The Hunger Games

Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.
    All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.
    At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or into the void opposite me. I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I lost my bread during the struggle with the boy from District 9 but managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as I walk I fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the knife — it’s a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle, which will make it handy for sawing through things — and slide it into my belt. I don’t dare stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to check for pursuers.
    I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the woods. But I will need water. That was Haymitch’s second instruction, and since I sort of botched the first, I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it. No luck.
    The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed with a variety of trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a noise and pull my knife, thinking I may have to defend myself, but I’ve only startled a rabbit. “Good to see you,” I whisper. If there’s one rabbit, there could be hundreds just waiting to be snared.
    The ground slopes down. I don’t particularly like this. Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my enemies approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going.
    Funny though, I don’t feel too bad. The days of gorging myself have paid off. I’ve got staying power even though I’m short on sleep. Being in the woods is rejuvenating. I’m glad for the solitude, even though it’s an illusion, because I’m probably on-screen right now. Not consistently but off and on. There are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isn’t much to look at. But they’ll show me enough to let people know I’m alive, uninjured and on the move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when the initial casualties come in. But that can’t compare to what happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.
    It’s late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day, they don’t even fire the cannons until the initial fighting’s over because it’s too hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the shots. One . . . two . . . three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from District 9 coughed into my face. He’s gone, certainly. I wonder about Peeta. Has he lasted through the day? I’ll know in a few hours. When they project the dead’s images into the sky for the rest of us to see.
    All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District 12. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I saw him once the action started. But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta shaking his