The Hunger Games Trilogy Read online

  “But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then…I don’t want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.

  The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though…and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

  Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta’s shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.

  “We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away.

  “I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says, giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”

  “Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”

  “Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?”

  “We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners.”

  “Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”

  I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave.”

  He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,” says Peeta, pulling me to him.

  “Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss.

  Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts. Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really back in the Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows—of the twelve I sacrificed three in the explosion, two at the feast—rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I can’t afford to lose any more.

  “He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to wander by.”

  “If he’s wounded—” I begin.

  “It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.”

  With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many animals or signs of them in this area.

  “If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say.

  “Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.

  “Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.

  I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case physical exertion should bring it back.

  As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with Cato after us.

  The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg—well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato, you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”

  “Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he’s making me jump.

  “Can you take your boots off?” I suggest.

  “Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel certain he’s laughing back home.

  “Yes,” I say patiently. “I will, too. That way we’ll both be quieter.” Like I was making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there’s some improvement, I could swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we encounter.

  Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I’ve shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work out a solution. Ideally, I’d dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore and go hunt, but then he’d be left with only a knife to defend himself against Cato’s spears and superior strength. So what I’d really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn’t going to go for that suggestion.

  “Katniss,” he says. “We need to split up. I know I’m chasing away the game.”

  “Only because your leg’s hurt,” I say generously, because really, you can tell that’s only a small part of the problem.

  “I know,” he says. “So, why don’t you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we’ll both be useful.”

  “Not if Cato comes and kills you.” I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still sounds like I think he’s a weakling.

  Surprisingly, he just laughs. “Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn’t I?”

  Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That’s what I want to say, but I can’t. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try another tactic. “What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?” I say, trying to make it sound like very important work.

  “What if you show me what’s edible around here and go get us some meat?” he says, mimicking my tone. “Just don’t go far, in case you need help.”

  I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won’t last long. I’ll just go a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off.

  I teach him a bird whistle—not a melody like Rue’s but a sim
ple two-note whistle—which we can use to communicate that we’re all right. Fortunately, he’s good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.

  I feel like I’m eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it’s enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Peeta’s roots, this will be enough for now.

  As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven’t exchanged signals in a while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he?

  “Peeta!” I call out in a panic. “Peeta!” I turn to the rustle of brush and almost send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into the foliage.

  My fear comes out as anger. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!”

  “I found some berries down by the stream,” he says, clearly confused by my outburst.

  “I whistled. Why didn’t you whistle back?” I snap at him.

  “I didn’t hear. The water’s too loud, I guess,” he says. He crosses and puts his hands on my shoulders. That’s when I feel that I’m trembling.

  “I thought Cato killed you!” I almost shout.

  “No, I’m fine.” Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don’t respond. “Katniss?”

  I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. “If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble, all right?”

  “All right!” he says.

  “All right. Because that’s what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!” I say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water, although I still have some in mine. But I’m not ready to forgive him. I notice the food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone’s definitely picked away part of the cheese. “And you ate without me!” I really don’t care, I just want something else to be mad about.

  “What? No, I didn’t,” Peeta says.

  “Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese,” I say.

  “I don’t know what ate the cheese,” Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if trying not to lose his temper, “but it wasn’t me. I’ve been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?”

  I would actually, but I don’t want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at them. I’ve never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These aren’t Rue’s berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between my fingers.

  My father’s voice comes back to me. “Not these, Katniss. Never these. They’re nightlock. You’ll be dead before they reach your stomach.”

  Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards or so away. What’s left of Foxface’s emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see the red glint of her hair in the sunlight.

  I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese.…

  Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. “Climb. He’ll be here in a second. We’ll stand a better chance fighting him from above.”

  I stop him, suddenly calm. “No, Peeta, she’s your kill, not Cato’s.”

  “What? I haven’t even seen her since the first day,” he says. “How could I have killed her?”

  In answer, I hold out the berries.

  24

  It takes a while to explain the situation to Peeta. How Foxface stole the food from the supply pile before I blew it up, how she tried to take enough to stay alive but not enough that anyone would notice it, how she wouldn’t question the safety of berries we were preparing to eat ourselves.

  “I wonder how she found us,” says Peeta. “My fault, I guess, if I’m as loud as you say.”

  We were about as hard to follow as a herd of cattle, but I try to be kind. “And she’s very clever, Peeta. Well, she was. Until you outfoxed her.”

  “Not on purpose. Doesn’t seem fair somehow. I mean, we would have both been dead, too, if she hadn’t eaten the berries first.” He checks himself. “No, of course, we wouldn’t. You recognized them, didn’t you?”

  I give a nod. “We call them nightlock.”

  “Even the name sounds deadly,” he says. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I really thought they were the same ones you’d gathered.”

  “Don’t apologize. It just means we’re one step closer to home, right?” I ask.

  “I’ll get rid of the rest,” Peeta says. He gathers up the sheet of blue plastic, careful to trap the berries inside, and goes to toss them into the woods.

  “Wait!” I cry. I find the leather pouch that belonged to the boy from District 1 and fill it with a few handfuls of berries from the plastic. “If they fooled Foxface, maybe they can fool Cato as well. If he’s chasing us or something, we can act like we accidentally drop the pouch and if he eats them—”

  “Then hello District Twelve,” says Peeta.

  “That’s it,” I say, securing the pouch to my belt.

  “He’ll know where we are now,” says Peeta. “If he was anywhere nearby and saw that hovercraft, he’ll know we killed her and come after us.”

  Peeta’s right. This could be just the opportunity Cato’s been waiting for. But even if we run now, there’s the meat to cook and our fire will be another sign of our whereabouts. “Let’s make a fire. Right now.” I begin to gather branches and brush.

  “Are you ready to face him?” Peeta asks.

  “I’m ready to eat. Better to cook our food while we have the chance. If he knows we’re here, he knows. But he also knows there’s two of us and probably assumes we were hunting Foxface. That means you’re recovered. And the fire means we’re not hiding, we’re inviting him here. Would you show up?” I ask.

  “Maybe not,” he says.

  Peeta’s a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Cato, but as I anticipated, he doesn’t make an appearance. When the food’s cooked, I pack most of it up, leaving us each a rabbit’s leg to eat as we walk.

  I want to move higher into the woods, climb a good tree, and make camp for the night, but Peeta resists. “I can’t climb like you, Katniss, especially with my leg, and I don’t think I could ever fall asleep fifty feet above the ground.”

  “It’s not safe to stay in the open, Peeta,” I say.

  “Can’t we go back to the cave?” he asks. “It’s near water and easy to defend.”

  I sigh. Several more hours of walking—or should I say crashing—through the woods to reach an area we’ll just have to leave in the morning to hunt. But Peeta doesn’t ask for much. He’s followed my instructions all day and I’m sure if things were reversed, he wouldn’t make me spend the night in a tree. It dawns on me that I haven’t been very nice to Peeta today. Nagging him about how loud he was, screaming at him over disappearing. The playful romance we had sustained in the cave has disappeared out in the open, under the hot sun, with the threat of Cato looming over us. Haymitch has probably just about had it with me. And as for the audience…

  I reach up and give him a kiss. “Sure. Let’s go back to the cave.”

  He looks pleased and relieved. “Well, that was easy.”

  I work my arrow out of the oak, careful not to damage the shaft. These arrows are food, safety, and life itself now.

  We toss a bun
ch more wood on the fire. It should be sending off smoke for a few more hours, although I doubt Cato assumes anything at this point. When we reach the stream, I see the water has dropped considerably and moves at its old leisurely pace, so I suggest we walk back in it. Peeta’s happy to oblige and since he’s a lot quieter in water than on land, it’s a doubly good idea. It’s a long walk back to the cave though, even going downward, even with the rabbit to give us a boost. We’re both exhausted by our hike today and still way too underfed. I keep my bow loaded, both for Cato and any fish I might see, but the stream seems strangely empty of creatures.

  By the time we reach our destination, our feet are dragging and the sun sits low on the horizon. We fill up our water bottles and climb the little slope to our den. It’s not much, but out here in the wilderness, it’s the closest thing we have to a home. It will be warmer than a tree, too, because it provides some shelter from the wind that has begun to blow steadily in from the west. I set a good dinner out, but halfway through Peeta begins to nod off. After days of inactivity, the hunt has taken its toll. I order him into the sleeping bag and set aside the rest of his food for when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I’m so grateful that he’s still here, not dead by the stream as I’d thought. So glad that I don’t have to face Cato alone.

  Brutal, bloody Cato who can snap a neck with a twist of his arm, who had the power to overcome Thresh, who has had it out for me since the beginning. He probably has had a special hatred for me ever since I outscored him in training. A boy like Peeta would simply shrug that off. But I have a feeling it drove Cato to distraction. Which is not that hard. I think of his ridiculous reaction to finding the supplies blown up. The others were upset, of course, but he was completely unhinged. I wonder now if Cato might not be entirely sane.