Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
Not a bad poster, all in all.
Snatches of sleep breed nightmares, and the dawn finds me weak and weary, like the guy in Lenore Dove’s poem. The arena leaves no time to properly grieve anyone and I’m left feeling cheated, shallow, and coldhearted. Louella, Ampert, Maysilee, everybody deserves far better. I just can’t generate it.
I check on Wellie, who sleeps peacefully on her branch. No need to wake her yet.
Silka’s gone. Not that I expected some grand alliance forming between us. She had a vulnerable moment, accepted the chocolate, and then probably felt ashamed for doing so. I’m guessing District 1 doesn’t reward its Careers for being only human. Yeah, Silka’s out there and likely nearby unless she’s scavenging for food. She could’ve thought to try the Cornucopia or gone back for Maritte’s supplies. But she knows where we are and she’ll be back to kill us.
I reach up over my tarp to rub the gunk from my eyes and notice black smudges on my fingers. Not sure where those came from; they didn’t really register in the dark last night. I don’t think it’s the tree bark, though . . . or the tarp . . . something with the potato battery? It doesn’t matter really. Unless . . .
Suddenly, a whole bunch of light bulbs turn on all at once. Me working the copper flower medallion out of Maysilee’s necklace. The black residue on my hands after I rigged the fuse at the tank. And Beetee’s final words to me at the buffet –
“And if Ampert fails to show
–
we’ve also replaced the
-“
But then Wellie had walked up and I never learned what else besides the District 9 tokens had been replaced. A spare. A backup to Ampert’s lone fuse. Is that what I have around my neck in the guise of Maysilee’s token necklace? Pretending to focus on the sunrise, I nonchalantly rub a bit of the braided cord between my thumb and index finger, then casually fiddle with the water jug lid. No question. The smudges came from her token.
One last chance. One final opportunity to ruin the Games in a way the Capitol can’t conceal. I can’t be one hundred percent sure until I can unwind the cord and check for the blasting cap, but if I’m right, I must not waste this good-bye gift.
I lean back against the trunk, trying to look indifferent, while my mind races. What possible targets remain? The tank’s blown, the generator’s off-limits, access to Sub-A will be hard to finagle a second time. That leaves the Cornucopia. And why not? Isn’t it the very symbol of their despicable show? And isn’t the gesture left to me purely symbolic, given that the machinery lies beyond my grasp? I could still blow a nice, big hole in the side of their shiny, golden horn. Leave it smoldering and defaced in the center of their pretty little meadow. A twisted and ugly reminder of the history of the Hunger Games. A horn of plenty for the few. Desperation for many. Destruction for all.
Once again, the trick will be to get them to show it on-screen. But with only three of us left, it just might be possible. If I could revive Wellie a bit more, get enough calories in her that I’d be sure she could last, then tuck her somewhere safe, I could stage a showdown with Silka at the Cornucopia. Try and take out her and the Cornucopia in the same explosion. If we were directly beside it, how could they not show it? And then, if I survive, Snow will have the Gamemakers kill me, and Wellie will get the crown.
A peek of her haggard little face gives me pause. Wellie’s on the brink of starving to death. Even if she can hang on, the lack of food leaves her vulnerable to a host of other dangers, from physical weakness to dehydration to illness. We’ve got some chocolate left, but dumping that straight into her shrunken stomach might result in the reverse of the intended effect. There’s the last potato – it’s good and bland but it needs baking. All right. That’s my priority. Bake the potato. Feed up Wellie. Hide Wellie. Lure Silka to the Cornucopia. Blow her up with the Cornucopia. How could anything go wrong?
Well, here’s a problem for starters: After the tank incident, if the Gamemakers see me unwinding a token, I’m going to have every mutt in the arena coming at my head. I need an off-camera moment.
No time like the present. As if blocking the sun, I pull the tarp up over my head. With minimal movements, I unclasp Maysilee’s necklace and unravel the cord. I get a boost when I expose the blasting cap, securely attached to the end. Perhaps I’m not entirely hopeless. After wrapping the fuse tightly around it, I conceal it in my pocket and rub my hands really good on my pants to clean them. Will the Gamemakers notice the token’s disappearance? When Wellie wakes, maybe I should pretend I lost it. It could have gone the way of the brass medallion. Then again, drawing attention to its absence might backfire.
I do an inventory of my equipment. Fuse. Check. Blasting cap. Check. Explosive. Check. Flint striker. Check. I’ve got everything I need, even a handful of oily candy wrappers for tinder. Eager to get going, I toss off the tarp, give a big stretch, and free myself from the tarp strips.
Wellie’s eyes fly open. She takes me in, as if weighing my worth, then frowns.
“Don’t leave me again,” she whispers.
No doubt I am, from where she sits, the great abandoner of the Newcomers. She’s not wrong. I had bigger fish to fry, but she’s still not wrong.
I try to sound chipper. “Hey, Wellie. How about I climb down and bake you a potato? Think you could handle that?”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Silka’s in the vicinity. Feels like you’d be safer up here.”
“No. Can’t be alone again.” She begins to struggle against her restraints. “I’ll follow you.”
“Okay, okay!” I settle her back down. “Let me untie you.” This is not ideal, but I can’t risk her trying to climb down after me; she’d certainly fall to her death. I carefully remove the tarp strips and the blanket and store all our stuff in the pack. “I’m going to need you to hold on. Can you do that?” She nods, but when she puts her arms around my neck, they’re as limp as boiled noodles. It will have to be over my shoulders. “Better try the miner’s carry,” I tell her, tossing the pack to the ground. I gingerly hoist her up and around my shoulders, getting a tight grip on the arm that falls across my chest, the way we’re taught to do if we have to haul the injured out of the mine after an accident. There was never much to her, but I doubt she can tip the scale at sixty pounds now. I inch our way down the tree, nearly falling twice as branches snap beneath my boots. When I reach the forest floor, I gently lay her on the pine needles.
Giving her a chocolate ball to gnaw on, I fashion a nest for her out of the blanket. When I check her for fever, her forehead’s as cool as marble. “You cold?”
“A little,” she says. I note the purple tint to her lips.
“Well, a fire will warm you up. And then we can bake your potato.”
A cursory examination of the local brush shows that this will prove a challenge. Last night’s rain, while relatively brief, fell heavily, dampening the available fuel. In a few hours, the sun will have lent me a hand, but at the moment, dry fuel seems scarce. Now I’m going to have to forage for some that’s been protected by thick overhanging limbs or rock formations.
What to do with Wellie? Carry her? That will be difficult if I’m collecting wood. Cross my fingers and hope that Silka’s far off? Too risky. That means trying to hide her. “Wellie, I’m going to have to travel a bit for fuel.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“It won’t be for long and I won’t go far. I’ll make sure you’re good and hidden.”
“Don’t.”
“We need fire. It’s okay. Look what I’ve got for you.” I hang Maysilee’s blowgun around her neck. “This was Maysilee’s. It’s all loaded. All you do is take a deep breath, blow really hard in this end, and a poisonous dart comes flying out. She killed Panache with this. Saved my life.”
“Maysilee left us, too,” says Wellie sadly.
“No, she got separated looking for Lou Lou. Couldn’t get back to you. She’d want you to have this. She told me she thought you’d be a good victor.”
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
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