The whole school had assembled by this time. They made their way over to the section of twenty-four mentor seats, which were set in the same place they’d been for the reaping. Everyone able was required to attend, whether they had a viable tribute or not. “Let’s not sit in the front,” said Lysistrata. “I don’t want that camera right in my face when he’s killed.” She was right, of course. The camera would go to the mentor, and if Lucy Gray died, especially if Lucy Gray died, he was assured a good, long close-up.
Coriolanus obliged her by heading toward the back row. As they settled themselves in, he turned his attention to the giant screen on which Lucky Flickerman acted as tour guide to the districts, giving background about their industries, spiced with weather facts and the occasional magic trick. The Hunger Games had been a big break for Lucky, and he was not above accompanying his District 5 spiel on energy with some gadget that made his hair stand on end. “It’s electrifying!” he panted.
“You’re an idiot,” muttered Lysistrata, and then something caught her attention. “That must’ve been an awful flu.”
Coriolanus followed her gaze to the table, where Clemensia had just collected her communicuff. She was scanning the room for someone. . . . Oh, it was him! The moment their eyes met, she made a beeline for the back row, and she didn’t look happy. She looked terrible, really. The bright yellow of her eyes had faded to a pale pollen shade, and a long-sleeved, high-collared, white blouse concealed the scaly area, but even with those improvements, she radiated sickliness. She picked distractedly at the dry patches on her face, and her tongue, while not protruding from her mouth, seemed bent on exploring the inside of her cheek. She made her way to the seat directly in front of him and stood there, flicking bits of skin randomly into the air as she examined him.
“Thanks for visiting, Coryo,” Clemensia said.
“I meant to, Clemmie, I was pretty beat-up —” he started to explain.
She cut him off. “Thanks for contacting my parents. Thanks for letting them know where I was.”
Lysistrata looked puzzled. “We knew where you were, Clem. They said you couldn’t have visitors because you were contagious. I tried to call once, but they said you were sleeping.”
Coriolanus ran with that. “I tried, too, Clemmie. Repeatedly. They always gave me the runaround. And as to your parents, the doctors promised they were on the way.” None of that was true, but what could he say? Obviously, the venom had unbalanced her, or she wouldn’t even be bringing the whole incident up in such a public setting. “If I was wrong, I’m sorry. As I said, I’ve been recovering myself.”
“Really?” she said. “You looked top-notch at the interview. You and your tribute.”
“Easy, Clem. It’s not his fault you got sick,” said Festus, who’d arrived in time to hear enough of the conversation.
“Oh, shut up, Festus. You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Clemensia spat out, and stomped off to take a seat near the front.
Festus settled down next to Lysistrata. “What’s her problem? Other than she looks like she’s molting.”
“Oh, who knows? We’re all a mess,” said Lysistrata.
“Still, that isn’t like her. I wonder what —” Festus began.
“Sejanus!” Coriolanus called out, happy for an interruption. “Over here!” There was an empty seat next to him, and he needed to shift the conversation.
“Thanks,” said Sejanus, dropping into the seat on the end. He looked unwell, exhausted, with a feverish sheen on his skin.
Lysistrata reached across Coriolanus and pressed one of his hands. “The sooner it starts, the sooner it can be over.”
“Until next year,” he reminded her. But he gave her hand a grateful pat back.
The students had barely been instructed to take their seats when the seal of the Capitol overtook the screens and the anthem drew everyone to their feet. Coriolanus’s voice rang out over those of the other mentors, who mumbled their way through. Honestly, by this point, couldn’t they make a little effort?
When Lucky Flickerman returned and extended his hands in a welcoming gesture, Coriolanus could see the bright candy smear from the magic trick on his palm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let the Tenth Hunger Games begin!”
A wide shot of the arena’s interior replaced Lucky. The fourteen tributes who remained on his list were positioned in a large circle, awaiting the opening gong. No one paid any attention to them, or to the new wreckage from the bombing that littered the field, or to the weapons strewn on the dusty ground, or to the flag of Panem strung from the stands, adding an unprecedented decorative touch to the arena.
All eyes moved with the camera, riveted as it slowly zoomed in to the pair of steel poles not far from the main entrance of the arena. They were twenty feet high, joined by a crossbeam of similar length. At the center of the structure, Marcus hung from manacled wrists, so battered and bloody that at first Coriolanus thought they were displaying his corpse. Then Marcus’s swollen lips began to move, showing his broken teeth and leaving little doubt he was still alive.
CHAPTER 14
Coriolanus felt ill but incapable of looking away. It would have been horrifying to see any creature displayed this way — a dog, a monkey, a rat, even — but a boy? And a boy whose only real crime had been to run for his life? Had Marcus gone on a killing spree throughout the Capitol, it would have been one thing, but no such reports had followed in the wake of his escape. Coriolanus flashed back to the funeral parades. The grisliest exhibits — Brandy dangling from a hook and the tributes being dragged through the streets — had been reserved for the dead. The Hunger Games themselves had the twisted brilliance of pitting district child against district child, so the Capitol kept its hands clean of actual violence. There was no precedent for Marcus’s torture. Under Dr. Gaul’s guidance, the Capitol had reached a new level of retaliation.
The image drained the party atmosphere from Heavensbee Hall. The interior of the arena had no microphones, except for a few around the oval wall, so none were close enough to hear if Marcus was trying to speak. Coriolanus desperately wished for the gong to sound, to release the tributes into action and distraction, but the opening stasis stretched on.
He could feel Sejanus shaking with rage, and he had just turned to put a quieting hand on him, when the boy sprang from his seat and ran forward. The mentor section had five empty chairs in the front reserved for their missing classmates. Sejanus grabbed the one on the corner and hurled it toward the screen, smashing it into the image of Marcus’s ravaged face. “Monsters!” he screamed. “You’re all monsters here!” Then he dashed back down the aisle and out the main entrance to the hall. No one moved a muscle to stop him.
The gong sounded at that moment, and the tributes scattered. Most fled to the gates that led to the tunnels, several of which had been blown open by the latest bombing. Coriolanus could see Lucy Gray’s bright dress heading for the far side of the arena, and his fingers gripped the edge of his seat, willing her forward. Run, he thought. Run! Get out of there! A handful of the strongest sprinted for the weapons, but after grabbing a few, Tanner, Coral, and Jessup dispersed. Only Reaper, armed with a pitchfork and a long knife, seemed ready to engage. But by the time he was on the offensive, no one remained to fight. He turned to watch the receding backs of his opponents, threw back his head in frustration, and climbed into a nearby stand to begin his hunt.
The Gamemakers took this opportunity to cut back to Lucky. “Wish you’d placed a bet but couldn’t make it to the post office? Finally decided on a tribute to back?” A phone number flashed at the bottom of the screen. “You can do it all by phone now! Just call the number below, give your citizen digits, the name of the tribute, and the dollar amount you’d like to bet or gift, and you’ll be part of the action! Or if you’d rather make a transaction in person, the post office will be open daily from eight to eight. Come on, don’t miss out on this historic moment. It’s your chance to support the Capitol and make a tidy profit, too. Be a part of the Hunger Games and be a winner! Now back to the arena!”
Within a few minutes, the arena had cleared of every tribute except Reaper, and after roaming around the stands for a bit, he ducked out of sight, too. Marcus and his agony became the focus of the Games again.
“Should you go after Sejanus?” Lysistrata whispered to Coriolanus.
“I think he’d rather be alone,” he whispered back. Which was probably true but secondary to the fact that he didn’t want to miss anything, trigger a response from Dr. Gaul, or publicly link himself to Sejanus. This growing perception that they were great friends, that he was the confidant of the loose cannon from the districts, was beginning to worry him. Passing out sandwiches was one thing, throwing the chair quite another. There were sure to be repercussions, and he had enough troubles without adding Sejanus to the list.
A very long half hour passed before a distraction drew the audience’s attention. The bombs near the entrance had blown open the main gate, but a barricade had been built under the scoreboard. With its multiple layers of concrete slabs, wooden planks, and barbed wire, it was both an eyesore and a reminder of the rebel attack, which was probably why the Gamemakers hadn’t given it much screen time. However, with little else going on, they relented to show the audience a skinny, long-limbed girl creeping out from the fortification.
“That’s Lamina!” Pup told Livia, who was seated next to him a couple of rows ahead of Coriolanus.
Coriolanus had no recollection of Pup’s tribute except that she’d been unable to stop weeping at the first mentor-tribute meeting. Pup had failed to prepare her for the interview and had thus forfeited his chance to promote her. He couldn’t recall her district . . . 5 maybe?
A rather jarring voice-over set him straight. “Now we see fifteen-year-old Lamina from District Seven,” Lucky said. “Mentored by our own Pliny Harrington. District Seven has the honor of providing the Capitol with the lumber used to repair our beloved arena.”
Lamina surveyed Marcus, taking in his plight. The summer breeze ruffled her blonde halo of hair, and she squinted against the brightness of the sun. She wore a dress that looked to be fashioned from a flour sack and belted with a piece of rope, and insect bites dotted her bare feet and legs. Her eyes, puffy and exhausted, were reddened but tearless. In fact, she seemed strangely calm for her circumstances. Without haste, without nervousness, she crossed to the weapons and took her time choosing first a knife, then a small ax, testing each blade for sharpness with the tip of her thumb. She stuck the knife in her belt and swung the ax loosely back and forth, feeling its weight. Then she made her way to one of the poles. Her hand ran down the steel, which was rusty and paint-splattered from some previous job. Coriolanus thought she might try to chop it down, being from the lumber district and all, but instead she secured the ax handle between her teeth and began to climb it, using her knees and calloused feet to grip the metal. It looked natural, like a caterpillar making its way up a stem, but as someone who’d put in extra hours to scale the rope in gym class, he knew the strength it took.
When she reached the top of the post, Lamina regained her feet and slid the ax into her belt. Although the crossbeam couldn’t have measured more than six inches in width, she easily walked along it until she stood above Marcus. Straddling the beam, she locked her ankles for support and leaned over toward his battered head. She said something that the microphones couldn’t pick up, but he must have heard, because his lips moved in response. Lamina sat upright and considered the situation. Then she braced herself again, swung down, and drove the ax blade into the curved side of Marcus’s neck. Once. Twice. And on the third time, in a spray of blood, she succeeded in killing him. Regaining her seat, she wiped her hands clean on her skirt and stared off into the arena.
“That’s my girl!” Pup cried out. Suddenly, he appeared on the screen as the Heavensbee Hall camera streamed his reaction. Coriolanus caught a glimpse of himself a couple of rows behind Pup and sat up straighter. Pup grinned, revealing bits of his morning eggs in his braces, and gave a fist pump. “First kill of the day! That’s my tribute, Lamina, from District Seven,” he said to the camera. He held up his wrist. “And my communicuff is open for business. Never too late to show your support and send a gift!”
The phone number flashed on the screen again, and Coriolanus could hear a few faint pings coming from Pup’s communicuff as Lamina received some sponsor gifts. The Hunger Games felt more fluid, more changeful than he had prepared for. Wake up! he told himself. You’re not a spectator, you’re a mentor!
“Thank you!” Pup waved at the camera. “Well, I think she deserves a little something, don’t you?” He fiddled with the communicuff and looked up at the screen expectantly as the camera jumped back to Lamina. The audience watched with anticipation, as this would be the first attempt to deliver a gift to a tribute. A minute passed, then five. Coriolanus had begun to wonder if the technology had failed the Gamemakers, when a small drone clutching a pint-sized bottle of water in its claws appeared over the top of the arena by the entrance and made its way shakily to Lamina. It looped and dipped and even reversed course before crashing into the crossbeam a good ten feet from her and falling to the ground like a swatted insect. The bottle had cracked, so the water soaked into the dirt and vanished.
Lamina stared down at her gift, expressionless, as if she’d expected nothing more, but Pup burst out angrily, “Wait a minute! That’s not fair. Someone paid good money for that!” The crowd murmured in agreement. No immediate remedy followed, but a replacement bottle flew in ten minutes later, and this time, Lamina managed to snatch it from the drone, which followed its predecessor to a dusty death.
Lamina took an occasional sip of her water, but other than that, little movement occurred except the gathering of flies around Marcus’s body. Coriolanus could hear the occasional ping from Pup’s communicuff signifying additional gifts to Lamina, who seemed content to remain on the crossbeam. It wasn’t a bad strategy, really. Safer than the ground, for sure. She had a plan. She could kill. In less than an hour, Lamina had redefined herself as a contender in the Games. She seemed a lot tougher than Lucy Gray anyway. Wherever she was.
Time passed. With the exception of Reaper, who could occasionally be seen prowling the stands, none of the tributes presented themselves as hunters, not even the armed ones. Had it not been for Marcus’s presentation and Lamina’s finishing him off, it would have been an exceptionally slow opening. Usually, some sort of bloodbath could be counted on to kick off the Games, but with so many of the competitive tributes dead, the field consisted largely of prey.
The arena shrank to a small window at the corner of the screen as Lucky appeared, giving more district background and dropping in a weather report for good measure. Having a full-time host for the Games was new territory, and he struggled to create the role. When Tanner climbed up and strolled along the top row of the arena, he quickly threw the broadcast back, but the tribute only sat awhile in the sun before vanishing into the passages beneath the stands.
A rustling in the back of Heavensbee Hall turned heads, and Coriolanus spotted Lepidus Malmsey making his way up the aisle with his camera crew. He invited Pup to join him, and their interview went live. Pup, a previously untapped source, rattled off every detail he could think of about Lamina and then added several more that Coriolanus felt were fabricated, but even that only took a few minutes. This set the pattern for the morning. Brief informational interviews with mentors. Long expanses of inactivity in the arena. Everyone welcomed the lunch break.
“You lied about it being over quickly,” Lysistrata muttered as they lined up for the bacon sandwiches stacked on a table in the hall.
“Things will pick up,” Coriolanus said. “They have to.”
But it seemed they didn’t. The long, hot afternoon brought only a few more tribute sightings and a quartet of carrion birds that circled lazily above Marcus. Lamina managed to hack away at his restraints enough to send him tumbling to the ground. For her efforts, Pup sent her a slice of bread, which she broke up, rolled into small balls, and ate one at a time. Then she stretched out on her stomach, secured her spindly frame by tying her rope belt around the beam, and dozed off.
Capitol News found short-lived relief by streaming the plaza in front of the arena, where concession stands had been set up to sell drinks and sweets to citizens who’d come down to watch the Games on two large screens flanking the entrance. With so little happening in the arena, most of the attention ended up on a pair of dogs whose owner had dressed them up like Lucy Gray and Jessup. Coriolanus felt conflicted about it — he didn’t really like seeing that silly poodle in her rainbow ruffles — until a couple of pings registered on his communicuff and he decided there was no bad publicity. But the dogs tired and were taken home, and still nothing happened.
Five o’clock was nearing when Lucky introduced Dr. Gaul to the audience. He’d become visibly frazzled under the strain of keeping the coverage going. Throwing his hands up in bewilderment, he said, “What gives, Head Gamemaker?”
Dr. Gaul basically ignored him, speaking directly to the camera. “Some of you may be wondering about the slow start to the Games, but let me remind you what a wild ride it’s been just getting here. Over a third of the tributes never made it into the arena, and those who did, for the most part, weren’t exactly the powerhouses. In terms of fatalities, we’re running neck and neck with last year.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Lucky. “But I think I speak for a lot of people when I say, where are the tributes this year? Usually, they’re easier to spot.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the recent bombing,” said Dr. Gaul. “In previous years, the areas open to the tributes were largely restricted to the field and the stands, but last week’s attack opened up any number of cracks and crevices, providing easy access to the labyrinth of tunnels inside the walls of the arena. It’s a whole new Games, first finding another tribute, and then ferreting them out of some very dark corners.”
“Oh.” Lucky looked disappointed. “So we might have seen the last of some tributes?”
“Don’t worry. When they get hungry, they’ll start poking their heads out,” Dr. Gaul replied. “That’s another game changer. With the audience providing food, the Games could last indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely?” Lucky said.
“I hope you’ve got a lot more magic tricks up your sleeve!” cackled Dr. Gaul. “You know, I’ve got a rabbit mutt I’d love to see you pull out of a hat. It’s part pit bull.”
Lucky blanched a bit and attempted a laugh. “No, thanks. I’ve got my own pets, Dr. Gaul.”
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Coriolanus whispered to Lysistrata.
“I don’t,” she answered. “They deserve each other.”
At five o’clock, Dean Highbottom dismissed the student body, but the fourteen mentors with tributes stayed on, largely because their communicuffs only worked through transmitters at the Academy or the Capitol News station itself.
Around seven o’clock, a real dinner appeared for the “talent,” which made Coriolanus feel important and right at the center of things. The pork chops and potatoes were certainly better fare than what they had at home — another reason for wanting Lucy Gray to stay alive. Sopping up the gravy on his plate, he wondered if she was hungry. As they collected their blueberry tarts and cream, he pulled Lysistrata aside to discuss the situation. Their tributes should have a nice little stash of food from the good-bye meeting, especially if Jessup had lost his appetite, but what about water? Was there a source inside the arena? And even if they wanted to, how would they go about sending in supplies without revealing their tributes’ hiding spot? Dr. Gaul was likely right about the tributes poking their heads out if they wanted something. Until then, they reasoned, the best strategy would be to sit tight.
As they finished dessert, some activity in the arena drew the mentors back to their seats. Io Jasper’s District 3 boy, Circ, crawled out of the barricade near the entrance and looked around before waving someone in. A small, scruffy girl with dark, frizzy hair scrambled out after him. Lamina, still napping on the beam, opened one eye to determine their threat level.
“No worries, my sweet Lamina,” said Pup to the screen. “Those two couldn’t climb a stepladder.” Apparently, Lamina agreed, because all she did was adjust her body to a more comfortable position.
Lucky Flickerman came up in the corner of the screen, a napkin tucked into his collar and a smudge of blueberry on his chin, and reminded the audience that the children were the tributes from District 3, the technology district. Circ was the boy who’d claimed he could ignite things with his glasses. “And the girl’s name is . . .” Lucky glanced off-screen for a cue card. “Teslee! Teslee from Three! And she’s being mentored by our own . . .” Lucky looked off again, but this time seemed lost. “That would be our own . . .”
“Oh, make an effort,” Urban Canville grumbled from the first row. Like Io, his parents were some kind of scientists, physicists maybe? Urban was so ill-tempered everyone felt fine resenting the perfect scores he brought in on calculus tests. Coriolanus thought he could hardly blame Lucky for laziness after ditching the interview. Teslee looked small but not hopeless.
“Our own Turban Canville!” said Lucky.
“Urban, not Turban!” said Urban. “Honestly, could they get a professional?”
“Unfortunately, we did not see Turban and Teslee at the interview,” said Lucky.
“Because she refused to speak to me!” Urban snapped.
“Somehow immune to his charms,” said Festus, causing the back row to laugh.
“I’m going to send Circ something right now. No telling when I’ll see him again,” announced Io, working her communicuff. Coriolanus could see Urban following suit.