Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Clove's POV

Bang! The loud noise sends the nearby birds flying in a million different directions. Cato and I exchange a look. “He must have found one,” Cato muses, his eyebrows raised in content.

“Or Peeta finally died,” I say cuttingly. I haven't completely gotten over that sloppy move. I don't care if he was delusional, how hard is it to slit someone's throat? The look of contentment washes away from Cato's face at once and is replaced by what has become an almost permanent scowl.

“Just keep walking, Clover,” he grumbles. We're searching the woods for any sign of Katniss, Thresh, Ginger – as we've nicknamed the girl from 5 – or anyone else who could have had the cunning to blow our supplies sky high. We've been at it for nearly twelve hours straight and we're both incredibly irritable. Back around dawn we sent Marvel off to check his traps for hopeless tributes. At first it was just to get him out of our hair, but now I'm hoping that he actually found someone caught in them – so today won't be a complete failure.

We keep trudging through the woods, with Cato begrudgingly giving me the lead so I can look for trails while he stays on guard. Another canon fires with a loud bang. I look up into the sky, a natural, though rather silly, reaction to the noise. “Maybe they killed each other,” I muse absentmindedly. God only knows who “they” is. For all we know, it could be Ginger and Katniss. I hope it isn't. I have a growing desire to see Cato torture Fire Girl for all the stunts she's pulled to steal the limelight since the reaping.

Cato doesn't comment, just keeps stomping along behind me, scanning the trees for any sign of movement or ambush. He's been extremely distracted since we lost the supplies in the explosion and has been uncharacteristically quiet. I'm embarrassed to say I kind of miss it – his constant, prideful, demanding banter. Hearing him talk like that brings an edge of familiarity to this foreign environment. Of course, I hadn't realized how much I'd appreciated that slight familiarity until it disappeared. I glance back at him and see that he's not even scanning the trees anymore. Any idiot could ambush us now, and all our defenses would be down.

“Do you just want to head back to the lake?” I sigh.

“What good would that do?” he growls, kicking an unfortunate stump. The rotten woods splinters into a hundred tiny pieces.

I plop down on a nearby log and take a final gulp of water. “More good than wandering through the woods, wasting energy and water,” I answer, tilting my canister upside-down over the leaf-covered ground, illustrating my point. Not a single drop falls from its lips. Cato doesn't answer for a while, just watches me, as if expecting me to make some sudden movement that will make up his mind for him. I look back, uncomfortable, but refusing to give into the power of his gaze.

“There's already two dead tributes today, anyway,” I insist, growing impatient.

He nods slowly, still thinking. “Fine, we'll go back. I'm running low on water, too, and the river's a good mile away still.” I don't bother pointing out that it's over a three mile walk back to camp – assuming we go completely straight. That's the most frustrating thing about these Games. We've been searching all night, covered so much ground – we think – and then it takes us less than an hour to get back to camp. Talk about feeling like a failure. By the time we get back to camp, I'll probably feel as if our entire expedition through the woods was a complete waste of time. That's just how discouraging the walks back to camp are.

Since we have no further need for tracking, Cato takes up the lead – the position he feels most comfortable in. Never mind that I could pretty much kill him at any point in time from back here. As I follow him back the way we came, I think of something that gives me a tiny spark of hope and might not leave today feeling like such a complete failure. Marvel will be back at camp, ready to tell us about the two kills he made. And once he does, Cato will probably decide that Marvel has done his job. We'll have no further use for him. Three tributes gone in one day. What more could I ask for? A slight smile plays at my lips as an image of Marvel crumpled on the ground dead flashes across my mind. That'd make nineteen down; four to go.