1
Run.
My feet take off before my brain is really aware of what’s happening, and I’m tripping over various objects scattered around the Cornucopia: pots, packets of biscuits, a pair of shorts. The weapons will be closer to the Cornucopia itself, but I’m not going back there, and I’m sure the careers already have them anyway. I speed up, my heart beating crazily. I wonder if I’m being followed, and glance behind me. A largely built boy from District 3—Bolt, I think his name is—is hot on my heels, a dangerous glimmer in his eye and a bloody dagger held high in his right hand.
As I’m watching, surprise flashes across his face, and he stumbles to the floor. His dagger clatters, his face slams into the solid concrete of the ground that surrounds the Cornucopia. The sound of a cannon, like a thunderbolt, echoes around the arena. A thin silver sword sticks out of his back, and I gasp as a god-like figure leaps over the boy’s fallen body and pulls the sword from his flesh. The figure is a silhouette against the sky, bleached golden by the sun. I hold my hand up against the glare and, distracted, my foot gets caught in some sort of clothing on the floor, and I trip up. The left side of my face smashes into the concrete, and I think I feel my nose break. I curse under my breath, sure that Bolt’s murderer is hot on my heels, and my trip will cost me my life. But as the silhouette leaps over Bolt’s body and looms over me, I hear it—or should I say, him—chuckle.
“Good luck, little bird,” he whispers, “Time to fly away.” And then he disappears into the mess of the battlefield behind me. I stare after him, feeling a little dizzy. Whoever the mysterious figure was, he possesses my mind long enough to keep me pinned to the ground for more time than I’d have liked. I shake my head and scramble to my feet, hugging the jumper I tripped over. Now I really have to get moving. I survey my surroundings: the bloody battle behind me, the sandy beach to my right, some kind of thick forest—a jungle, I think—before me, and the mysterious drop that I guess is some sort of valley to my left. I decide to go forward—the jungle will provide better cover than the beach or valley, and if it has animals in it, there must be a water source somewhere.
I’m not going to waste anymore time deciding—I fall into a sprint just as a second cannon explodes, the trees of the jungle suddenly seeming so far away. I can hear footsteps to my left, my right, behind me, chasing me. My heart is beating like a trapped bird, desperate to break free. The bloodbath behind me propels me forward. I just have to keep moving. We’ve barely been in the Games five minutes, and two of us are already dead.
“Just a little further . . .” I breathe heavily, forcing myself forwards even though my legs already ache. If I can just get to the jungle, climb a tree; stay somewhere safe for a bit. Then maybe I’ll be alright. Then maybe I’ll survive the night.
So I run and run and run, the line of trees that mark the entrance to the jungle seeming further with every step I take. Parallel to me, a blur races against me to reach the trees. We leap over a muddy track that marks the end of the concrete floor of the Cornucopia and, in line, we sprint until the mouth of the jungle swallows us. I collapse onto the soft, slightly moist floor, panting. I can’t move, even though I know the careers are behind me. I just want to curl up here, and die painlessly.
Something about this arena reminds me of the first Hunger Games I ever remember watching. It was only five years ago, but as a child I’d never paid much attention to the Games. But this one stuck in my memory. It was the 32nd Hunger Games, and the arena was an endless open landscape, like a muddy marsh. As a nine year-old child, I watched the Games play out with tears in my eyes and a pain in my heart.
