Hunger Games: The Second Quarter Quell - The Story of Haymitch Abernathy

Chapter 8: The First Day

Sixty seconds was all Haymitch had between the beginning announcement and the gong to signify the real start of the Games. 

Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. 

He shook his body loose of any pain or stress, aware of how odd he must look to his surrounding tributes. But did it really matter, now? 

Thirty-three. Thirty-two. 

If any single tribute stepped even a toe off their pedestal before the time was up, they'd be blown to smithereens. It was the only thing stopping the tributes from giving themselves a head start, as they had in the first outdoor arena. 

Suddenly, the sound of a ringing gong echoed through the arena, and Haymitch felt adrenaline surge through ever muscle in his body. He propelled himself off of his pedestal with a start, flying forward and pumping his legs as hard as he possibly could towards the huge, golden Cornucopia. 

The other tributes had seemingly snapped back into it, and were making for the same destination, though Haymitch had a couple of metres on them. 

You can't die. Not now, not ever. But not now, especially, Haymitch's head yelled at him, repeating itself over and over as he dashed towards the centre of the clearing. The moment his feet met the shaded grass under the opening of the Cornucopia, he realised there was no turning around, no distractions. It was life or death. Literally. 

Still power-packed with epinephrin, Haymitch made a direct beeline towards the left hand side of the Cornucopia, which was heavily stocked with an array of weapons, small and big, and several backpacks. His right hand clasped the handle of a knife similar to the one he had used in his individual assessment, his left slinging the closest pack over his shoulder, before bolting back out of there just as Maysilee arrived. 

He didn't have time to look back and make sure she made it. He didn't have time for anyone but himself. His head was pounding, his heart racing, his legs pumping. Haymitch ran until his legs were numb, sprinting into the surrounding forest like – no, because – his life depended on it. He drowned out the cries of fallen tributes as he bolted, the backpack thumping against his back, and slowed only as he felt far enough away, and as his breaths grew wheezy and his knifed-hand clammy. 

He glanced in every direction before letting his guard down, though no one came into sight, and his hands fell to his knees as he puffed. He'd made it through in and out of the Bloodbath before it had even really began. 

He had survived the Bloodbath. 

It was an unusual achievement for a District 12 tribute, and Haymitch was sure he'd never run so fast in his life. He didn't even know he could run that fast. Though how far had he actually gone? And how long was he safe here for? He snapped back upright all of a sudden, doing another scan of the woods around him. 

He could hear vague voices and screams of terror in the distance, though most likely from back at the Cornucopia, where it was a slaughterhouse, no doubt. Haymitch imagined the piles of bodies on the ground; he imagined Glitz Lurox driving her axe into their heads, and shuddered. What a horrid thing to think about.

Suddenly, a closer noise startled him: a splash of some sort. Could this arena possible get better? Might there actually be a fresh water source nearby? 

Haymitch followed the splash of water and the trickle of a gentle current through a fence-like plantation of trees and shrubs to his left, and suddenly found himself standing on the bank of a beautiful crystalline stream, which ran through the woods endlessly, it appeared. But it wasn't only the stream that took him aback. It was the boy who knelt on the edge, cupping a handful of crystal-clear water. A boy he knew a little better, now.