Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
The blowgun seems loaded with a single dart. I dropped the ball not taking the pouch and poison vial, but at least I’ve got one shot. It makes me feel nervous keeping a poisonous dart so close to my face, so I attach it to my belt with a bit of vine.
Good-bye, Maysilee Donner, who I loathed, then grudgingly respected, then loved. Not as a sweetheart or even a friend. A sister, I’d said. But what is that exactly? I think about our journey – everything from sniping with her in those early days after the reaping to battling those pink birds. I guess that’s my answer. A sister is someone you fight with and fight for. Tooth and nail.
A parachute floats through the trees and lands before me. I hope it’s not bean and ham hock soup. Pretty sure I couldn’t get that down right now. When I open the attached basket, I find two containers. A basin holds strawberry ice cream, which seems like it ought to have some significance I can’t pinpoint at the moment. The second, a lidded mug, holds steaming black coffee. Maysilee’s beverage of choice. I take a sip, scalding my tongue. Then another.
The ice cream jogs my memory. We’re in the kitchen at the tribute apartment and Proserpina’s been blubbering about her grade. Her sister, Effie, told her a positive attitude’s ninety-seven percent of the battle. And Maysilee . . . Maysilee had said . . .
“I’ll try to keep that in mind in the arena. More ice cream?”
Mags and I tried not to laugh, because Proserpina wasn’t born evil; she just had a lot of unlearning to do. I’m not sure what Mags is trying to impart now. A directive to stay positive? A reminder of Maysilee’s sass? Just a delicious bowl of ice cream? Maybe all three. I pick up the spoon and take a bite. Tears come, and I let them fall, unchecked, while I empty the basin. It’s okay to cry around Mags.
The sun closes in on the horizon as I slowly sip the cooling coffee, which helps to clear my head. There’s no Maysilee left to protect now. I guess I should return to the cliff for my final poster. I decide to consolidate my remaining supplies in Maysilee’s backpack. I add a half jug of water and store the potatoes in the basin for safekeeping. As I tuck in the spare handkerchiefs, I notice a slit in the interior wall of her pack. Wiggling my fingers through the opening, I encounter a bumpy plastic pack. I’d forgotten about the potato-light kit. I guess she didn’t reveal it when we inventoried our supplies since it wasn’t legal. Not that that much worries me now. So much has gone down with blown-up tanks and dead Gamemakers that a few rogue wires and coins hardly seem worth mentioning.
I start thinking about the Gamemakers we encountered. They were none of them very old. The guy with the mop, early twenties tops. Were their deaths painful? Do they leave people behind? Are their parents, friends, and neighbors weeping for them as ours do when they lose us? Will their loved ones ever know how they really died, or will an accident be fabricated to conceal the Capitol’s incompetence? Body doubles probably won’t be practical.
As I stow my green pack in the bushes, the oppressive opening notes of the anthem drone from the sky. First there’s Maritte, then Maysilee. Doesn’t seem random. They’ve been eliminated swiftly, in punishment for killing their keepers. By abstaining, Silka and I have been rewarded with a few more hours of life.
And what about Wellie? I haven’t had time to focus on her much, but she’s out there, too. Maysilee indicated that if neither of us survived, it could work for Wellie to carry on the fight. I think about how poised and articulate she was at the interview. She’d be a far better, far smarter, far more convincing victor to represent district rights than a cocky, selfish rascal, even if he had a chance of surviving, which he doesn’t. Is that what my final hours should be devoted to? Guarding Wellie from Silka and the Gamemakers’ mutts? Making sure that crown winds up on her head, not a Career’s? Yes, I’m certain this is what Maysilee would’ve wanted me to do, if she’d known the whole story.
If I’m going to protect Wellie, I’m going to have to find her. Really, at this point, there’s only one way. If I encounter Silka, good. I’ll dart her.
“Wellie!” I holler. “Wellie!”
In the fading rays of the sun, I begin my search, heading south toward the meadow. Seems so lonely here without Maysilee. I didn’t notice the solitude so much before I had her as a partner, but now the darkness presses in on me, raw and scary.
“Wellie!”
Feels like I’m the only person left alive in the world. Being close to death doesn’t help. I reach for Lenore Dove for solace, knowing she must be keeping vigil at her television set, living through my last hours with me. It’s much worse for her, really. The helplessness. Thinking of her watching me makes me want to be brave, or at least appear to be. “Wellie! Where are you? It’s Haymitch!” I hope Lenore Dove will stay close to Sid when I’m gone, keep teaching him the stars and things, making sure he isn’t –
What was that?
My ears have picked up a strange sound behind me, out of sync with the nighttime background noise of the woods. I stand still, listening hard.
Ring, ring!
There it is again. Not natural. Man-made. Decidedly metal on metal. I know that sound from a summer day long ago. I was still young enough to have free time. A bunch of us – me, Lenore Dove, Blair, Burdock, and a couple of the McCoy kids – were playing freeze tag in a field. We stumbled upon a Peacekeeper’s bicycle hidden in the bramble bushes by the road. Sometimes they use them to get around town, deliver messages and such. Looked like someone had dropped it quick and was probably coming back for it. But in the meantime, it was ours.
Bicycles are coveted in District 12. A few of the merchants’ kids in town have them. I remember Maysilee and Merrilee had matching pink ones, and sometimes rode them around the square to the envy of all. But they were a pipe dream for kids in the Seam. For us to find a Peacekeeper’s bike so shiny and unattended was like a litter of kittens rolling smack-dab into a patch of catnip. We swore one another to secrecy, posted guards, and for the next week, every one of us learned to ride. It was a fine machine, well built, smooth, with brakes on the handlebars and a bright silver bell to signal your approach. It disappeared then; probably the Peacekeeper came back to collect it, but it had never been ours to keep.
Ring, ring!
That’s a bicycle bell, beyond a doubt. The one Maysilee wove into Wellie’s token necklace back in the gym. She’s heard my calls and this is her answer. I shut up and follow the bell. It leads back north. I feel like I’m retracing my steps to where Maysilee died.
Ring, ring!
I come to a halt at the base of a large tree. The bell gives a tinny ring from on high. “It’s okay, Wellie,” I say. “I’m here. You can come down.” I wait, but there’s no response. No crackling of branches or rustling of leaves. Not a whisper from my ally. “Wellie? You there?” The only possible alternative, Silka, does not impress me as someone who could scamper up as high as I judge that bell to be. And if Silka had gotten close enough to steal Wellie’s token, I’d have seen another dove in the sky. I begin to climb.
Up, up, up I go, so far that I begin to wonder if I have the right tree. The boughs thin out, and I have to plant my boots against the trunk or risk snapping them off. When I do reach her, she’s so still that I almost miss her. She lies along a slender branch, belly down, like a possum in the moonlight, her bell tucked under her chin, a child-sized knife clutched in one hand.
“Hey, Wellie.”
Her cracked lips move slightly, but no sound comes out. She has the shrunken, glassy-eyed look I know from tough times in the Seam. Another casualty of the Capitol’s weapon of choice: starvation. I need to move her down before she rolls right off that branch and get some food into her. But she’s so fragile, I don’t see how I can manage it, especially at night. I give her a sip of water from the jug, and it spills out the side of her mouth. There’s no way I’m getting raw potato down her.
I stay with the water. “Try to swallow it, Wellie,” I plead. She manages to get down a few mouthfuls and then drifts off.
The moon slips behind a cloud, leaving us momentarily in darkness, and I hug the trunk for stability until the pale light returns. The air seems to be growing heavier in general; are they prepping a rainstorm? The idea of being trapped up this high in the pitch black while the bark gets slippery scares me, but I can’t abandon Wellie. I could get some sparks going with my flint striker, but how would I build a fire up here? I fumble around in Maysilee’s pack, looking for something to use as fuel, when I come upon the potato battery kit. Theoretically, I could make my own light. It probably wouldn’t produce much if it did, but it might be of some comfort.
A faint rumble of thunder prompts me to try. I wedge myself awkwardly between the trunk and a branch and use the backpack as my worktable. Beetee said that a potato shouldn’t be eaten after it was a battery, so I restrict myself to using one, saving the last for Wellie’s breakfast. I cut a potato in half, remove each component from the plastic bag, and strain to replicate Beetee’s demonstration. Wrap the copper coins and zinc nails in wire, leaving a tail, and stick them in the potato halves. This takes a while given the limited light. There’s a bad moment when one of the coins slips through my fingers and escapes to the forest floor. I’m about to give up when I remember Maysilee’s medallion and work it out of the woven cord. After more than a few false starts, I attach the final wire to a tiny light bulb and am rewarded with a dim glow. In most circumstances, it would be negligible, but in the gloom of the arena, it feels like life itself. Wellie’s eyes flutter open, lock on it, and she gives a little sigh.
The first raindrops patter onto the leaves while I’m looking for somewhere close by to rig a hammock. The branches don’t feel sturdy enough. Instead, I position a tarp to keep Wellie dry and wrap Maysilee’s blanket around her multiple times. I cut off some strips of tarp and tie them along her legs and midsection, securing her to the branch. She doesn’t seem to notice, just fixates on her light.
No moving her until morning, so I arrange a second tarp and a few straps for myself. It rains cats and dogs for a while, turns misty, and then the clouds withdraw. I’m dozing off when something catches in the leaves above my head. The parachute brings a cup of warm vanilla pudding and a packet of balls, each wrapped in crinkly festive paper. Chocolate.
Someone in the Capitol still has a heart.
With patience, I coax the pudding into Wellie, bit by bit. And although we lose half to dribbles, the other half makes it into her belly. Then I break a chocolate ball in two with my teeth and slide a piece into her mouth. She gives a little smack of her lips.
I allow myself a ball or two as well. Chocolate’s pricey stuff in the Seam. Definitely for birthdays or special occasions. This stuff’s top-of-the-line, creamy and sweet and rich. If it’s the last thing I ever eat, I’d be okay with that.
I shake off my tarp to repurpose it as a blanket and have almost dozed off again when I hear Wellie begin to cry. I reach to console her, but she’s fast asleep. The weeping comes from far below at the base of the tree. Silka? Who else could it be? She isn’t trying to hunt us, just huddled against the trunk. I didn’t peg her for a crier. Of course, I’ve still probably got tearstains on my cheeks from Maysilee’s passing. I’m sure Silka has plenty to cry about, too. Even if she’s the clear front-runner in the Games, we’ve all of us got enough dead kids to mourn for a lifetime.
I become intensely aware of the three of us, huddled around this tree, the last trio of human heartbeats in the arena. Sad, desperate, but also a rare moment of district unity in the Games. You know what would make it even better? I drop a handful of chocolate balls into the night. A startled sound. The sobs soften to sniffles. A candy wrapper crackles. Quiet.
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.