Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
I can barely hear her whisper. “One of us has to win this thing.”
My eyes travel up the long stems to the arrow-shaped leaves, the white petals, concealing us from Capitol cameras. “Why’s that?” I whisper back.
“One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor’s Village. Refuse to play their game.”
Reminds me of Pa. “Make sure they don’t use our blood to paint their posters?”
“Exactly. We’ll paint our own posters. And I know just where we can get the paint.” In a gesture I remember from the schoolyard long ago, she extends her pinkie. “Swear it.”
I encircle it with my own and our pinkies lock tight. They will never let me be a victor, not after my attempt to break the arena, but I can swear to try to keep her alive. “One of us paints the posters.”
She rises and pulls me up. “Let’s check the supplies.”
Our allies must have recently received a parachute, because one pack holds crackers and baked beans and an unexpected treat, raisins mixed with nuts and candy. There’s a blanket, too, and some more water jugs, one half-full. We decide to save the Cornucopia for tomorrow, so I start a fire. Maysilee heats up the beans, which we dine on in our own fashion, by fork or cracker, and then eat our treat, one morsel at a time.
The anthem plays, and Ringina and Autumn appear, followed by Buck, Chicory, and Hull.
“Five gone, five left,” I report.
“You, me, Silka, Maritte, Wellie.”
Wellie. Out there as night falls, dealing with all this alone. “We’ll find Wellie tomorrow.”
“Right. We’ll find her,” says Maysilee. “It could work for her to win, too. You sleep first, Haymitch. I’ll keep watch.”
No point in pretending I’m not running on empty. I wrap the blanket around her shoulders, make a hammock bed, and curl up in the mesh. “I sure could use that lullaby right about now.”
She gives a surprisingly unladylike snort. “You don’t want to hear what’s running through my head. Started in the maze and just won’t quit.”
“Got you an earworm, do you? Well, only cure for that is to pass it to someone else.”
“Okay, then. You asked for it.” She begins to sing in a low voice.
Ladybug, ladybug fly away home.
Your house is on fire, your children are gone.
All except one, who answers to Nan.
She’s hiding under the frying pan.
A grin crosses my face at the silly song from our childhood. “Well, I guess I brought that on myself. Good night, Sis.”
I try to fall asleep, but Maysilee’s earworm has given me a brainworm . . . ladybug . . . fire . . . the flint striker . . . no, the blowtorch . . . fear . . . fly away. . . . The pieces spin around in a tornado, then cling together like long-lost lovers.
And I know exactly how we’re getting through that maze.
The crumbs stick in my throat, so I take another swallow from the bottle to wash them down. What a luxury to wake up to a breakfast of fresh corn bread, buttermilk, and peaches, instead of having to scrounge for stale leftovers. Maysilee had the food all laid out on a tarp, like a party. She folded a pair of handkerchiefs into flowers for napkins and even filled the bowl of the wineglass with some kind of pink blossom, likely poisonous, but undeniably decorative.
Day 6. Somehow I’m still alive. I have no idea why the Gamemakers, under Snow’s direction, have not destroyed me already. Could I possibly be so popular that they’re keeping me around to please the audience? Are they planning some particularly spectacular ending for me? I don’t know, but I do know the arena is still begging to be broken.
The parachute arrived while I slept, which was after Maysilee, as it turned out, because the brainworm cranked me up so I offered to take the first watch. If I can use the blowtorch to burn through the hedge, ladybug, ladybug, what will I find? Hopefully, a generator that’s susceptible to fire as well. Perhaps I can burn through the side to some kind of control panel and –
“Do we head for the Cornucopia or search for Wellie?” Maysilee asks.
I help myself to a peach wedge, scooting the final one her way, as I determine the best strategy to get her to support my plan without actually telling her – and all the people watching us – what it is. Any way you slice it, the Cornucopia’s no good, since it’s southerly. So I reply, “Wellie, don’t you think?”
“I do. We can get by on the fish and potatoes today.”
“Sure. And thanks for setting out the breakfast so fancy.”
“Thought I’d kick off the day with a poster,” she says.
I think about it. Her emphasis on manners, her pretty picnics. And I remember her words that first day on the train. “Listen, Louella, if you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.”
This morning’s poster says,
We’re civilized. We appreciate beautiful things. We’re as good as you. It’s an extension of her whole campaign to show the Capitol our value. Will they know that she’s referring to rebellion? I doubt it. They don’t know what Pa told me. A poster could merely be promoting us as tributes. And what harm is there in a few flower napkins anyway?
“Nice paint job,” I say, and actually get a smile.
After we pack up our belongings, we survey the woods. “Let’s head north again,” I say, and start walking. She follows me uncertainly.
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.