Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Photographs - Cleo

Cleo

Ginger seems comfortable in trees. He perches above my head, feet braced against the branch, peering out in search of anybody approaching. And we’ll need plenty of warning, because all we’ve got from the terrifying rush of the bloodbath is a few matches – but nothing to strike them on – and, courtesy of the ever-charming Volt, a piece of tarpaulin big enough to stretch over all four of us, at a squeeze. Grey, like home. I cling to it and it crackles in my hand.

I’m not sure what happened at the bloodbath; all I remember is streaks of light, screaming, weapons and my heart pumping madly in my brain. Volt is still bravado, swinging his arms by his sides and occasionally exclaiming something not very complimentary about the environment – which I guess is pretty generous, on the surface anyway – but when his companion winks at me and throws a twig into a bush so that it rustles, he jumps a mile from the ground and scarpers.

Disloyal, but I knew that.

I huddle under the tarp. It’s starting to get cold with the night drawing in, stars twinkling through the wavering tree leaves. Everything about this place moves too much for my liking. Buildings don’t hiss or shuffle. The ground is damp and gives underfoot. I suppose I should be happy about the damp – it’s one of the things that the instructor at survival told me to look out for and it means there’s water and it might rain – but all I can think about it is how uncomfortable it is. Even curled up against a tree root with the tarp clutched around my shoulders, it still seems to have already managed to worm its way into my spine.

“Budge up,” grunts Volt, wrenching the tarp from my right hand and throwing himself next to me, pressed up to my knees. Too close. He smells odd, like home but not, and I can’t help wrinkling my nose up a little. Ginger must notice because he calls down from his tree, “We don’t know how cold it’s going to get. You may as well stay close together.”

I’ve never heard him speak with such authority before, but I suppose this is his territory. Or more like his territory, anyway.

“What about you?” I ask back. He’s wearing no more than I am, though he seems more comfortable in it, and he’s not got the tarp to hold in a bit of heat. And I’d rather sit close to Ginger than Volt, any day. He waves the slingshot, armed with a sharp rock that doesn’t look like it can cause much damage at all.

“I’ll be fine. I’m used to it. And I’m keeping watch.”

Guilt shivers through me when he says he’s used to it. It’s not my fault, I know, and I think I did everything in my power to help. But still…

Volt’s friend – Cyrus? Something like that, anyway – squats on his haunches on a branch above my head, about six feet off the ground, though I’m no good with measurements. Not as high as Ginger, but enough of a lookout, I guess. He seems okay, like a slightly more distance-respectful version of Volt. Mark would like him, probably. He’s trying to pull a bunch of leaves in front of himself, which looks like a good idea. The tarp might be grey but it’s a noticeable change from the rough textures all around and any eagle-eyed tribute will probably be able to spot us. We should be well out of the Careers’ hunting ground, assuming of course that they’re staying by the Cornucopia, but why wouldn’t they? But the other tributes are probably more used to working at night, whoever they are, and if there’s a group of them, they’d probably prefer to take us on. And all we’ve got is Ginger’s slingshot. Perhaps we could throw the tarp at them and run, split up so there would be less of a chance of them catching us. That might work.

Volt pushes my hair away from his face and I shudder. No; I’m the only person allowed to touch my hair, apart from Mark and Izzy, who will be laughing a little if they saw that.