Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
When the potatoes get soft, I wake Lou Lou, and we make quick work of them and a couple more eggs. I feel loads better, like the rest of the poison has been absorbed, and she’s bright-eyed after her nap. I consider dousing the fire but decide my water’s too costly, so I leave it to smolder, a thing Hattie would never allow. Fire is catching, she’d say, but if this one burns down the arena, I say good riddance.
I’m more optimistic after my success with the flint striker. Now on to find my berm. They’re so numerous that I can’t imagine every single one of them conceals a mutt portal that connects to a Sub-A tunnel. Beetee said, “Do your best to locate a mutt portal by tracking returning mutts after an attack.” Since I haven’t identified any mutts yet, I keep working my way north to find likely candidates.
Lou Lou thinks we’re looking for her snake, which holds her attention and keeps her trotting ahead of me at a reasonable pace. As we move north, I almost forget about her, preoccupied with checking our surroundings for dangers and reviewing my bomb-setting techniques from 12. Fire to fuse, fuse to blasting cap, blasting cap to explosive –
Her squeal of delight snaps me back to the arena. She darts for a nearby berm covered with scarlet flowers. I don’t know why this one, since she’s viewed the others with indifference. I chase after her, but she reaches the hillock first, plowing into the greenery, crushing handfuls of the leaves and burying her face in the red blossoms. I spot the nameplate and relax a bit. I know this plant, recognize the faint minty scent. I’ve even helped Burdock gather some for Asterid to make into medicines at the apothecary shop. Bee balm. A healing plant. It grows wild in our mountains and Lou Lou clearly recognizes it as well.
The seeded bread, the candle smoke, and now these flowers – all of them must transport Lou Lou back home somehow. Mamaw said that smells stick in your memory the strongest, more than sounds or sights. Didn’t the bean and ham hock soup take me back to 12?
Lou Lou’s breathing so deep she’s starting to gasp and, good memories or no, I decide it’s time to pull her out of there. I drop my stuff on the ground and I’ve just wrapped my arms around her middle when the coughing begins. After I haul her off the berm, she sits back on her heels and makes a choking sound. A yellow pollen coats her from head to toe and, thinking she’s allergic to the bee balm, I dampen her handkerchief and begin to wipe her down.
“Just breathe, Lou Lou,” I say soothingly. “They’re only flowers.” But nothing’s only anything in this arena, and when the blood begins running from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, the last reminding me of our dear president, I know I’m wrong.
“Lou Lou?” I cry. “Lou Lou, hold on!”
She collapses against me, and I cradle her in my arms as the convulsions begin. There is nothing I can do but watch, helpless again. Just as I was to save Louella. For a moment, the two merge, Lou Lou and Louella. She’s just one pigtailed kid I’ve known her whole life, and I would do anything to spare her this.
Her skin begins to turn blue. “Enough,” I beg the Gamemakers. They could end this with a touch of a button. Knock her out as they did at the interview, this time sending a lethal dose of sedative through her pump. Spare her this torturous death. But her agony continues, filling me with fury. “Enough!” I scream. “She is not your plaything!”
My fingers find the pump hidden under her shirt and lock around it. With one powerful yank, I free her.
The cannon fires to confirm her death as her body goes limp. Whoever Lou Lou was, she’s moved on. Her slight, starved frame lies quiet, finally beyond the Capitol’s reach. I lean down and whisper into her bad ear. A personal message to the Gamemakers. “You did this to her. This is who you are.” And then for Lou Lou, I say the thing she no longer can. “Murderers.”
In answer, a hovercraft appears, waiting for me to step aside so it can collect her body.
Lou Lou won’t be on the hill with me and Louella. They can’t send back two bodies to District 12 without exposing their incompetence. So where will you go, little girl? Back to 11? Into Capitol soil? Or will they incinerate your body and leave no trace of you behind? Either way, mine will be the last touch of someone who cares about you.
The thought of Capitol hands disposing of her infuriates me. And like my Louella, I cannot give her up without a fight. I lift her into my arms and head into an area of the densest trees I can spot. Are they showing me to the audience? Can they witness my refusal to hand over Lou Lou? Do I have the Capitol viewers glued to the screen? The rascal has run off with his district partner – again! The rascal will make the Gamemakers chase him down! Delighted laughter, phone calls to friends, are you watching this?
Lou Lou’s body’s noticeably lighter than Louella’s. The ferocity that gave her weight has vanished. I locate a clump of willows and hunker down in the center, catching glimpses of the hovercraft overhead. A claw descends, tangles in the treetops, withdraws, and makes a second attempt. They can’t reach us. For the moment she’s safe.
As my breathing calms, I realize I’m playing right into Snow’s hands. This is exactly the behavior I’ve been forbidden to engage in, and there will be repercussions. Deadly ones. Soon. And I will have lost my chance to blow up the tank. How to salvage this moment? Take Lou Lou out and give them a rascally “just kidding” wave? Set her down and run and hide? Just stay put and wait for the claw to break through and then helpfully place her in its jaws?
Indecision immobilizes me. The Gamemakers seem immobilized as well. The hovercraft remains static, claw retracted. A standoff. We are waiting each other out. It would be peaceful if not for the looming sense of danger.
It comes in the form of a brilliant blue butterfly. Almost the same electric blue of District 3’s outfits. It navigates the willow tree branches and lights on a nearby bough. I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the pattern of tiny golden lightning bolts decorating its wings. Then another lands over my head. And a third, on the back of the hand that cradles Lou Lou’s blood-streaked face. As if in slow motion, a stinger descends, a tiny spark jumps off my flesh as it makes contact, and a jolt of pain blinds me. An involuntary scream parts my lips, Lou Lou has tumbled to the ground. My vision returns in time for me to see a second butterfly come for my face. My cheek explodes with what I can now recognize as an electric shock, as if the butterflies have mini tasers in their stingers. One of Snow’s beauties.
Raw panic consumes me; all I know is I never want to be stung again. I burst out of the willow bower, leaving Lou Lou to the Gamemakers. Hundreds of butterflies, dotting the trees, come to life and target me. I sprint into the woods, oblivious to all but escape, but they swarm after me. Not with the drunken motion I associate with the butterflies back home, but in a straight line. I’m bobbing and weaving, trying to evade them, but they keep landing stings, each one momentarily freezing me. It isn’t enough to have left Lou Lou; these things are bent on torturing me. This is about punishment. As public as possible.
I’m not really sure how long this goes on, seems endless, like I’m losing my sanity, when I fall face-first into a berm of flowers. Afraid of Lou Lou’s fate, I spring up, toppling into a heap beside the berm, frantically wiping my face. But it’s not the bee balm, it’s the gas plants. As a cloud of butterflies descends, I get an idea. After retrieving my flint striker and rock from my pocket, I start making some sparks of my own, sending showers of them into the blossoms. Five-foot flames erupt off the plants, engulfing the butterflies and lapping at my chest, before disappearing. My shirt front glows for a few moments, like a bed of coals, then returns to black, apparently fireproof. A few crispy skeletons float down, but the attack has ended. The stragglers loopily fly away, the picture of innocence.
I lie gasping on the ground, examining my body for wounds. There’s absolutely nothing – not a blister, not a scratch. Only the memory of the terrible pain. I press my lips to the flint striker, hoping Lenore Dove sees me, knows this is a thank-you to her for saving me from the mutts.
The mutts!
This is it! This is my chance to follow them to their berm! However, I don’t jump up; the recent attack has zapped some sense into me.
For once in your life, be smart, I think.
Do this, but do not jeopardize the arena plan. Why would I possibly be chasing mutt butterflies? Only one answer: retaliation.
A nearby branch caught fire when the gas plants blazed. I break it from the tree and take off in the general direction of the butterflies. When I catch a glimpse of blue, I know I’m on the right course. Another twenty yards of charging through the woods brings me to a berm covered in flowering bushes. It has slid open as if on tracks, leaving a six-foot-wide gulf right down the middle of the circle. The butterflies make their lazy way into it. For the benefit of the Gamemakers, I rage at them, swinging my torch around madly, incinerating a half dozen or so when I notice the berm beginning to slide closed. As if in a last-ditch effort, I lunge at the final mutt and succeed in wedging the branch between the lips of the hatch. It clamps shut, crushing the wood but leaving an eighth-of-an-inch opening in the seam. I pretend not to notice and slump down next to the berm. The sign reads butterfly bush.
Well, I won’t forget that one.
I think about going back to look for Lou Lou, but I know she’s long gone. Instead, I make my way back to the bee balm, careful not to inhale too deeply, and collect my things. Still no sign of anyone else.
My skin may be as smooth as a baby’s behind, but I’m twitchy from the multiple shocks and done in for the day. I’ve achieved my two tasks, though: making fire and finding a mutt berm. The shadows are growing long, which means I need to start searching for somewhere to sleep, conscious that my piss-poor hiding place from last night must be improved upon. I’m not dizzy now, so I pick a sizable tree with thick foliage near the butterfly bush and climb about thirty feet into the branches. I pitch my hammock between two sturdy limbs, making sure that if one side gives way, I’ll have a fork to catch me. This wasn’t recommended in the class, but I don’t feel secure enough to sleep at ground level again. Famished, I eat three eggs and a couple of apples. Surely, sponsors will enable my mentors to replenish my pantry soon. Through the trees, the sunset glows golden, then the orange of burning coal, before fading out, leaving me in darkness.
At the sound of the anthem, I position myself to get a clear view of the sky. The first tribute. More snot green. The boy from District 1 who isn’t Panache. Then Lou Lou, pictured with her snake. I wonder if, anywhere in Panem, a family member or playmate recognizes her for who she really is. The McCoys must know she’s a fake. Surely, they do. Right now, they must be weeping and wondering where their own darling girl has gone. At least that’s one terrible conversation I’ve been spared.
Five Careers gone. Seventeen Newcomers. Twenty-six of us left.
The woods quiet down. A clear yellow moonlight filters through the trees. Honestly, I think I’m the only one on this side of the arena, but you never know. I wonder how Maysilee’s doing – just the two of us left from 12 now – and if there’s any chance I might see her again. Funny missing Maysilee Donner, but there it is.
Grateful I don’t snore, I let myself fall into a dreamless sleep.
Something startles me awake, and I see a parachute with a good-sized bundle caught in the sunlit branches above my head. My first sponsor’s gift. I untangle it, set it on my lap, take a deep breath – right now it could hold anything! – and then open it. A dozen white rolls still warm from the oven, a block of orange cheese, and what looks like a bottle of wine, complete with its own long-stemmed glass goblet. This actually coaxes a smile from me. I uncork the bottle and take a sniff. Grape juice. Bet this cost someone a pretty penny. Water would’ve been more sensible, since I’m about through my first gallon, but I’m not complaining. Grape juice is a big treat back home, reserved for birthdays and wedding punch. Who sent it? The lady with the cat ears? The man I spit on? Great-Aunt Messalina? Right now, I don’t even care.
I tip the bottle over my elegant glass, admiring it as the juice fills the stem, then the bowl. Giving the audience a knowing grin, I raise it in a toast and say, “Thank you, my fellow rascals from the Capitol!” Then I take a slow sip, easing my parched mouth. It’s so full of goodness, not just the taste but the happy memories it conjures up, that I have to keep myself from gulping it down. Accompanied by a couple of fresh rolls and a chunk of fatty cheese, it restores me enough to face the day.
While I breakfast, I review why, from the Capitol sponsors’ perspective, I think I’ve earned this expensive gift. I evaded the bloodbath with supplies and weapons, I survived poisoning, I made fire, cooked food, torched some butterflies, and found a tree to sleep in. Conclusion: I’m fairly resourceful and clearly selfish enough to win.
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.