CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: HAYMITCH
After Maysilee had torched the dense shrubbery that lined the cliff and said her goodbye, Haymitch angrily started chucking rocks off the cliff.
He had kicked a couple of pebbles into the void below, and had been surprised to see them jump back up at him, landing where they had started. "What the?" Haymitch questioned what he had just witnessed. He squinted at the space in front of him. Past the cliff, the mountainous terrain ended. Was it his imagination, or was there a shimmer? Was this the end of the arena?
"Fuck", he wound up his arm, a rock the size of a tea cup gripped tightly in his fingers, "you." The rock sailed off into the abyss. Grinding his teeth, he picked up a slightly smaller rock by his boot. He hoped that a camera had picked up his words and that the gamemakers were hearing him.
The rock came hurtling back at him, right where his hand had released it.
Haymitch ripped loose a laugh. "You bastards!"
His laughter was cut short when he heard a scream. Instantly, he recognized it as Maysilee's voice. She had just said not to follow her, but she hadn't been in imminent danger then. Consequences be damned, if she needed help, he was going to find her. I'm coming for you.
Haymitch was too late. The aftermath was a blur. The hovercraft that lifted her out whirred over his shoulder but he barely noticed. The body that had been Maysilee Donner floated away to be processed and discarded like the cheap entertainment her life in the arena had been. Shock washed over him like the flood after a dam broke. His promise to Sage had been broken, utterly and irretrievably. For the first time since he had entered the arena, his goal was to get himself out of the Capitol. They had taken everything from him. But Haymitch knew he had the inner cruelty to kill every last tribute and win the whole game. The games had cost him his humanity, but they wouldn't cost him his life.
The face of the dying little girl he had mercy killed with Sage came back to him.
Maysilee's cannon went off. Boom.
He had to get moving. The hovercraft would have alerted the other tributes of a possible location. Haymitch stared at the spot in the fake sky where Maysilee's body had disappeared.
Half the day was spent already, and he used the last half to march back to the end of the arena and wander along the cliffs, careful to stay away from the edge and check for threats behind him every few paces. Just keep going, until this is all over, he told himself. Then, you'll wake up from this nightmare and be back with Fern and mother. Just keep going.
What he really needed was a drink.
The thought of a bottle of whiskey kept him going. Haymitch needed to forget, needed to drown out the thoughts that wouldn't stop haunting him.
The first thing he would do if he got back to twelve, he resolved, was stock the Victors Village with liquor. He would have his pick of the extravagant, enormous mansions that lined the streets of the empty neighborhood. Fern would like it there, with more space to run around than their cramped hovel that was always dusty back in the Seam. Haymitch fantasized about the golden whiskey bottles, Greasy Sae's special ginger moonshine, the glittery purple liquor Maysilee had introduced to him, and all the other drinks he would line his mansion with. He would buy a proper bar and open it up to whoever wanted to come around and share a drink with them at no expense.
The last of the water slid down his throat. Any day now, any hour now, Haymitch knew the game would end. I bet the others are running out of resources, too, he thought.
Feeling like he had covered enough ground to be safe, he sat down at the edge of the cliff. His legs dangled over in the free air, kicking like a small child. The wind nipped at his face, but he barely felt it. He had gone numb. The shimmer waved about six feet in front of his nose, bending with the wind. Squinting, he studied it. The shimmer reminded him of an opal, iridescent with flashes of blue, pink, purple, yellow ever so faintly.
Boom, a cannon fired off. That brings us to the final three, Haymitch counted.
He sighed. She would have gone feral, anyways, he thought. Would the gamemakers' cronies have reversed the effects of the butterflies if she had won and been pulled from the arena alive? Haymitch would never know.
Reassured that he had fewer tributes to deal with, Haymitch produced the jerky from his backpack and had a little picnic. He had turned back around to the woods and found a spot up on a hill where he could look over the mountains. The mountains back in twelve were dwarfed by these ones. In a long lost civilization, Haymitch remembered from school, there was a mountain range called the Alps. He had seen pictures and reckoned that the gamemakers had too. Sharp, jagged peaks crowned the tallest mountain. The arena was certainly the most beautiful the gamemakers had ever constructed. The meadow they had started the game in had been covered with wildflowers, babbling brooks, and singing birds. All of which were poisonous.
The jerky was tough to chew, especially since he had run out of water to wash it down. I can't wait for real food again, he thought. The Capitol's feasts would be preferred, but at this point, he would scarf down Greasy Sae's 'beef' stew.
Boom. A cannon fired off, marking another tribute's death. That meant.... Haymitch had made it to the final two.
He wanted this to be over with, and assumed his fellow finalist would too. Doing them both a favor, Haymitch picked up his knife and headed in, biting down the last of his food to give himself strength. He was betting that they would both be heading towards the arena for a showdown. The sun was setting, but the moon was already sparkling unnaturally brightly in the fake twilight sky. There wouldn't be much entertainment value for the Capitol if they couldn't see their desperate tributes."Come out, come out, wherever you are," Haymitch beckoned. The woods gave away to the grassy undergrowth of the meadow. He crushed a patch of robin's egg pansies under his boot. A beautiful place to die. He shouted into the void, hoping to attract the attention of whoever his final opponent was.
Haymitch had almost reached the cornucopia when his call was answered. Emerging from the woods, there was a tall, muscular girl with a bow strapped to her back. The quiver only had one arrow left. Her long, blonde hair was fashioned in two buns on top of her head, but they were lopsided and out of place as if she had just been running.
"Venus," he growled. An original member of the career pack, Sage had killed her ally Terce, and Maysilee had taken out her friend Pompey. Their history made it all the richer that they would be the last two standing. He wanted to hate her, and when he looked her in the eyes all he could think of was Sage, with the arrow in his stomach.
But the longer that he looked at her, the more he could see the fifteen year old she was. Had she spent fifteen years being groomed by the Capitol's spiders in district one? Career tributes often had no real childhood. No soft arms to run to if they fell, no games of tag on the playground, no funny stories to tell at school. He was only sixteen, a year older, but Venus seemed so young to him, despite her intimidating physical stature. Her whole life should still have been ahead of her. It wasn't Venus's fault that the games demanded a victor, and it wasn't Haymitch's fault that the games demanded a victor. But here they were, and only one of them could walk away.
Haymitch couldn't hate her, but he could hate the gamemakers, he could hate President Snow.
Most of all, he hated all of the Capitol citizens who weren't gamemakers but tuned in every year to watch the games, to place their bets, to pick their favorites, and threw parties to celebrate their only real entertainment in their dull, perfect lives.
Venus had acquired an ax since he had last seen her. She brandished it with grace and balance. Haymitch's knife seemed small and fragile in comparison. But it was what he had to work with. Not wanting to delay the inevitable, they ran at each other. Haymitch slashed wide, trying to get in a shot at her neck. Venus blocked his attack with little effort. His knife chinked against the hilt of her ax. She twisted the ax, shifting Haymitch's balance and forcing his wrist to retreat.
He grinded his teeth.
"By the way," Venus huffed, swinging at his left shoulder and missing as he rolled away. "Your friend, the other boy from twelve?" Haymitch climbed to his feet again, his ribs aching from the force of rolling on the ground. Venus was panting hard. He flew at her, straight as an arrow, and managed to lodge the blade in her right eye. She shrieked in agony, but he scraped out her eye. Where the eye had been, a red bloody hole was. Haymitch cringed. The eyeball dropped off his knife. With her guard down due to the shock, Haymitch managed a gash in her chest.
Venus screamed again. "I killed him! Like he killed Terce!" Huffing, the two of them stepped back. They circled each other, their weapons drawn. Blood trickled down Venus's cheek. She spit.
They tussled again, knife against ax. Haymitch was wearing down, getting slower. He bowled over when Venus struck him in the stomach with the blade of her ax. The blow was deep and painful. He cried out. When the ax retreated, the gash in his stomach widened. His intestines spilled out, slimy and pink. With shaking hands, he tried to hold them in. He had no chance staying there with his innards literally falling out of him. Haymitch clenched them back into his stomach as best he could. Running was his only shot.
Behind him, Venus pulled out her last arrow. He heard the arrow whistle as it took flight, but Haymitch successfully dodged. Venus cursed, and ran in pursuit of him. "You're only going to make this harder for yourself!" she yelled, wielding her ax at her side.
Trying not to vomit at the squishy feeling of holding in his intestines, Haymitch sprinted as fast as he could. The seconds Venus had spent trying to shoot him gave him a lead.
They raced away from the cornucopia, back the way that Haymitch had come. Make it to the cliff, make it to the cliff, he repeated to himself, trying to focus on anything other than his stomach. His breath was going ragged and starting to get shallow, a worrying sign. But he knew that victors had come out of the arena in worse shape and been patched up by the gamemakers' magic. One girl had been technically dead for half a minute a few years ago. Haymitch was at least still breathing.
Haymitch and Venus passed the hill where he had picniced only an hour ago. The beauty of the arena was difficult to appreciate when you were disemboweled.
"You can't get away!"
He didn't dignify that with a response, wondering if he could speak right now even if he had wanted to. His feet were heavy underneath him, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Slowing down would mean an ax to the back, and loose intestines would be the least of his worries. They neared the cliff, the shimmer visible to Haymitch's watchful gaze. He came to a halt. Yelling obscenities, Venus threw her ax at his head. The ax shaved the side of his cheek, but failed to decapitate him and hurtled off the cliff. She shrieked again in frustration.
"I'll outlast you, even without my ax," she grimaced. The blood loss was taking its toll on Haymitch, sending the world spinning. He couldn't see straight anymore. Somewhere in between the cornucopia and here, he had lost his knife.
Venus fell to her knees. As far as Haymitch could tell, her wounds were severe too. The gash he had left in her chest was not clotting, and she was missing an eye. Haymitch collapsed on the ground, unable to stay standing any longer. His head swam. He lay down on his back at the edge of the cliff, still holding in his own stomach.
Then it happened, as he had predicted. The arena was on his side. In a whirring blur, the ax came back around, and found itself lodged in Venus's skull.
Boom, went the final cannon.
Trumpets began to blare.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games, Haymitch Abernathy! I give you - the tribute of district twelve!"