The Panther Girl: 55th Hunger Games

Chapter 13

Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. The numbers, yellow and restlessly humming, hover on a hologram timer above the horn, black as obsidian and vibrating with the heat. Each time the number on the timer changes, an adrenaline-inducing pound follows. Whether intentional or not, each pound is unnervingly similar to the sound of a heartbeat. I feel the heat as it beats through me, a composition of white air and last goodbyes. Then, through a blinding, dusty haze, the arena.

The tops of few redwoods come into view, confirming the scent. I allow myself a look around the arena. Just enough so I see what's there. And this will be my home for two weeks- if I live- so why not become acquainted with it?

Redwoods to the front and right-hand side of me. . . boulders to the north. . . a field of some kind to the south. At least, if anything, I know where I'll most likely be headed when I get through this.

Finally, I can see enough to detect a circle around me. Only I'm part of it. Around the obsidian Cornucopia is a circle of tributes on identical metal plates. Each waiting for the timer to tick down. Each making a plan. Patiently waiting for the chance to fight their way to the horn, taking their chances with the other tributes to gather supplies. Or, to run for the forest or wilderness, taking their chances with the Gamemakers.

Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven. I look to either sides of me. It does take me a second to confirm what district is wearing what color jacket. But eventually I do. I have the luck of being placed between a Career and The Boy Who Wrestles Death. The boys from Four and Five. The smaller of the two, unfortunately, has at least forty pounds on me, and both certainly may be considering the possibility of killing me. Before my frazzled brain can freak out over this alone, I remind myself that my training score has kept away most of the tributes, and that with any luck, they'll be more concerned about keeping their own skins safe than trying to take me on. Nonetheless, I take it that they wouldn't hesitate to try if they had to. I may have my intimidation, but what good will that do when a bigger tribute decides to take me down? Nothing.

Forty-two. Forty-one. My eyes turn to the selection spilling from the horn. In the Cornucopia, there's always a large range of supplies, but I notice that there are some unusual items among the piles this year. There are the usual backpacks and sleeping bags, loaves of bread and sacks of apples. Spears. Packs of knives. Netting. But also, I spot some others- a whip, a bag of darts. Some throwing stars. Even the silver glint of what looks to be poison grenades.

Wait. I spot a rectangular bag with an arm strap, silver feathers sticking out. The familiar curved shape of wood, fine but strong string . . . Yes. I grin when I see it, because it's exactly what I need.

If I have a bow, I have a chance. And the best part is that a route to it only requires a straight line. Almost too good to be true. . .

Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. I look at the bow, the beautiful, tempting shape of it. How much I would love to get my hands on it, to test its strength, my strength, to show off my ability with it. But the redwoods beckon and I feel a tug in my gut. Something's pointing me towards the redwoods, and I feel the need to escape. To leave behind the lush grass in front of my pedestal before it stains itself red.

I shake my head. It's too good to be true, I tell myself firmly. Too risky. No. But suddenly a movement catches my eye. I glance in its general direction, and find familiar green eyes staring back at me. Eli is giving me a look that is like a flashlight in complete darkness. It's so obvious what he's communicating. But the message is so unlike him, I'm not sure whether or not one of our plans is just going to get us killed.

Eli's nodding at me. I still feel the pull towards the redwoods, but it's getting weaker each second. And I know it's a suicidal plan, but Eli always comes up with the better. And if I don't follow him through with this, I will somehow have to come up with a plan of my own within the next fifteen seconds that I won't get absolutely killed standing on my pedestal. Not many options to choose from.