kind. Would that even be the right thing to do? The pain intensifies, so I swallow some clean water from the bottle, hoping to dilute the poison, to no avail. My breath comes in gasps and perspiration beads my face. This is it, then. How I die. Not ending the Hunger Games, just curled up in the dirt, poisoned like a rat. I dump out all my supplies and reach for a potato, the most benign thing I have, and have just taken a bite of its hard, crisp flesh when my eyes land on the charcoal tablets.
It’s a fall day a few years back and we’ve overdone it on the hot pepper soup. Mamaw’s chomping on her tablets, saying, “Good for whatever ails your belly. Fire, wind, or poison.” I thought the Game-makers meant them as a joke, but maybe they are the antidote?
Without hesitating, I spit out the potato, tear into the packet, and stuff a handful of tablets in my mouth. I grind them to powder with my teeth, wash them down, and gauge the condition of my stomach. No change. I send another half dozen down my gullet. This time, I think I can begin to feel some relief. Without warning, I spew everything since yesterday’s lunch into the stream. I kneel on all fours, panting, dripping sweat and saliva. I’m still queasy, but the pain has ebbed. For good measure, I put a tablet on my tongue and let it dissolve. My back finds a tree trunk and I collapse against it, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
I might not die. I can’t die. Not just yet. Not before I blow that tank sky-high. As I step back from death’s door, I try to get back on track. My supplies lie in a jumble at my feet. My stupid, redundant supplies that I could find anywhere –
Suddenly, I sit upright as I remember Mags’s advice: “Look for clues to your arena. The Gamemakers sometimes hide little hints about the nature of the arena in their design.”
If the contents of my backpack are clues, what are they revealing? Why would all of my food and drink be easy pickings in the arena, unless . . . I take in the rabbit carcass across the stream . . . unless they aren’t. Unless every mouthful is precious, because their counterparts are poisonous.
The minute I conceive of this possibility, I know it’s true. That the luscious apples on the boughs over my head are as deadly as the crystal water. And if that is true, what other food and drink in here will kill you? Everything, probably. It isn’t safe to sample anything that didn’t come from the Cornucopia.
As I brush off my supplies and carefully repack them, I think about the two cannon shots that fired after the bloodbath. Did one Career and one Newcomer die, thereby alerting the rest of their alliance to the poisonous nature of the arena? Reminds me of the canaries we take down to the coal mines in 12. They are the first to die when there’s deadly gas around, warning the miners of imminent danger. Maybe both were Careers, because I bet Ampert and Wellie would’ve figured out pretty quick that the food in the packs is a clue. Probably, if we hadn’t formed such tight alliances, far more tributes would be dying now. Were the Gamemakers counting on that, and have we thrown them?
Every bite of clean food is priceless. I consider the rabbit again, fur color or no. While I’ve no appetite now, I know I’ll be famished later, but its bloody beard puts me off. The last thing I need is to be ingesting more poison. What I need is to be moving north. Unfortunately, when I rise to my feet, a wave of nausea hits me and I clutch my spear to stay upright. How long will the toxins take to leave my system?
I take deep gulps of the finely crafted air, which no longer charms me. It’s not deadly, but it’s not fresh either. Something unwholesome hides under the perfume. I remember the dazed looks on the tributes’ faces as we awaited the gong. Did the air drug us? And is it contributing to how weak and sick I feel now? Or is the water to blame for that? I guess I can’t stop breathing, though, so I wobble off into the north.
It’s no good. After a few hundred yards, I slide to the forest floor, throw up my latest charcoal tablet, and scrunch back into a ball. The chills begin, racking my body and causing my teeth to chatter so hard I’m in danger of breaking them. All I want is to be home in my bed in 12, with Ma there to take care of me. To spoon me sips of chicken back broth and pile every quilt on my shaking body and put a goose feather pillow under my head. The thought of Ma watching, unable to get her hands on me, makes me try to look less pathetic. I force myself to sit up and dry my dripping face on my handkerchief.
I’m nothing but a sitting duck. I need to hide, but since there are no real paths in the woods, I can’t get off of one. Over there looks no safer than right here. If a Career followed me across the meadow, I’m not just a sitting duck, I’m a dead one. Muddled, I reach for Wiress’s song:
Find food and where to sleep,
Fire and friends can keep.
Heading north takes a distant second to finding a safe place to recover. Fire and friends will have to keep. I hoist myself back onto my boots and consider climbing a tree, but I’m so woozy I’m sure to tumble out. What I really need to do is lie down somewhere hidden. I totter around for a bit, veering a little to the east, and come upon a large blueberry patch laden with fruit the size of cherries. Obviously, I can’t eat them, but the dense bushes, free of thorns, offer a refuge. I lay on my belly and burrow deep into the thicket, dragging my pack behind me. At what I judge to be the center, I arrange my hammock on the ground and collapse onto it, pulling the meshy skin around me for warmth. I can’t see out, so I’m hoping no one else can see in. Doesn’t matter, I’m going nowhere.
For several hours, I alternate between violent chills and drenching fever sweats. Pain spikes my muscles, and my head feels like it’s trapped in one of Tam Amber’s vises. I vaguely wonder if some of my fellow tributes are experiencing the same misery. No cannons have fired since the two I attributed to the poisoning. Possibly others now lie helpless like me, waiting for the rest of the poison to work its way out. Whatever has happened, the Gamemakers don’t appear to be unleashing mutts or driving us together. After twenty opening-day deaths, we’re rewarded with a lull in bloodshed. Our performance has been satisfactory.
Nightfall brings the anthem blasting through the arena. I rally enough to pull myself to the edge of the berry patch and look up to see the flag of Panem projected on the sky. It’s time for the memorial photos of the dead tributes, a rare hint into our standing in the Games. Twenty today. I splay my fingers on the dirt, pressing down one for each death. After I’ve run through them twice, it’ll be over and I’ll know how the Newcomers have fared.
When the first fallen tribute appears, I register the outfit, snot green, and know it’s a District 1 girl. Carat, I think her name was. Then we jump to Urchin, the boy from District 4 who knocked me from the chariot with his trident. I’m relieved to see District 3 has been spared, particularly Ampert. A boy and a girl in District 5 orange bring the Career death count to four. One of my doves, Miles, the kid who couldn’t breathe in the shower, appears next, and my heart sinks. The Careers are all through by District 5. That means that the other sixteen deaths today are all Newcomers. I watch as they unspool. A second dove, Velo from 6. Both boys from 7. All four kids from 8. All four from 9. Both girls from 10. Tile, the boy from 11. The pinkie on my left hand remains lifted. One tribute left. Is it another kid from 11 or one of my own?
Wyatt. Wyatt Callow whose luck just ran out. I can’t believe how hard it hits me, how much it hurts. A few days ago, I didn’t even want him for an ally. But he wasn’t a bad guy, really. He just came from a rotten family. District 12’s sympathy will be in short supply.
How’s the betting going, Mr. Callow? You make some money on your boy today?
Most people wouldn’t say this to him, but they wouldn’t stop another from doing so, as repellent as his behavior has been.
I wonder how Wyatt died and immediately feel certain he was protecting Lou Lou, the way no one had ever protected him. Including me. I ran off and left all the Newcomers to fend for one another. I know I had to if I was going to carry out Beetee’s plan, but it sure doesn’t feel good.
A fury rises up in me at the thought of Wyatt’s sacrifice and how the Capitol has pitted us tributes against one another in this poisonous beauty of an arena. The Games must end. Here. Now. Every death reinforces the importance of the arena plot succeeding.
Focus,
I tell myself, and struggle through the brain fog. I remember that all four of the kids from 9 are dead. Did Ampert manage to scavenge a sunflower before the hovercraft collected their bodies? If he didn’t, what could we possibly do? We’re useless without those explosives. Maybe even with them, but certainly without them.
The sky goes dark. Show’s over. I crawl back to my hammock, wrap my arms around my backpack, and shiver myself to sleep.
When I wake late in the morning, I find myself staring into a pair of limpid green eyes. One of the gray bunnies has taken cover in the brambles and has hunkered down a few feet from me. Maybe it’s just a normal rabbit that got thrown into this creepy place and feels as frightened as I do. It could be accustomed to human keepers and found me because it’s hungry and has figured out all the plants and grass and everything are as poisonous as the water. I could use a smart companion. I take out an apple, bite off a small piece, and gingerly set it in front of my new friend. After a bit, it scoots forward, wiggles its nose, and begins to nibble. I realize this is a way to double-check if the apples in my pack are toxic, which makes me feel kind of lousy since I sort of owe the rabbits. The one that woke me up at my plate, the one that sacrificed its life at the stream to warn me. Wait, am I saying it knew the water was poisonous and chose to protect me? That this bunny here would do the same? Okay, okay, I know I’m over-crediting the bunnies. But still. I don’t want one of my last acts to be taking out an ally, especially a dove-colored one.
Fortunately, it doesn’t die and I plow into my apple, which tastes amazing and helps me assess my situation. So, twenty died yesterday. Four Careers. Sixteen Newcomers. Those aren’t good numbers. Even though I’m no Wyatt, I can figure out we used to have twice as many Newcomers as Careers, and now we’re almost even. We may be smarter, but they’re mowing us down with brute force. I’m afraid Ampert’s theory isn’t holding up too well in practice. Although maybe now that the bloodbath’s over, the Newcomers’ brain power and unity will give them an advantage.
“Find Haymitch.”
“Aa!” My head bashes into a tangle of berry branches at the whispered voice.
“Find Haymitch.”
A pair of little hands wrap around my boots and Lou Lou’s face, splattered in dry blood and dirt, materializes over them.
“Found him,” she says.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.