The Running Games

19.

Tiny, searing stabs. Wherever the droplets of mist touched his skin. He cried out in pain.

"Run!" he screamed to the others. "Run!"

Finnick snapped awake instantly, rising to counter an enemy. But when he saw the wall of fog, he tossed a still sleeping Mags onto his back and took off. Newt was on his feet but not alert. Thomas grabbed his arm and began to propel him through the jungle after Finnick.

"What is it? What is it?" he said in bewilderment.

"Some kind of fog. Poisonous gas. We have to hurry." he urged. But he could tell that however much he denied it during the day, the aftereffects of hitting the force field had been significant. He was slow, much slower than usual. And the tangle of vines and undergrowth, which unbalanced Thomas occasionally, tripped him at every step.

He looked back at the wall of fog that extended in a straight line as far as he could see in either direction. He had a terrible impulse to flee, to abandon Newt and save himself, but his heart was tied to the blond and he could never leave Newt. He thought about when he had left Newt in the last Games when the muttations appeared, and he would never do that again. He trapped his terror, pushed it down and stayed by his side, because he couldn't see life without him. Newt's survival was his only goal. Thomas locked his fingers with Newt's and said, "Just watch my feet, just try to step where I step." It helped a little bit, but it wasn't enough to afford a rest, and the mist continued to lap at their heels. Droplets sprung free of the body of vapor. They burned, but not like fire. Not like the feeling of the whip on his back. It was less like the sense of heat and more intense pain as the chemicals found their flesh, clung to it, and burrowed down through their layers of skin. Their jumpsuits were no help at all. They may as well have been dressed in tissue paper, for all the protection they gave.

Finnick, who had bounded off initially, stopped when he realized they were having problems. But this was not a thing to fight, only evade. He shouted encouragement, tried to move them along, and the sound of his voice acted as a guide, though little more.

Newt's artificial leg caught in a knot of creepers and he sprawled forward before Thomas could catch him. As he helped him up, he became aware of something scarier than the blisters, more debilitating than the burns. The left side of his face had sagged, as if every muscle had died. The lid drooped, almost concealing his eye. His mouth twisted in an odd angle toward the ground. Thomas felt then the spasms run up his arm.

Whatever chemical laced the fog did more than burn- it targeted their nerves. A whole new kind of fear jolted through him and he yanked Newt forward, which only caused him to stumble again. By the time he helped him to his feet, both of his arms were twitching uncontrollably. The fog had moved in on them, the body of it was less than a yard away. Something was wrong with Newt's legs; he was trying to walk but they moved in a spastic, puppetlike fashion.

Thomas felt him lurch forward and he realized that Finnick had come back for them and was hauling Newt along. He wedged his shoulder, which still seemed to be under his control, under Newt's arm and tried to do his best to keep up with Finnick's rapid pace. They put about ten yards between them and the fog when Finnick stopped.

"I'll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?" Finnick said.

"Yes." Thomas said, although his heart sunk. It was true that Mags couldn't be more than 70 pounds, but Thomas wasn't very big himself. Still, he had carried heavier loads. If only his arms would stop jumping around. He squatted down and Mags positioned herself over his shoulder, the way she rode on Finnick. He slowly straightened his legs and now they moved forward. He could manage her, he was sure. Finnick had Newt slung across his back. Finnick lea them down the trail that he broke through the vines.