The Girl With the Bread

Eleven Dead

Sixty seconds. That's how long they're required to stand on their metal circles before the sound of a gong releases them. Step off before the minute is up, and landmines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give them life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn.

For instance, only a few steps from his feet lies a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, he can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If he had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty three tributes. Which he has been instructed not to do.

But it's tempting, so tempting, when he sees the bounty waiting there before him. And he knows that if he doesn't get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something catches his eye. There, creating on a mound of blanket mounds, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already string, just waiting to be engaged.

That's mine, he thinks. It's meant for me.

But he will most likely be the only target. How many of the tributes can possibly know how to shoot a bow? Surely the Careers will snatch it up before he can get his hands on it.

To distract himself, his eyes scan the ring for her, searching for her dark hair and green eyes. There, about five tributes to his right. Sure enough, almost directly in front of her circle lies a metal stick, about three feet long. He can just make out designs curling the edges, and wonders what dangers that thing can do. He doesn't want to find out, but for the life of him, he hopes Toph does.

And he's missed it! He's missed his chance! His feet shuffle for a moment, confused about the direction his brain wants them to take and then he linges forward, scooping up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are small and he's angry with Toph for distracting, even though he knows she did nothing. He sprints twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because he can't stand leaving with virtually nothing.

A girl, he thinks from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time at the same time he does and for a brief time they grapple for it and then she coughs, splattering his face with blood. He staggers back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the girl slips to the ground. That's when he sees the knife in her back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. He's seen her throw in training. She never misses. And he's her next target.

All the general fear he's been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator, who might kill him in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through him and he slings the pack over one shoulder and runs full-speed for the woods. He can hear the blade whistling toward him and reflexively hike the pack up to protect his head. The blade lodges in the back. Both straps on his shoulders now, he makes for the trees. Somehow he knows the girl will not pursue him. That she'll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone.

A grin crosses his face. Thanks for the knife, he thinks.

At the edge of the woods he turns for one instant to survey the field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at each other at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground, and he is relieved to find that none of them have black hair. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or into the void opposite hin. He continues running until the woods have hidden him from the other tributes then slows into a steady jog that he thinks he maintains for a while. For the next few hours, he alternates between jogging and walking, putting as much distance as he can between himself and his competitors.