Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
The rabbit bolts, and I have to resist the impulse to follow. Lou Lou? She is not part of the plan. How did she find me? Is she being tracked?
Suddenly, my bushes don’t seem safe at all. “Hey there, Lou Lou,” I say, trying to sound calm. “You alone? Are the others with you?”
“Mountain.”
Just us, then? Everybody else went to the right after I ran to the left?
Lou Lou tugs on my boots for me to follow her, then back-crawls out of the bushes. Not knowing what I will find, I emerge, knife and spear at the ready, but our surroundings seem quiet and deserted. Maybe both packs did go to the mountain.
A quick appraisal of the immediate area solves the mystery of her finding me. I broke off several branches digging my way into the thicket and, most embarrassingly, my handkerchief snagged on one and hangs there like a welcome sign. The illusion that I’d successfully camouflaged myself is silly. I’m just lucky no Careers came along. Even Lou Lou’s appearance presents a problem for a rascal bent on winning. But I said in my interview that the Newcomers were “one hundred percent safe with me.” And she’s supposedly from my district. I guess I can look after her, at least until Ampert shows up and I have to blow up the tank. Then that will be my sole priority.
Lou Lou stares up into an apple tree and quietly sings to herself:
Mockingjay up on the branch
Nesting in this apple tree
Picking time so fly away
Fly away
Fly away
Picking time so fly away
Fly away with me.
She reaches up for an apple and I grab her hand. “No, no, not those. Those are the bad apples. I’ve got a good one here.” I pull a nice shiny red one from my pack and settle her on the ground with it. She carries no pack or supplies of her own. As usual, she attacks her food ravenously. It’s going to be a full-time job keeping her away from the deadly fruit. It’s a wonder she made it this far. I guess the meadow was safe, and perhaps she didn’t notice the fruit in the dark. Judging by the dirt on her clothes, she spent some time sleeping on the ground.
I peel a couple of hard-boiled eggs for us. I consider asking her about Wyatt, but there’s a real likelihood she witnessed his death, perhaps even wears his blood, and I don’t want to set her off. “Who told you to find me, Lou Lou?”
She taps her bad ear. “Find Haymitch.”
That pulls me up short. The Gamemakers? Why would they send her to find me? It can’t be for any good reason.
“Murderers,” Lou Lou adds, picking at the dried blood on her cheek.
She finishes her egg and, without asking, finishes mine, too. She starts rooting around in my pack and comes out with a potato. I gently pry it from her hand. “For later. For supper.” But I let her drink her fill of the water, afraid she could dive for a stream at any time. She’s already drugged and brainwashed – I don’t need her sick as well. No question, her arrival has thrown a wrench in my plans. I don’t know if I can manage to do my part with her tagging along, but I can’t just dump her alone in the woods for the Careers to slaughter. Like Wyatt said, she’s ours now. For better or worse, she’s part of the flood mission.
I wet her handkerchief and wipe her face clean. “Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s find your snake.”
This suggestion perks her up and she bounces to her feet. Using the sun to get my bearings, I lead her north. I’ve got two jobs to accomplish before I meet up with Ampert, which could be at any moment. First, I need to find a sparking rock and confirm that I can make fire with my flint striker. Then I have to locate a mutt portal, probably under a berm, that will serve as an entrance to the tunnels.
As we walk along, I keep an eye peeled for likely rocks. Flint would be best, but Lenore Dove said any kind of sparking rock would do. The floor of the forest proves devoid of rocks, but I feel like I’ve seen some . . . the pattern of colorful stones . . . glistening in the sunlight . . . the stream! That’s it. When I was retching into it, I remember the shiny rocks winking up at me. But the water – it will be poisonous. Could I risk dipping my hand in to snag one?
When Lou Lou shows too much interest in a raspberry bush, I distract her with another apple and slip off to a nearby stream. With the tip of my spear, I dislodge several rocks from the bed and slide them onto the bank. I wipe them with leaves, pour on a bit of clean water, pat them off, and scoop them up. I get back to Lou Lou just in time to stop her from raiding the bush. I go ahead and give her chunks of the raw potato I bit into yesterday, and eat a few pieces myself to calm my rocky stomach. Doesn’t take long for us to finish it off.
The rocks dry quickly in the midday sun, and I give them to Lou Lou to hold, emphasizing the importance of the job, but really to keep her occupied. After untying the flint striker from my neck, I cup it in my hands, letting the sunbeams play off the bird and snake heads. I allow myself a moment with Lenore Dove, imagining her in the Meadow among her flock of geese or watching me on the ancient television Tam Amber manages to keep functional. Not on the square, where anyone can gather to see huge projections of the Games, but privately in the Covey’s funny, crooked house. Forbidden by her uncles to leave. Distraught, but unbruised, unbeaten, unbroken, and safe at home.
I consider faking a moment of discovery that I’ve brought a flint striker into the arena, but since I’ve already collected the rocks, that seems stagey. Instead, I decide to double down on the rascal angle and admit I’ve pulled a fast one on the Gamemakers. A rascal, not a rebel. Just a trickster who’s trying to win the Games.
“See this, Lou Lou?” I say. “This is our ticket to a hot meal. Let’s start with that pink rock.”
Lou Lou plucks out the rosy stone from our stash and sets it in my open hand. I grip the flint striker in the other, and take a crack at it, bringing the steel edge of the striker across the surface of the stone. Nothing. After three more attempts, I know it’s a dud. “Green,” I instruct Lou Lou. But it’s as sparkless as the first. As we work our way through the pile, my heart begins to sink. What if there isn’t a sparking rock in the whole arena? When I’d mentioned it to Beetee, he’d said there “possibly” was. But he’d never come back and said there weren’t any, leading me to assume I’d find one. If not, the whole gig is up, and I’m left to wait for Snow to kill me.
She sets the final rock, a long, muddy-gray crystal in front of me. Quartz, maybe? I take a vicious swipe at it, drawing the rock back for good measure. A spray of sparks flies, letting me know we’ve found a live one. Lou Lou claps and I let out a huff of relief. “Baked potatoes tonight,” I promise her with a grin.
Since we’re not immediately attacked by mutts, I figure the Gamemakers have decided to let my rascally behavior ride. It adds a little harmless spice to the Games. Bet my sponsors are sending some dollars my way, too. Since Mags and Wiress know I’ve got Lou Lou to feed now, I hope it’s enough for something to complement our potatoes.
Lou Lou gives a tremendous yawn and, just like that, she curls up like a kitten and falls asleep. It’s so fast, I wonder if the Gamemakers are drugging her again, but maybe she just hasn’t gotten much rest in here. I try to rouse her, giving her shoulder a little shake, but she only frowns and mutters something. What now? I can’t carry her, not in this condition, and I can’t abandon her. Now’s as good a time as any to bake those potatoes, I guess. . . .
First, I’ll need to build a fire. I wander around, never straying far from Lou Lou, collecting the driest pine needles, kindling, and small branches I can find. This is a strategy Hattie taught me: Steer clear of green or wet wood to minimize your smoke. No use in pointing out you’re breaking the law, even if everybody knows it full well.
Along the way, I have a chance to examine some of the berms. The mounds appear uniform, about eight feet in diameter, two feet at the crown, and perfectly circular. However, each features its own flower, identified by a small brass plaque at the base, much like the labeling in Plutarch’s mansion. Since this is the Gamemakers’ garden, probably isn’t wise to trust it, but I read the plaques anyway, hoping for clues. Crocus, tiger lily, pansy. I try not to think what lies beneath some of them, waiting to attack me.
One catches my attention:
gas plant. The Covey’s yard has a wondrous hodgepodge of flowering plants, dug up from the woods over the years and bedded down in front of their house with no apparent rhyme or reason. From late March to November, you can count on at least one flower or bush being in bloom, and Lenore Dove generally wears a few blossoms in her hair when she performs. Never from the gas plant, though. “Too dangerous,” she told me, and then demonstrated why, touching a lit match to a stalk of pale purple flowers. A whoosh of flame followed, and then disappeared just as quick, leaving the flowers unharmed. “Imagine if that happened on my head!” she said with a laugh.
Using shreds of cardboard from my egg carton, I get a small flame going pretty quick. I coax it along by feeding it pine needles and twigs until I’ve got a proper fire. Almost no smoke, so I keep it alive with infusions of dry wood. About an hour passes before I have enough ashes to bake the potatoes. I lay three in the coals and settle down to wait.
A distant boom alerts me to the fact that another tribute has died. Twenty-one gone now, twenty-seven left. Career? Newcomer? I’ve no way of knowing until tonight.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
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