Voices of the Dead: A Hunger Games FanFiction ©

5. Bodey

In life, we are born and then we must die. However, somewhere in between we live, and how we live is up to us. Our choice and ours only.

I repeat Beau’s words to myself quietly as I stood on the metal plate below the arena.

This morning, I’d been taken to the roof and then flown in a hovercraft to the launch room. Throughout the ride, the windows had been tinted black so I hadn’t had even the slightest clue of where we were going.

Not that it mattered; any arena whether natural or otherworldly, would be deadly. When we’d gotten to my launch room, my stylist simply handed me my package of clothes, pointed to the area where I was to stand, then left. I didn’t blame him though, who would bet on a tribute like me? Small, thin, birdlike and gentle.  The odds were more than against me, they would be my undoing.

Quietly, I’d dressed quickly in the black, heavy duty clothes and then walked over to stand at the metal plate. While I’d waited for the glass tube to lower, I thought of the friends I’d made. Macon, the giant with a heart of gold, Smalls, the fighting spirit who had more hope than any orphan I’d ever known.

When the glass tube began to move, and a light flashed, I breathed deeply. I’d try, like I promised, to come back alive. I felt the ground beneath me move as the plate began to rise.

Outside, the wind whipped fiercely around me. I shade my eyes from the dust, then took in the scene. The arena was deadly, full of bowed and crumbling buildings, cracked earthen floors, and overturned cars and street signs everywhere. The cornucopia stood in the center of the arena, partially covered from view by a house that had collapsed on it.

Inside the cornucopia, all I saw were packs of food, sleeping bags, and tents. Not a weapons was in sight.

“Let the Hunger Games begin!” I heard the announcer, Claudius Templesmith, announce.

A bit of luck struck when I, as I’d glanced around, easily saw that Macon was just a few steps away from me. Second, I found Smalls, he was across from us and already looked intent on getting a pack near him.

The seconds ticked and soon the gong would ring. I turned on my plate, ready to run as Macon had told us to, to the edge of the bloodbath, when something caught my eye. Glinting under the sun, I finally saw just where the weapons were; underneath the wreckage and crumbles of cement.

I bit my lip, not sure whether I should attempt to pull something out. Then, to my luck, I saw something that I hadn’t thought would be here; a sling shot for me, and a few feet away, a blow gun for Smalls.

It was perfect, with those weapons in hand, no matter how pitiful they were, we’d be of some use to Macon. I turned back around on my plate, looking at the weapons.

The loud clang made me jump, but moments later I realized the time to act had come. I ran, grabbing a small pack along the way, to the debris-covered weapons. I put the blowgun in my pack and was just about to put my slingshot in my back pocket when I heard it.

Someone yelped behind me, and when I turned to look, I realized who it had been. Eric, the boy from three who I’d tried to befriend. A dagger lay near his feet and I instantly understood; he’d tried to, literally, backstab me.

“Run kid!” Macon yelled when he saw the Eric hadn’t moved. Even in the chaos, my heart swelled with admiration; Macon was honorable, he wouldn’t murder a child.

“Eric run!” I insisted, seeing that the bloodbath was getting more horrific as the time passed by.

Eric seemed to snap back, and he scrambled away on his hands and knees, leaving his dagger behind. I quickly picked it up and put it in a loop of my belt, secretly hoping I’d never have to use it.

Macon caught my hand in a steel grip and together we ran. Blood everywhere; on the ground, splattered on walls, staining hands and faces, it was even in the air. I was gagging, trying to see without seeing. I had to be brave, I had to be brave, I had to be-

My thoughts cut off when I felt it. My feet sank in the soft mushy flesh. Looking down, I felt my face drain of blood; I was standing in a pool of intestines. The girl’s eyes were vacant and her mouth stayed agape.

I couldn’t handle it. This all was too much.

I snapped.                                

“Macon! No! No! Why! Macon! Why?” I wailed, an animal sob ripping from my chest. “Why is this happening!”

It was the stupidest thing to ask, but also the most logical; why? Why did we go along with the killing? Why did the Capitol people enjoy this? Why didn’t the Districts try again? Even if they failed, why not try and care, rather than watch in silence? Why? Why were kids like Bruno and Flint, careers at heart, brainwashed into thinking this was ok?

I shook violently, nearly to the point of convulsing. The organs on my feet, her empty eyes looking at me; this corpse had unhinged me.

Lost to the dark, I only resurfaced when I felt his touch. A hand on my eyes. Beau? No, not him, but another.

Macon, the spiritual twin of my brother, wrapped his warm arms around me and in one swift motion carried me across the arena; away from the horror. “Don’t look ok, whatever happens, whatever you hear, don’t look!” he ordered.

“Death, s-so much death. Why? Why?” I continued to weep, finding it impossible to stay quiet.

I felt his steps, strong and even, and I concentrated on his breathing; oddly even though he was running.

Daring a peek over his shoulder, I cried out before I really registered what was about to happen. “Look out!” I yelled, watching the projectile cleaver plummet towards us.

Macon didn’t hesitate; throwing himself to the floor, curling protectively around me, and holding out his shield. There was a clang, and then I felt the vibration. The impact had been so hard, it had reverberated from the shield, through Macon’s frame, and into my own small form.

My teeth chattered and it felt as if my bones were rubber.  Macon sat up before I could warn him; I’d seen Bruno throw the cleaver, and I’d also seen an eager Flint at his side. I knew if one missed, the other was sure to follow up with a try of their own.

As if in slow motion, I watched the knife dig into Macon’s arm. Blood steamed down and he grunted when he pulled it out. He darted a glance, saw the pair, then scooped me up and ran again.

Once we reached the farthest edge of the bloodbath area, Macon put me down and we met up with Smalls. Holding both our hands, Macon didn’t speak, he just continued to run.

It felt like we’d been running for hours before we finally stopped to rest. Night was approaching, and it wasn’t safe to be out in the open. After he quickly scouted the area, Macon took us to a nearby building where we climbed up to the fourth floor.

After wedging heavy pieces of concrete and rock behind the door, we made camp. Macon spread out a sleeping bag on the floor and told us to sleep.

I was going to go ahead and do as he’d said when I saw his face; through the mask I saw that I hadn’t been the only one who’d been scared. His eyes were red, and his fists were clenched. I didn’t think it would be good for him to stay awake alone, maybe he’d want company?

Smalls nudged me though, shaking his head imperceptibly, and I understood; Macon needed to unwind, to feel free to live the sorrow without us gawking at him.

Never doubting Macon’s intentions, I walked towards the makeshift bed he’d made.  The moment my head touched the blanket, I was out like a light.

Lost in a world of nightmares filled with blood rain, entrails that slithered like snakes, and eyes that wept, I continually awoke in a fright. During some point I heard the cannons, seven I think, sound loud and clear.

In my nightmare, Flint held me down as Bruno sliced my abdomen open. I screamed and then they were gone, but my organs were still coming out, unending. Mercifully, I awoke at the sound of a cannon.

Bang!

Eight dead.