Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“Some way to defend myself,” I say.
“Or a good way to hide,” says Maysilee.
“What’s most important?” asks Wyatt.
Wiress breaks into a strange little song:
First avoid the slaughter,
Get weapons, look for water.
Find food and where to sleep,
Fire and friends can keep.
“I made that up for myself. Most important to least. So I would have a plan in the arena. I knew I couldn’t fight in the bloodbath, which meant I had to get away from the Cornucopia quickly. I didn’t end up needing a weapon except my brain. But you likely will. The Cornucopia might be your chance to grab one. If not, make something, even if it’s just a pointed stick. Then find water. Water before food. You’ll die of thirst much more quickly than you will of hunger. But then food. Fire can be good for light and cooking and heat if it’s cold. But you might not need it at all and it could be dangerous if it reveals your position. Friends, for me, would have been very risky.”
“But were at the top of my list,” says Mags. “You must decide for yourselves.”
“What about building a shelter?” asks Wyatt.
“There’s a good chance you’ll be on the move,” Mags answers. “Your sleeping spot might change nightly. In my experience, allies to keep watch are far more important than a roof.”
“You snore,” I tell Wyatt.
“No, I don’t. I was fake-snoring on the train.”
“Bad news. You also real-snore.”
“Like a bear,” Maysilee confirms. “I could hear you through the wall.”
“Try to find someplace loud to sleep,” advises Mags. “Next to rushing water. Or muffle the sound in a cave.”
“I’ll put a blanket or something over your head,” says Maysilee. “Or wake you if you’re really loud.”
“I forgot you’d be there,” says Wyatt. “I guess friends top my list, too. What else happens in training?”
“Experts will be there to teach you how to use the weapons, show you how to make a fire,” says Mags. “Look for clues to your arena. The Gamemakers sometimes hide little hints about the nature of the arena in their design. Not in the beginning. My Games were so long ago. Training, if you could call it that, was minimal back then. We didn’t get any clues, in or out of the arena.”
“Last year some of the survival stations had reflective items. Foil blankets. Metal bowls. And at the fire-building station, a little round mirror. I think that was a clue, but I didn’t understand it until I saw the arena,” says Wiress. “Inside, when I understood the nature of the place, my instinct was to walk toward danger, because, in fact, it was only a reflection of danger, not the thing itself. Trust your instincts.”
“That is good advice in general,” Mags says.
The intercom crackles to life and a voice announces that it’s time to leave for training. Mags pins fabric squares with the number 12 on our backs. We’re met by Peacekeepers at the elevator, loaded into the van, and transported to the gym.
As we step out into the sunlight, Maysilee gives Wyatt the once-over. “You need more attitude, Wyatt.” He tries to look tougher. “No, that’s worse,” she says. “Push your jaw out. Stand up tall. Now stick out your chest.” She musses his hair and pushes up his sleeves. “You’ve got some muscle from the mines. Show it off.”
“Yeah, that’s better,” I admit. “The black clothes don’t hurt.”
“We’re from District Twelve. The crummiest stinkhole in Panem,” says Maysilee. “We’re wild like our chariot horses. I slugged our escort and Haymitch called out President Snow. Nobody pushes us around.”
“We’re unpredictable,” says Wyatt.
“Just a bunch of loose cannons,” I agree.
The Peacekeepers open the doors and we head in, sending out our best loose-cannon vibe.
The place has been transformed. The makeover stations have been replaced with survival skills booths – fire building, knots, skinning animals, camouflage – overseen by trainers in fitted white jumpsuits. The far end of the gym has been reserved for various types of weapon instruction. The other tributes swarm around the booths, dressed in the same outfits but in an assortment of colors. I’m glad we got black because everybody looks sickly in snot green – sucks for you, District 1 – and the buttery yellow on District 9 makes them about as threatening as a hatful of baby chicks.
Nylon ropes divide the bleachers to our right into twelve sections marked with the district numbers. Ours sits closest to the door. The tribute bleachers are empty except for the kids from 11, who are gathered in a tight clump of dark green, heatedly discussing something.
“Are we always the last ones to arrive at everything?” complains Maysilee.
“Keep ’em waiting,” I say. But we are consistently an afterthought. And no one has been waiting for us.
“Loose cannons,” Wyatt reminds us. We straighten up and stride into the thick of it.
Mags is right. Here at the gym, we do stick to one another. We’re the only ones we know. And at the Games, we’re the least likely to kill one another.
“We should throw knives,” decides Maysilee.
It’s not a bad idea. Despite what I promised Ma, I’m not a complete stranger to knife games, although a fondness for my toes keeps me away from mumblety-peg. A target on an old shed or a tree – well, that’s fair game. Blair’s really good and I’m not too shabby myself. I think of my brand-new birthday pocketknife that I didn’t get to throw even once, and hope Sid gets some joy from it.
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.