After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

Things in the Sky - 16

Niccolo gasps with every step. Well, it's not really steps. He's crawling. He doesn't have the energy, the resources, to walk. Blood stopped flowing from the wound a long time ago, but he can still feel it flaking off his hands. Every movement exhausts him. Through the numbing pain, he can work out that his lung is punctured. A light breeze squeezes through the wound, through the loose bandage he made with a strip of T-shirt hours ago, and it catches on his insides, rattling against the floppy membrane of one of his most vital organs. Though that must be his imagination, because you don't have nerves inside your body, do you? He'd never have imagined the panic breathing can cause. He opens his mouth wide and still can't take in enough air; it feels like he may suffocate with every breath. Which is counter-intuitive, which is why it's so scary. He still can't believe his own stupidity. He should have struck when he had the chance. Now he's weak and vulnerable, if anybody comes along.

If Moora comes back down this way...

She'll think he's dead, and he'll have the advantage. That might be all he needs.

He doesn't like this, this 'might' thinking. He deals with facts, not probabilities. But that's all he's got left now. If only he'd got something from the Cornucopia rather than sitting and watching. He wouldn't be in this mess; he could have killed her without having to get close to her, and then he'd be one closer to returning his father's bowtie rather than starting to see black lines around the edge of the world.

He draws in a rattling breath and stops to rest, collapsing straight forwards onto his front because he hasn't got the energy to sit up or even turn over. He doesn't even know what's keeping him going now. Surely he can't win like this. There will be days, stretching into weeks, left. And it doesn't matter what his sponsors provide; unless it's surgery, he's got to survive with very little blood and one lung.

He'd never realised before just how good normal breathing felt.

His laboured breath brushes the grass under his face. Night is falling slowly, dew starting to collect cool and damp on his forehead, the waving grass stalks now tipped with black and casting sinister shadows, hissing secrets to one another. If he just listens hard enough, he can hear what they're saying...

Moora glides noiselessly back from the Cornucopia, the moonlight playing around her skin and eyes. She loves the night. There's something still and peaceful about the dark. It has its own atmosphere, its own taste, almost. Silky and smooth and sensual. The night suits her.

She has had a successful trip. Annoyingly, and probably under Jewel's advice, they'd taken the best pickings with them. But she still found some useful things: some more knives and a kind of belt to put them in, some packets of dried fruit, a roll of bandages and some empty bottles that she could use if she finds some source of water. Perhaps she ought to try collecting dew, somehow. She doesn't know how, though, and she doesn't want to waste time working it out. She must have sponsors somewhere who will help her, even if she is only from District Twelve. Are they cheering her on right now? No, of course not. District Twelve will never cheer the Hunger Games again. Not like the Careers. She's going to play, of course. She has no regrets about what she did to Niccolo. But that doesn't mean she likes it. You'd have to be seriously twisted to enjoy this.

Her foot catches on something; she tumbles to her knees with a stifled cry. Whatever she has tripped over is roughly the size of a log, only softer. Her feet sink into it. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand and finds it tangled in some kind of thick dark fibres. Hair.

The log moves, shoulders shaking but still asleep, face down on the floor. So still alive. But probably in a lot of pain. And he's in her way, in more ways than one.

If there are any screams, they are quickly muffled.

The cannon isn't.

Ever is annoyed. There are no clouds. There are stars, lots of pretty little twinkling lights. But the stars are always the same, whereas clouds are different every time. She traces patterns in the sky; a human, a tree, a pear, but that's boring and soon she stops. She lies flat on her back, her shovel clutched tightly across the front of her just in case. She doesn't know how she found it and got it. It doesn't matter. It's hers and nobody can take it off her. In the morning, she will dig a big hole. That will make her happy, having something to do. And maybe in the morning there will be clouds.

Something buzzes in the corner of her hearing and she freezes, her ears twitching. The Capitas! She'd thought they might let them loose in here, now that the other tributes know about them too. But just as she hears the noise properly, it dances away again. She frowns.

A loud noise makes her blink in surprise, some kind of instrument. Not like the delicate tones of the recorders and the mockingjays back home, something bold and brash that hurts. She's heard about this before, maybe on the Grapevine. This is where they tell you who died.

The first face is the sharp-featured girl who was dressed like a robot once. She looks like you could cut yourself on her. Ever saw her steal an instructor's watch.

The second is one of the pirates, the boy one. He sat in a corner and watched everybody. Ever inspects the face closely for any kind of imperfection but finds none.

The girl with all the hair, popping out from her head like it's trying to escape. This makes her chuckle, the idea of the girl's hair running away.

A girl with calm eyes and a quiet face gazes down sadly over everybody. Ever thinks that she looks unhappy that they're all fighting. She must have seen her before but she can't remember.

The boy is different, younger and he looks very alive in his picture, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his mouth all pursed up. He looks like he's tasting something not very nice.

The pretty girl who was good at everything. Ever didn't like her much. She tried to talk to her like she was a little child even though she was younger.

A boy, well to Ever he's practically a grown-up, looking blank. He sat in front of her in the parade thing, dressed as a cowboy, and he spent a lot of time looking at the horses.

Nocturne, his eyes big and white and slightly crazed. That makes her sad inside. He was funny and he believed about the Capitas. And he knew about home.

The quiet boy who said his name was Aidan, the boy with the dog who ate the Capita potatoes. His dog will be sad now. This makes Ever sad too.

That's all. She watches carefully but soon Aidan's tear-streaked face is gone and there's just the stars again. She sighs. Her ma said you could make stories from the stars but whenever she tries she always forgets the beginning and then what happens and gets confused.

Ever lies in her little space, the grass around her somehow undisturbed. She hasn't eaten in a while but she isn't hungry. She doesn't need a drink. She has no reason to move. Instead, she tries to count the stars, starting again every time she loses count. And she feels happy that she doesn't snore.

Tomorrow she will dig her hole.