Lock And Key Game Tasks

Task Two: The Maze of Death

He rolled off Roy's body, listening carefully to the gurgles and wet coughs that wracked the poor boy as he died. Grabbing Roy's dagger and his, Sartan stood and pressed a hand to his side.

It came back sticky with blood.

Sartan grinned.

Shifting into a crouch, Sartan crept toward Conner, but the boy was silent. As he neared his body, Sartan realized the arrow had pierced Conner's forehead.

He yanked out the arrow, slipped it into the quiver and retrieved his bow. He sheathed both daggers in his belt, threw the bow over his shoulder, and flicked his thumb and index finger together.

Ten steps to his left lay a spear left behind from a previous battle.

He grabbed it with his right hand and stood, listening for more tributes.

Thuds and thumps of slamming doors echoed around the room, making Sartan frown. Doors? he wondered. When at last silence stretched across the room, Sartan walked into the Cornucopia. Instead of flicking his thumb and forefinger together, he felt around with his hands. Everything is too close together, so I'll have to search by hand to tell what's inside here, he thought.

His hands felt leather, and he continued searching around it until he grabbed a strap. Slipping the pack over his left shoulder, he continued searching the Cornucopia.

His fingers grazed metal and he clasped it in his hand. A key? What does a key have to do with anything? He frowned and ran his fingers over the key.

There was a number engraved on it. Three.

Three? District number perhaps? He shook off the thought, trying to think of what else the key meant. Remembering the slamming doors, he nodded to himself and left the Cornucopia behind.

The pinging clank sounded again, directly under his feet. Instantaneously, he jumped forward, not caring where he was going. The whoosh that sounded just inches behind him told him he barely escaped.

Pounding the spear against the floor, he listened as the sound bounced around. There was a wall to his left, eleven feet away. He walked over to it, and used his left hand to try and search for the doors.

For the second time, he hated being blind.

He struggled to calm the anger that boiled inside his veins, pumping through his body like blood. I am not inferior. I am not a target, he chanted to himself. I am a Rhathone. We do not admit defeat.

To distract himself, he trained his mind back to the death and blood... the killing. A sort of thrilling excitement bubbled up inside his chest, but there was a deeper feeling underneath it, a darker feeling he didn't want to decipher.

At last, he finally found a door, and as he continued feeling along the rough wood, his hands found a number engraved on it. Thirteen. Not the correct one.

When he tried the handle it was locked, and the key wouldn't go in. Cursing, he went to his right along the wall, searching for the door with the correct number.

The hole chased him around the room, and distantly he suspected the Gamemakers were sitting up there, having fun trying to tempt the blind man to fall in the hole.

He used his keen sense of hearing to avoid it as he searched along the wall, feeling for the correct number. He wasn't sure how much time passed, only that it took him far longer than anyone else.

I am not weak, he firmly stated.

Finally, he came to a door that was numbered three. He used his key to unlock it and stepped into the room.

Pounding the spear against the floor again, he listened to the sound. It told him he was in another room, considerably smaller than the previous one, with a pedestal in the center. He walked to it and used his left hand to feel around it. Lying on top of it was another dagger, a bow and arrow set and an empty backpack. He took the arrows, sheathed the dagger.

There has to be a way out, he thought. Feeling around the room, he found another door on the opposite side and walked through it.

He paused once he closed the door behind him, and slammed the bottom of the spear against the floor once again.

Sound traveled through the area, bouncing off walls on either side of him, but it continued straight through the center and never returned.

So it's a long hallway, Sartan thought.

Reaching his left hand out, he touched the wall of the narrow hallway. He used it to guide him as he walked along, listening for the slightest sounds.

His stomach lurched and his head pounded against his skull furiously. Suddenly growing tired, he struggled to rein in the fatigue and lightheadedness that slammed into him in waves.

As he stalked to hunt for more victims, blood trickled down his side, dripping onto his leg to pool on the floor below him.