𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄 ▸ HUNGER GAMES [ 1 ]

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY SEVEN -

I don't wait to see what exactly has decided to track us. I group my knives into one hand, grab hold of Cato's with the other and begin to drag him through the trees. There are no paths to follow, gnarled roots threatening to trip me as we crash through the undergrowth. My heart hammers against my ribcage with every strike of my boots against the dirt, as something thunders through the forest in pursuit of us. When a cacophony of snarls and howls joins the rustle of leaves and shriek of terrified birds, I realise exactly what that something is.

Mutts. This is how the Gamemakers have decided to orchestrate our final showdown. They're driving us towards the lake, and I have no doubt that 12 will be joining us there.

As the animalistic growls seem to get closer I risk a glance over my shoulder, and at once I wish I hadn't. These mutts aren't something I've seen in any previous Games, but they're wolf-like in shape, differing in size and colour. And fast, extremely fast. When one manages to creep far too close to Cato's heels for comfort I whip around and launch one of my knives towards it. The blade catches the mutt in the shoulder, and it yelps, falling back as another takes its place. There's something unnerving about the new pack leader – light coloured fur curls across its lithe body, and bright green eyes glimmer in it's snarling face.

Glimmer.

"It's Glimmer." I breathe, and then a vine catches me unawares and the ground is coming up to meet me. My hands slam into a patch of thorns and I cry out, but something is pulling me up by the back of my jacket. For a moment I think it's her, the mutt, but then I hear Cato's voice roaring into my ears to run and I manage to find my footing again. Gasping for air, my lungs, feet, everything aching from the effort, I press on to catch up with Cato.

"It's them." I pant as we break into a clearing. The remnants of the fire which effectively destroyed our original camp lay in the centre, coated with silvery ashes. We're almost there, almost there. But it's them. The mutts are our fellow tributes. And I don't think our alliances will help us anymore.

"I know, I know. I saw Thresh too." Cato shouts back as we sprint through the last stretch of woods between us and the grassy plain where the Games began. I can see the cornucopia up ahead, golden horn glinting in the moonlight, and the sight of it steels me to keep pushing. Don't stop. Keep running.

Then something heavy crashes into my side and I stumble, teetering on the balls of my feet. I'm struggling to stay upright, and desperate to put the distance back between myself and the mutts when I notice what, or rather who collided with me. For a split second, I lock gazes with Katniss Everdeen. I'm drawing my knife, her arrow notched to fly.

And both of our weapons lodge into the neck of the mutt leaping out of the tree line, razor sharp claws bared towards us. Then we're backing away, turning to run as the mutt collapses to the floor, lips pulled back to show it's gleaming teeth. Cato's voice urge me to catch up with him, and I leave the girl on fire behind.

The two of us reach the cornucopia together, hands slamming the metal surface of the horn as we begin to climb. The mutts are leaping onto the plain now, gaining on the pair from 12 who are halfway across the grass. I use the last of my strength to pull myself up on top of the cornucopia, and collapse beside Cato.

"We-we're o-k-kay." I heave out, sprawled flat on my back, staring up at the moon above. The sound of Cato's rattling breaths and the growls of the mutts on the grass below are enough to tell me that we are anything but okay. Soon 12 will reach us, fight their way up here, and then we will have something more to worry about. The image of the knife and the arrow piercing the mutt at the same time flashes before my eyes, but I blink it away quickly. We could have turned our weapons on each other, but then the creature would have ripped us both apart. No, it was better to take out the mutt whilst we could. Nothing more than an act of survival.