Not bothering to bathe, he collapsed into a comatose sleep until the sound of the Grandma’am singing the anthem woke him. Time to be getting up anyway. Aching head to toe, he teetered to the shower, removed the gauze from his arm, and let the hot water scream over his scraped flesh. He had a tube of ointment from his time in the hospital and, although unsure of its use, dabbed it on his raw face and chin. The stitches on his arm snagged on his clean shirt, but no new bleeding appeared. He’d wear his jacket today just in case. Throwing a toothbrush and fresh uniform in his book bag, he took one last look in the mirror and sighed. Bicycle accident, he thought. That’s the story. Not that I’ve had a working bicycle in years. Well, now he had an excuse for its broken condition.
Once he was presentable, the first thing he did was check the television to make sure no harm had come to Lucy Gray. But the camera hadn’t shifted, and the only tribute visible in the early morning light was Lamina on her beam. Avoiding the Grandma’am, he came into the kitchen, where Tigris was warming up the leftover jasmine tea.
“Running late,” he said. “I better get going.”
“Take this for breakfast.” She put a packet in his hands and placed a pair of tokens in his pocket. “And take the trolley today.”
Needing to conserve energy, he did as he was told, riding the trolley and eating two loaded egg-and-sausage rolls Mrs. Plinth had sent over. His only regret about ditching the Plinths would be the loss of her cooking.
The main student body had been told to report at a quarter to eight, so the early birds consisted of the active mentors and a few Avoxes tidying the hall. Coriolanus couldn’t help throwing a guilty look at Juno Phipps, who sat discussing her strategy with Domitia when she could have slept in. He didn’t much like her — she was always throwing her family lineage in his face, as if his wasn’t as good — but last night hadn’t been fair to her either. He wondered how they would reveal Bobbin’s death and how he would feel when they did. Besides queasy.
The only thing being served at Heavensbee Hall was tea, which brought grumblings from Festus. “If we have to be here early, you’d think they could at least feed us. What happened to your face?”
“Bike accident,” Coriolanus said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He tossed the bag with the last roll to Festus, happy to be able to offer food for a change. He owed the Creeds more meals than he cared to remember.
“Thanks. This looks great,” said Festus, digging in immediately.
Lysistrata recommended a cream to prevent infection, and they went ahead and took their seats as their schoolmates began to arrive.
Although the sun had been up for a few hours, nothing much appeared changed on the screen except the disappearance of Marcus’s body. “I guess they removed it,” said Pup. But Coriolanus thought it might still be by the barricade where he and Sejanus had abandoned it last night, just out of range of the shot.
At the stroke of eight, they all rose for the anthem, which his classmates finally seemed to be getting a handle on, and then Lucky Flickerman appeared, welcoming them to day two of the Hunger Games. “While you were sleeping, something pretty important happened. Let’s take a look, shall we?” They cut back to the wide shot of the arena, and then slowly panned the camera round to the barricade, zooming in. As Coriolanus had suspected, Marcus’s body lay where he and Sejanus had dropped it. A few feet away, Bobbin’s battered form slumped against a chunk of concrete. It looked much, much worse than he’d imagined. The bloody limbs, the dislodged eye, the face so swollen it was unrecognizable. Had he really done that to another boy? And such a young boy, too, for in death Bobbin looked tinier than ever. Lost in that dark web of terror, it seemed he had. Perspiration beaded Coriolanus’s forehead, and he wanted to leave the hall, the building, the entire event behind. But, of course, that wasn’t an option. Who was he — Sejanus?
After a good long look at the bodies, the show cut back to Lucky as he pondered who might have done the deed. Then his mood changed abruptly. “One thing we do know is that we’ve got something to celebrate!” Confetti fell from the ceiling, and Lucky blew madly away on a plastic horn. “Because we’ve just hit the halfway mark! That’s right, twelve tributes down, and only twelve to go!” A string of brightly colored handkerchiefs shot out of his hand. He swung it around his head, dancing and cheering, “Whoowee!” When he finally wound down, he adopted a sad expression. “But that also means we’ve got to say our farewells to Miss Juno Phipps. Lepidus?”
Lepidus had already positioned himself at the end of the unsuspecting Juno’s aisle, and she had no choice but to join him and work through her disappointment on camera. Given a little notice, Coriolanus imagined she’d have comported herself more graciously, but as it was, she came off as sour and suspicious, questioning the recent developments as she flashed a leather binder inlaid with the Phipps family crest. “Something seems fishy to me,” she told Lepidus. “I mean, what’s he doing over there with Marcus’s body? Who moved it? And how did Bobbin end up dead? I can’t even imagine a likely scenario. I feel like there might have been foul play!”
The reporter sounded genuinely puzzled. “What would qualify as foul play, exactly? I mean, in the arena?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” steamed Juno, “but I, for one, would really like to see a replay of last night’s events!”
Good luck with that, Juno, thought Coriolanus. Then he realized it did exist. In the back of the van, Dr. Gaul and Dean Highbottom had been watching both versions, the real feed and the one they’d darkened to obscure his mission. Even the regular one would be hard to make out. Still, he didn’t like it, the idea that somewhere there was a record, however shadowy, of him killing Bobbin. If it were ever to get out . . . well, he didn’t know what. But it made him uneasy.
Lepidus didn’t dally with Juno, a sore loser who lacked Felix’s grace in defeat, and she was directed back to her seat with a consoling pat on the back.
Still sparkly with confetti, Lucky seemed oblivious to her pain. He leaned in toward the camera with barely contained glee. “And now, what do you suppose? We’ve got an extra-big surprise — especially if you’re one of the twelve remaining mentors!”
Coriolanus only had a moment to exchange questioning looks with his friends before Lucky bounded across the studio to reveal Sejanus sitting side by side with his father, Strabo Plinth, whose stern expression seemed carved from the very granite of his home district. Lucky took the host chair and patted Sejanus on the leg. “Sejanus, I’m sorry we didn’t get a moment with you yesterday to let you comment on the demise of your tribute, Marcus.” Sejanus just stared at Lucky uncomprehendingly. Lucky seemed to notice the abrasions on his face for the first time. “What’s going on here? You look like you’ve been mixing it up yourself.”
“I fell off my bike,” Sejanus rasped, and Coriolanus winced slightly. Two biking mishaps in the same twelve-hour period seemed more than coincidental.
“Ouch. Well, I guess you have some pretty big news to share with us!” Lucky said with an encouraging nod.
Sejanus lowered his eyes for a moment, and while neither father nor son acknowledged each other, a battle seemed to be occurring.
“Yes,” Sejanus finally began. “We, the Plinth family, would like to announce that we will be giving a prize for a full ride to the University to the mentor whose tribute wins the Hunger Games.”
Pup let out a whoop, and the other mentors grinned at one another. Coriolanus knew most of them didn’t need the money as badly as he did, if at all, but it would be a feather in anyone’s cap.
“Sensational!” said Lucky. “What a thrill those twelve remaining mentors must be experiencing right now. Was this your idea, Strabo? To create the Plinth Prize?”
“My son’s, actually,” said Strabo, curving the edges of his lips up in what Coriolanus thought might be an attempt at a smile.
“Well, what a generous and appropriate gesture, especially given Sejanus’s defeat. You may not have won the Games, but you’ve certainly taken home the prize for good sportsmanship. I think I speak for the Capitol when I say many thanks!” Lucky beamed at the pair, but as nothing else was forthcoming, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “All right, then, back to the arena!”
Coriolanus’s mind reeled with the new development. Sejanus had been right about his father’s hasty attempt to bury his son’s outrageous behavior in cash. Not that it didn’t merit damage control. He hadn’t heard much reaction from the others in Heavensbee Hall about the outburst with the chair, but he expected stories were going around. A prize for the victor’s mentor seemed a small price to pay, really. What would Plinth offer to prevent word of Sejanus’s trip into the arena from going public? Could he be planning to buy Coriolanus’s silence?
Never mind, never mind that, Coriolanus told himself. The bigger news was the possibility of winning the Plinth Prize. It was independent of the Academy, so Dean Highbottom wouldn’t have a say in it. Even Dr. Gaul would not. A full ride that would free him from their power and lift this awful anxiety about the future from his shoulders! Already high, the stakes of these Games shot into the stratosphere. Focus, he told himself, drawing slow, deep breaths. Focus on helping Lucy Gray.
What was there to do, though, until she showed her face? As the morning passed, it seemed few of the tributes were tempted to do so. Coral and Mizzen roamed around together for a bit, collecting food and water from Festus and Persephone, their mentors. They’d been spending time together, trying to come up with a joint strategy for their tributes, and Coriolanus could see that Festus was falling for her. Did you tell your best friend his crush was a cannibal? Never a rule book when you needed one.
When they returned to the dais after lunch they found the mentor seats had been reduced to twelve, leaving only enough space for those with tributes still in the Games.
“The Gamemakers requested it,” Satyria told the final dozen. “It makes it easier for the audience to keep track of who’s still a contender. We’re to keep removing seats as your tributes are killed.”
“Like musical chairs,” said Domitia with a pleased look.
“But with people dying,” said Lysistrata.
The decision to bump the losers from the dais made Livia even more bitter, if that was possible, and Coriolanus was glad to see her relegated to the regular audience section, where he wouldn’t have to hear her snarky comments. On the other hand, it made it harder to put distance between himself and Clemensia, who seemed to spend all her free time glaring at him. He positioned himself in the last row, bolstered by Festus and Lysistrata, and tried to look engaged.
As the afternoon unrolled, his head got heavier and heavier, until Lysistrata had to nudge him twice to keep him awake. Perhaps it was fortunate the day required so little of him, given that the night had almost killed him. There were few tribute sightings, and Lucy Gray stayed completely hidden.
Not until the late afternoon did the Hunger Games finally present the kind of action that people expected. The girl tribute from District 5, a rickety little thing who had been one of the unwashed herd to Coriolanus, made her way out onto the bleachers at the far end of the arena. Failing to find her name, Lucky just managed to connect her with her equally forgettable mentor, Iphigenia Moss, whose father oversaw the Agriculture Department, and thus the flow of food around Panem. Contrary to expectations, Iphigenia always seemed on the verge of mal-nutrition, often giving her school lunch to her classmates and even blacking out on occasion. Clemensia had once told Coriolanus it was the only revenge she could take on her father, but refused to give any more details.
True to form, Iphigenia began to unload every bit of food she could on her tribute, but even as the drones made the long trek across the arena, Mizzen, Coral, and Tanner, who appeared to have formed some sort of pack after the previous night’s adventure, materialized from the tunnels and began their hunt. After a brief chase along the bleachers, the trio surrounded the girl, and Coral killed her with a trident to the throat.
“Well, that’s that,” said Lucky, still unable to locate the tribute’s name. “What can her mentor tell us, Lepidus?”
Iphigenia had already sought out Lepidus. “Her name was Sol, or maybe Sal. She had a funny accent. Not much more to tell.”
Lepidus seemed inclined to agree. “Nice job getting her to the second half, Albina!”
“Iphigenia,” said Iphigenia over her shoulder as she walked off the dais.
“That’s right!” said Lepidus. “And this means there’s only eleven tributes left!”
Which means ten between me and that prize, thought Coriolanus as he watched an Avox remove Iphigenia’s chair. He wished he could get food and water to Lucy Gray. What would happen if he sent it in without knowing her location? On-screen, the pack collected Sol’s, or Sal’s, food and moved back toward the tunnels, probably to get some rest before the night came. Should he risk it now?
He discussed it in whispers with Lysistrata, who felt that it might be worth a try if they sent in drones together. “We don’t want them getting too weak and dehydrated. I don’t think Jessup’s gotten anything down in days. Let’s wait and see if they try and contact us. Let’s give them until the supper break.”
But Lucy Gray made an entrance just as the student body was being released to go home. She darted out of a tunnel, running at full pitch, her hair loosening from her braids and flying free behind her.
“Where’s Jessup?” said Lysistrata with a frown. “Why aren’t they together?”
Before Coriolanus could venture a guess, Jessup staggered out of the same tunnel Lucy Gray had fled from. At first, Coriolanus thought he had been wounded, possibly while defending Lucy Gray. But then, what accounted for her flight? Were other tributes in pursuit? As the camera moved in on Jessup, it became apparent that he was ill, not hurt. Stiff-limbed and feverish with excitement, he swiped at the sun a few times before crouching down and springing almost immediately back to his feet for his first close-up.
Coriolanus wondered if Lucy Gray had found a way to poison him, but that didn’t make sense. Jessup was too valuable as a protector, especially with the pack that had formed last night running around. What, then, ailed him?
Any number of things could’ve sickened him, any range of maladies been suspected, if it hadn’t been for the telltale foam that began to bubble over his lips.
CHAPTER 17
“He’s rabid,” Lysistrata said softly.
Rabies had made a comeback in the Capitol during the war. With doctors needed in the field, and facilities and supply lines compromised by the bombings, medical treatment had become sketchy for humans, like Coriolanus’s mother, and almost nonexistent for the pampered Capitol pets. Vaccinating your cat wasn’t on the list of priorities when you couldn’t scrape up enough money for bread. How it began remained a matter of debate — an infected coyote from the mountains? A nocturnal encounter with a bat? — but the dogs spread it. Most of them were starving, abandoned casualties of the war themselves. From dog to dog, and then to people. The virulent strain developed with unprecedented speed, killing over a dozen Capitol citizens before a vaccination program brought it under control.
Coriolanus remembered the posters alerting people to the warning signs in animals and humans alike, adding just one more potential threat to his world. He thought of Jessup with his handkerchief pressed against his neck. “The rat bite?”
“Not a rat,” said Lysistrata, shock and sadness on her face. “Rats almost never spread rabies. Probably one of those mangy raccoons.”
“Lucy Gray said he mentioned fur, so I’d assumed . . .” He trailed off. Not that it mattered what had bitten Jessup; it was a death sentence any way you sliced it. He must have been infected about two weeks ago. “It was fast, wasn’t it?”
“Very fast. Because he was bit in the neck. The quicker it gets to the brain, the quicker you die,” Lysistrata explained. “And, of course, he’s half-starved and weak.”
If she said so, it was probably true. This was just the sort of thing he imagined the Vickers family discussing over dinner, in their calm, clinical manner.
“Poor Jessup,” said Lysistrata. “Even his death has to be horrible.”
The recognition of Jessup’s illness put the audience on edge, setting off a wave of comments thick with fear and revulsion.
“Rabies! How did he get that?”
“Brought it from the districts, I’ll bet.”
“Great, now he’ll infect the whole city!”
All the students dropped back into their seats, not wanting to miss anything, dredging up childhood memories of the disease.
Coriolanus stayed silent in solidarity with Lysistrata, but his concern grew as Jessup zigzagged across the arena in Lucy Gray’s direction. No telling what was going on in his mind. Under normal circumstances, Coriolanus was certain he’d protect her, but he’d clearly lost his reason if she’d run for her life.
The cameras tracked Lucy Gray as she sprinted across the arena and began to scramble up the broken wall into the stands holding the main press box. Positioned midway in the arena, it occupied several rows and had somehow been spared in the bombing. She stopped a moment, panting, while she considered Jessup’s erratic pursuit, then she made for the debris of a nearby concession stand. The skeleton of the frame remained, but the center had been blasted into bits and the roof had been flung thirty feet away. Strewn with bricks and boards, the area presented a sort of obstacle course that she traversed until she planted herself at the top of the mess.
The Gamemakers took advantage of her stillness and zoomed in for a close-up. Coriolanus took one look at her cracked lips and reached for his communicuff. She appeared to have had no access to water since she’d been left in the arena, and that had been a day and a half ago. He punched in the order for a bottle of water. The promptness of the drone delivery was improving with each request. Even if she had to keep running, they would be able to get the water to her if she stayed in the open. If she could escape Jessup, Coriolanus would load her up with both food and drink, for her own use and to lace with the rat poison. But that seemed like a long-term plan at the moment.
Jessup had made his way across the arena and seemed confused by Lucy Gray’s rejection. He began to climb after her into the stands, but he had trouble keeping his balance. As he entered the field of debris, his coordination diminished further, and twice he fell with great force, opening gashes on his knee and temple. After the second wound, which generated a fair amount of blood, he sat, somewhat stunned, on a step, reaching out to her. His mouth moved while the foam began dripping from his chin.
Lucy Gray remained motionless, watching Jessup with a pained expression. They created a strange tableau: rabid boy, trapped girl, bombed-out building. It suggested a tale that could only end in tragedy. Star-crossed lovers meeting their fate. A revenge story turned in on itself. A war saga that took no prisoners.
Please die, Coriolanus thought. What eventually killed you when you had rabies? You couldn’t breathe, or maybe your heart stopped? Whatever it was, the sooner it happened to Jessup, the better it was for everyone involved.
A drone carrying a bottle of water flew into the arena, and Lucy Gray lifted her face to track its wobbly progress. Her tongue flicked across her lips as if in anticipation. However, as it passed over Jessup’s head, something registered and a shudder racked his body. He swung at it with a board, and the drone crashed into the stands. The water pooling out of the cracked bottle sent him into a state of heightened agitation. He backed away, tripping over the seats, and then made straight for Lucy Gray. She, in turn, began to climb even higher.