Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
I see him eye the branch, but he only says, “Do you think it’s safe to be near their home?”
Home. He calls it their home. Is it because he misses his own so much? Twelve years old . . . barely five feet tall . . . his voice still hasn’t even changed. If I’m homesick, what must it be like for him?
“Well, I don’t really think anybody much is at home,” I say. “There weren’t many left. No more than we can handle. And they don’t kill you when they sting, just give you a nasty shock. I had dozens and I’m fine. So it’s probably safer than a lot of places, since they tend to space the mutts out.” Do they? Maybe. But at least it explains why we should hang around the berm.
“Could I rest here a bit, do you think?”
I look at his puffy eyes. “Sure. I don’t really have any plans this afternoon.” I make him a bed out of my hammock and he tosses a bit, then drifts off to sleep. Looking at him, I can’t help thinking that all the little ones seem to end up with me. Louella. Lou Lou. Ampert. I can’t keep a one of them safe. Why do they flock to me?
When Ampert’s settled into a deep slumber, I begin my preparations for the bombing, gathering double the wood and pine needles I did yesterday. This will be a nighttime job, and the fire’s my responsibility, both for illumination and ignition. Since my butterfly torch held up pretty well, I make sure and break off a few more branches from what I judge to be the same kind of tree. Not wanting to waste my fuel, I set up the fire site, but hold off on lighting it. No potatoes tonight. I’ll leave them for Ampert, who stands a better chance of surviving our mission.
If I do this thing right, blow open the tank and set off a flood, likely it will take me out. I mean, six feet of fuse does not allow for much of an escape window. If the explosion doesn’t finish me off, surely the water will. I console myself with the thought that either of those deaths will be far kinder than anything the Capitol will devise for me if I somehow make it out of Sub-A alive.
Hoping for something better could be dangerous; it could blind me to the reality of my situation. I remember how Mamaw always said, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” But from where I’m sitting, hope seems a lot like white liquor. It can fool you in the short run, but like as not, you’ll end up paying for it twice.
When evening falls, I go ahead and start the fire. Ampert wakes and we toast bread and cheese, then eat it with apples. He says he doesn’t want to go back to the Newcomers in the dark and we plan for him to stay the night. In the flickering flames, I remember how my shirt didn’t so much as char in the gas plant blaze. Ampert pulls off one of his socks and dips it in the fire, where it glows for quite a while before the toes begin to melt. Seems like a clue. Perhaps it’s protective, but from what? I’ve only encountered one gas plant berm. The clothing suggests any number of things could burn.
As if inspired by the cookfire, Ampert says he’d like to try and catch something to eat to repay me for the food. His token has gotten tangled up with the two District 9 sunflowers, so he removes all three at once and lays them on the ground. He separates his fuse and says, “I might be able to fashion a snare from this. But do you think the animals are poisonous?”
“Maybe not the rabbits,” I tell him. “I watched one die from drinking water – it seemed as susceptible as we are. Of course, they could be carrying rabbit fever.”
“What’s that?”
“Sickness. You don’t want it. But if we cook it through, it might be safe.” All of this is just chatter meant to mislead the Gamemakers. We’re not trapping rabbits. Or cooking their meat. Or even counting on being here for breakfast. “Worth a try.”
Ampert begins to unweave his token, simultaneously winding the black fuse around his hand. When he reaches the end, he surreptitiously tucks something that must be the blasting cap in the coils. “I’ll give it a go in the morning. You can keep anything it catches.” His eyes fall on the sunflowers. “Do you want a sunflower? I bet Nine would like you to wear one. You’re the reason they were in the alliance.”
“It was really Maysilee who won them over,” I respond. “You should’ve seen them stand up to Panache. Thought he was doing them some big favor letting them join the Careers, and they shut him down like that.” I snap my fingers and smile at the memory. “Yeah, I’ll wear one. They were good allies.” I hang the bloodstained sunflower around my neck.
The anthem begins, but no faces appear tonight.
“Still twenty-six of us,” I say.
Ampert wraps his arms around his knees. “Can we stay by the fire awhile? I don’t like the dark.”
Even though we need the fire for the plot, this rings true. Ampert puts on a brave face, but I can imagine what images haunt him after the bloodbath. “We can sleep here if you want. I don’t think the tree will work for both of us. We can take turns being on watch,” I tell him. “Go ahead and rest some more.”
“Can I have some water?”
I give him the full jug and he downs a few swigs.
“Wake me when you’ve had enough,” says Ampert. “I’ll be ready.” He takes a final mouthful of water and lies down.
He’s leaving it to me to call the shots. “Okay,” I say. “Sweet dreams.” In a few minutes, he’s either sleeping or making a good show of it. I keep guard, my spear resting on my knees, waiting for its big moment when I use it to pry open the berm. I’m glad that’s its job, instead of taking someone’s life. If I make it out of the Games without killing anybody, that will be a victory in itself.
I say my good-byes to those I love. Burdock and Blair. Hattie. Ma and Sid. And finally, Lenore Dove, my rare and radiant girl. I try not to be scared. I tell myself that everybody has to die sometime, and my number’s up. In a way, it’s a comfort that a bunch of people I know have gone before me. Pa and Mamaw and the twins and Louella and Wyatt and Lou Lou and a lot of the Newcomers. Maybe Lenore Dove’s right, and I will meet up with them, and one day with her, in another world. Or maybe there’s just nothing, in which case, it won’t hurt any. Mostly, I just don’t know.
The darkness deepens, the air cools, and when I think it’s past midnight and the audience has gone to bed, leaving a handful of Gamemakers to mind the show, I light a torch branch. Crouching down, I tap Ampert on the shoulder and say softly, “Hey, buddy, let’s beat those odds.”
Ampert jumps to his feet immediately, thrusting the coiled fuse into my hand. “You’ll have sixty seconds,” he whispers. This is followed by the explosive, which feels soft and sticky like putty and has been shaped into a block. That last mouthful of water was put to good use. I pocket the materials and without further conversation, we cross to the berm. He holds the torch while I drive the tip of my spear into the crack held by the branch that I left behind yesterday. Using my full body weight for leverage, I pry the sides of the berm apart. The mouth yawns, then begins to slide closed, but not before I wedge the spear between the lips, holding the hatch open wide. To one side, a utility ladder runs down into the depths.
A mechanical buzz of protest comes from below.
Ampert passes me the torch. “I’ll be here.”
He looks so young, standing there in the flickering light, armed only with an ax I doubt he’s strong enough to wield. I slide my knife into his belt, muss his hair like I do Sid’s, and say, “Best ally ever.” He gives me a lopsided grin and I hop onto the ladder. Torch in one hand, I begin my descent. My feet feel stiff and clumsy on the thin rungs. “Right, left, right, left,” I instruct them. Five, ten, twenty feet down and I land on concrete in a narrow hallway and turn to my right, which seems in the northerly direction. I trot along with the help of my torch and the dim utility lights that glow along the side of the floor.
I haven’t gone far when I realize the internal wall on my left is not a wall at all. Metal . . . ribbed . . . every few feet, a water droplet, shaped like a tear, has been stamped at about eye level. This must be the side of the water tank, and it’s indeed massive, running from the concrete floor twenty feet up to the ceiling. The droplets stretch as far as I can see in either direction. What could they possibly need this much water for? Do they intend to turn the entire arena into a lake? I hesitate, trying to assess the most effective point to place the explosive. Then I give up and slap it a few feet below the droplet right in front of me. What does it matter, really, where the tank is damaged? With a flick of my wrist, I unfurl the fuse and slide it through my fingers, smudging them with black, until they find the blasting cap. Lucky I paid attention in class. I place the cap in the explosive and steel myself. No time like the present. I dip my torch to the end of the fuse, watch the flame eat through the first inches, leaving only the faintest trace of ash, and run like hell. Sixty seconds and counting.
One hundred one, one hundred two, one hundred three
. . . I track the time in my head as my feet pound down the concrete. The ladder comes into view and I fling my branch aside, as it’s slowing me down and I trust that Ampert will be waiting at the top with a second torch. I know it might be wiser to embrace my death now, but there’s something in a person that wants to live. Even if it’s only for a few more hours.
One hundred twenty, one hundred twenty-one
. . . Besides, there is Ampert to think about. I may still be able to offer him some protection.
I hear them before I see them. A delicate chirping sound, not unlike a bird, overlaid with occasional squeaks. Whatever they are, they don’t sound threatening. I’m more perplexed than alarmed. Perhaps a flock of songbirds has escaped and flies free in Sub-A, like the birds do in the rafters of the chariot horse stable. As my hands hit the first rung of the ladder, I look up in time to catch sight of Ampert’s face lit by torchlight. Then a swirl of color obscures his image and spirals down at me.
Transparent wings tinted every color of the rainbow flash above me. They catch the firelight, making them shine like the hard candy in the Donners’ shop window on a sunny day. It’d be something to admire, except each three-foot-wide pair of wings carries a vicious face and two back feet sporting four-inch curved claws. Genetically engineered bat muttations. Designed to shred me to slaw.
These creatures haven’t broken out of a cage; they’re a gift from the Capitol.
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