Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“You did great. I don’t know how you remembered them all.”
“I focus on their colors. No more purple, no more electric blue, no more orange, or peach, or yellow. And just a smattering of the rest of us.”
“Only two Careers left, though,” I say. “Wyatt would like those odds.”
At the mention of our oddsmaker, we both fall silent. Thirty-eight of us dead. Thirty-nine if you count Lou Lou. Forty if you count Woodbine. Just a smattering of us left. It doesn’t seem real. Nothing here is real.
The fake moon rises, casting a silvery light over our little clearing. I feel Maysilee a few feet away, sense her pulse, the rise and fall of her chest, but she seems as impermanent as the rest of it. Possibly I have died – by poisoning, in the tunnel, on Panache’s sword – and have moved on to one of Lenore Dove’s worlds, where I continue to dream of life.
“Have you killed anyone besides Barba and Angler?” Maysilee asks.
Those must be the kids I fought from District 4. “No, just them. You?”
“Panache was my second. I took out Loupe from District One a couple of days ago. He’d broken away from the pack with Camilla from Two. Pretty sure I got a dart into her, but the volcano might have finished her in the end.”
The thunk of the pot hitting the ground behind us makes us jump. Maysilee retrieves the gift and detaches the parachute. “I hope it’s food.” She lifts the lid, and a cloud of bean and ham hock soup steam dampens my face. Mags. Trying to reach us, to let us know we are not alone in our pain, to give us strength to go on. Tears fill my eyes, forcing me to admit my presence in the only world I know. Not an imaginary one. The one where I am in the Hunger Games for real.
“Like when my grandmother died,” says Maysilee.
“Mine, too.” I don’t list all my dead. It’s not a competition.
She unclips two spoons from the lid of the pot and hands me one. Silently, we eat our soup. Fifty-fifty.
The night air feels chilly. Maysilee pulls her shirt down over her knees for warmth and hugs herself, but I can still see the gooseflesh on her arms. “I could make a fire if you’d like,” I offer.
“That’d be good. If you don’t think it’s too dangerous,” she says.
“Not if one of us keeps watch. In fact, it could be a good thing if the other Newcomers find us.”
“We can handle Maritte and Silka. Right?”
“With you and those darts? I don’t think we even need me.”
I collect wood and put my flint striker to work.
“Aren’t you a sly dog,” says Maysilee. “Smuggling that in.”
“Well, you know I like my pretty with a purpose.” My voice catches a bit, remembering where I heard that. I concentrate on getting a fire going.
Maysilee smooths out a small tarp on the ground, settles herself on it, and rubs her hands over the blaze. “You can sleep now if you want. I’m not tired.”
The circles under her eyes say otherwise, but I’m fading fast. “Okay, but wake me anytime to take over.” I secure my flint striker around my neck, spread out my hammock on the ground, and stretch out, watching the tongues of fire dance.
“Works better if you close your eyes,” she says.
“Yeah.” I shift positions, but something seems unfinished. Like I never really thanked her for today. No, I did. With the juice. But that doesn’t begin to cover it. What do you say to the meanest girl in town who’s become your friend? No, more than a friend, really. A Newcomer. Being tributes and not killing each other . . . looking out for each other with no questions asked . . . that’s family, I guess.
“You need to sleep while you can, Haymitch.”
“I know but . . . what I’m thinking . . . you and me . . . You remember what Ampert said when you made his token?”
There’s a long pause before she says, “Sure. I’ll be your sister.”
Our hands reach out at the same time, clasp, and then release. “‘Night, Sis.” I roll over and let sleep take me.
My dreams are nothing I want to remember, full of people I must never forget. I visit death after death. It’s a relief to be woken up.
Maysilee has let me sleep most of the night. When we switch places, I’m determined to give her the same opportunity. Ax and knife at hand, I keep the fire burning with bits of fuel until the sun rises on our fifth day in the arena. My stomach growls so loud I’m afraid it might wake her. Last night’s soup seems a distant memory. I should be watching the woods, but my eyes keep drifting upward, hoping for a sponsor gift. Nothing would be too small, a piece of bread, a bit of cheese, and our water’s getting mighty low.
I focus on my plan. Obviously, I was onto something with that hedge. They played me, but they also confirmed what I suspected. I’ve found the end of the arena. If I can get through the shrubbery, I’ll find the generator and try to hack it to bits.
Time’s a-wasting, but Maysilee deserves some shut-eye. To distract myself, I pull her tarp out from under my butt and attempt to fashion it into some sort of gizmo to catch rainwater, in the event any more should fall. My efforts result in a crooked funnel of sorts, that I tie with vines at the point. Seems like something of an achievement, until I hear her laughter.
“Made yourself a hat, did you?”
I’m kind of glad just to hear her laugh. “This, I’ll have you know, is a first-class watercatcher. And you will eat those words.”
“Will I? Exactly how are all the raindrops supposed to find that tiny opening?”
She has a point. There’s very little room for the rain to enter, which is no way to collect water. The water that fills our rain barrel has a roof to catch it before it finds its way down the drainpipe. “More surface area, you thinking?”
“I’m thinking.” Maysilee holds out her hand for my funnel. She unwraps the tarp and flattens it out thoughtfully. It’s about four by four feet with little rings in the corners for securing it. “First, we’ll need some way to mount it.” She looks around, then gathers some vines. I help her tie them to the rings. She borrows my knife and punches a small hole in the very center of the tarp. “Now the water can run out there. Wish we had a tube of some kind; it would channel it into your jug.”
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
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