The Hunger Pains (9 page)

I
awake in a haze. I am exhausted, dehydrated, and in
grave danger (duh!).

A haze is another of the Capital’s transformations, a tree designed to produce hazelnut-flavored coffee from a spout along its trunk. It is indistinguishable from a normal hazelnut tree except for its branches, which are huge pillows. I must have been caught in its snares while falling out of a very tall tree. I sit up and smell the Capital’s bitter coffee.

I’m a few yards away when I hear a big noise. I remember a thing my father always said: “When you hear a big noise, remember my advice.”
Oh man, then what did he say?

I shrug and prepare for danger. I strike my best “hiding behind a tree” pose and arrange my face into my finest “scared and waiting for an unknown assailant” expression. I hope the cameras are getting this, because now I’m doing a very convincing “peaceful acceptance of death’s imminence” face.

I hear the noise again. It is coming from the direction of the haze. I look into the branches and see an adorable baby curled up on a very fluffy pillow. Run is still alive! The noise I heard was her cute baby snoring.

Since she and the raccoon saved me from the LSBees, I feel myself wanting to protect Run. Right now, she’s sleeping like an angel, but all I can envision is her death. Any second now a big noisy tribute is going to emerge from the haze to tear her limbs off and eat them one by one. Then he’ll come for me with her blood still dripping from his jaws. When he eats me, our bloods will commingle in his stomach, and Run will become my blood sister, just like Prin. The thought fills me with peace.

“Run! Run!” I yell, inadvertently causing Dogface to reveal her hiding place in the middle of a treeless field and sprint screaming into the forest.

Run stretches her little arms upward to show that she is awake and unarmed. It seems like a symbolic gesture of peace, but I’m no fool.

“Prepare to die,” I say, calmly raising my bow.

My arrow pierces the ripe young flesh of a nearby salamander. I must make offerings of food if I hope to gain Run’s trust. I approach her cautiously. She could easily be concealing weapons inside that lumpy diaper of hers. Besides, she is strategically positioned on high ground. I cook the salamander using a lighter I found in the Cornucrapia. I hope the scent of delicious food will lure Run from her perch.

“Run, would you like to form an alliance with me?” I ask.

Run opens her mouth as if to begin speaking, but no words come out. She is left speechless by my magnanimous proposition.

“I know what you’re thinking. Why would a high-scoring tribute like me, a seventeen-year-old—not quite a girl, not yet a woman, possibly a man—want to form an alliance with a helpless baby like yourself?”

Run nods her head in agreement in the uncoordinated way babies do when drifting off to sleep.

“Stop that, Run. Quit that attitude. It is a bad attitude. You are not just a helpless baby. You are a very clever baby. You are the best baby in these Games. Someday you too may blossom into a woman.”

Run begins to giggle. She’s tough to crack, but I can tell I am beginning to break through her icy veneer. On an unrelated note, in the tree behind me, a squirrel has just fallen out of a tiny hammock.

“Yes, that is a good point, Run, only one of us can survive the Hunger Games and become a woman. Why should you trust
me
? Well, let me reveal to you my deepest, darkest secret: I could never kill a baby! Babies like you remind me of myself, peeing and slobbering all over the place. You’re just like me!”

Run rolls onto her stomach and skeptically buries her face in the pillow.

“Even if the Hunger Games come down to the two of us, I will not kill you. I can’t, at least not until you reach the late stages of your toddler years. Think how much fun we could
have. The arena would be our playground. You could live freely and play amongst the cuddly animals until I slaughter them for our food.”

Run doesn’t move or make any noise. Her whole body has sunk into the pillow. She is so deep in thought, she isn’t even breathing.

“Besides, I’m going to die anyway. Everyone knows I’m going to die. As my father once said, ‘Let me tell you something about death, Kantkiss.’
Dammit, my memory is terrible.

“Anyway,” I go on, “you could probably kill me now if you wanted to. You’re probably plotting my murder right now.”

Run remains completely motionless. It’s a genius bit of acting. I don’t know how she’s doing it.

“As I was saying, I think forming an alliance would benefit us both. You can help keep me alive with your cleverness, and I can help you see over the tops of midsized rocks. I know you’re shy and you want the other tributes to respect you as an independent baby, so I’ll make things easier for you. I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten. If you don’t want to form an alliance, then get away from me before I finish counting.”

I don’t hear a peep as I start the countdown.

“Ten … nine … eight … seven … uh … hm …. six! Just slowing down to give you the time you need and deserve. Five … one … now!”

I open my eyes to find Run right where I left her. Overjoyed by the formation of this new alliance, I lift Run from the goose down for a hug between allies. Run has turned a
joyful shade of blue in celebration of our alliance. I’m a bit worried because she is having a violent coughing fit in my arms, but the cameras are loving this motherly moment.

R-i-i-i-p.
Our snuggle is interrupted by a ferocious fart. Run may be tiny, but she sure produces a big smell.

“Whoa!” I shout, crinkling my nose.

Run laughs coyly, but the pungent odor emanating from her behind is no joke.

“Heh … eh …” I feel my throat starting to close. I throw my head back, hoping for clean air. Instead I am hit in the face with a stroller. From the sky, diapers, bags, bottles, and teddy bears are parachuting in. It’s a baby shower! The sponsors love us. There’s even a gas mask for me!

I bravely change Run’s diaper. When the job is complete, I pop her into the stroller and head for fresher air. I find a perfect path beside the edge of a pond. Rays of light stream through the trees as I push Run along the water. For the first time since my LSBee experience, I feel at peace. I even wave to Gatsby Rockefeller’s butler, who’s pushing Gatsby up ahead in a luxurious adult stroller. It looks like a regal carriage.

“Halt! Stop this coach immediately!” Gatsby shouts from his seat. The butler obeys. Gatsby draws the curtains and emerges from the stroller’s plush interior. He is pale and thin. He squints in the light. He wears a velvet jacket and flowing silken pants. It’s standard attire for the lucky few residents of the old money district.

The butler presents Gatsby with a golden tray of jewel-encrusted swords. I stand back and draw my bow in defense.
Then a strange thing happens. Gatsby falls to his knees in front of me.

“Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” he yells, now hugging my legs and crying. His skin is even softer than Run’s. While his arms hold me tight, his hands hang limply. He has lost motor function from never lifting a finger in his entire life.

In this moment I feel that Gatsby and I have made a connection. I don’t know if I would call it a love connection, but on a scale from Carol to Pita, I’d rank Gatsby around Carol and a half.

“Allies?” I ask. I bet I could get some really awesome sponsor gifts out of this alliance.

“Yes, I suppose so. Can I … hold it?” he asks. I extend my hand. “No! What are you doing? Jesus Christ, get that filthy thing away from me!” he shouts in a fury. “I meant the baby. I would like to hold the baby. I have never touched one before. Back home, everyone has nannies for that sort of thing.”

Sensing a prime opportunity for a bathroom break, I hand Run over to Gatsby. She’s dazzled by his gold necklace. What a happy little alliance we make, the three of us!

When I return from the woods twenty minutes later, newspaper tucked under my arm, I find a crime scene. Gatsby’s butler is artfully draping yellow caution tape from the surrounding trees. Run crawls toward him and tugs gently on his pant leg. Looking down at the baby, he screams and bolts into the woods.

In the center of the clearing is Gatsby’s pale body, outlined in chalk. His face has turned an elegant shade of silver, befitting of his social status. Something has gone wrong. He is dead. I notice red marks around his neck. He has been choked, but how? We’re all allies here!

Run crawls over to Gatsby. “Daaadaaadaaa,” she whispers softly, grabbing the shiny gold chain around his neck and tugging it violently. Suddenly I understand. Run choked Gatsby to death.

“Run, you’re right. I’m so sorry.” She looks up at me with sad baby eyes. “I never asked you before forming that alliance with Gatsby, and that was wrong. I haven’t been a very good ally today.” She crawls over and sits on my foot. “No, Run—it’s not okay. I should have listened to you. You had every right to kill Gatsby. You never agreed to be his ally. It was a very wise decision. Perhaps you saved both our lives today.” Run bows her head. We share a brief moment of silence.

The hovercraft circles above us. When the door slides open, again I can hear two voices from inside.

“Can’t this weekend. It’s Jennifer’s birthday.”

“What are you two doing?”

“Made reservations at a bed-and-breakfast up on Lake Champlain.”

“Nice.”

“It’ll be a working vacation for me. Trying to hire a maître d’ is proving to be more work than I thought it would be.”

“You know, my cousin is a maître d’. Maybe the two of you could—”

The conversation becomes inaudible as a mechanical ladder is dropped from the hovercraft. Several of the world’s most beloved heirs and heiresses begin to descend one by one. The elites of District 6 have come to pay their respects to Gatsby. Stepping onto the dirt ground is the least dignified thing any of them has ever done. I watch as the likes of Goldman Sachs LXXXI, William Gates LV, and Paris Hilton XLV pay their final respects to Gatsby while jazz legend Duke Ellington LI performs sad trombone live. The last mourner is Jesus II, who says a nice prayer. The ceremony leaves me feeling unusually tender.

“You know, Run, I think we make a great team.”

“Greauuuooo,” says Run. I assume this is slang for “yes, of course” in District 11.

“Greauuuooo to you too, Run. What should we do now?”

Run sits up and begins shoving dirt into her mouth. “Diiiirrrrr,” she says, which is District 11 slang for “Varsity pack.”

“No … really? Do you think we could?” Run tumbles forward. She is playing dead. “You are truly a fierce competitor, Run. This is a very ambitious plan.”

Run has just suggested that we kill the Varsity pack. It’s a bold move. Suddenly, I wish Pita were here. I am craving a snack. I’d even accept whole-wheat bread at this point. But could I break bread with the enemy? Anyway, I have to listen to the rest of Run’s plan.

Run is shoving more dirt into her mouth. “Good idea,” I
say. “The way to weaken the Varsities is by targeting their food supply. But how can I get to it? It must be heavily guarded.”

Run looks up at me. Our eyes lock. “Eyes,” I say. “You want me to use my eyes. Brilliant! I will survey the area for booby traps. You can keep a lookout here.”

Run starts to cry. “Yes, I understand, we definitely need a signal. How about this: If you’re ever in danger, take these baby wipes and climb up this tree. When you’re at the top of the tree, sew all the wipes to make a flag. Remember, I need to be able to see this flag from several miles away. As long as the flag is green-and-white-striped, I will know you are safe. If I see a yellow-and-red-checkered flag, I’ll know you’re in trouble.”

Run giggles and lets out an earth-shaking fart. This is my cue to leave. I head toward the center of the arena, where the Varsities are stationed with their massive food supply.

When I reach Camp Varsity, I hide behind a heavily padded field goal post and survey the area. It’s the size of a football field and looks just like one. Plastic cups are littered about midfield, left over from Archie’s birthday kegger. He and the others are running hundred-yard sprints. I look over toward the food stash: it’s piled high with delicious rations. It sits in front of a large white house with a patio. Above the front door, hung crookedly, are the Greek letters IIKA.

I gasp. Someone is already going after the food supply. Dogface! Surely the food must be heavily protected, yet she hops and skips right toward it in plain sight. Dogface makes
it to the food pile unscathed. The Varsities are too engaged in their games to notice. She grabs a single stick of gum from underneath a bunch of bread, cookies, and water, then meanders into the woods.

I’m thinking through my plan, when Broadway show tunes begin to drown out the Varsities’ chill John Mayer playlist. The theater district tributes must be near. I hear them singing a song to the tune of “Gee, Officer Krupke” from
West Side Story
:

The song distracts the Varsities from their afternoon workout. Archie grabs his steel football and beckons the others to follow. They set out with murder on their minds.

With Camp Varsity vacant, the coast is clear for me to make my move. I sprint the length of a field, pausing only for a small victory dance when I enter the end zone.

BWOMMP BWOMMP. BWOMMP BWOMMP.
I count two sad trombones in the distance, signaling the death of the theater district tributes. I flash a smile at the nearest camera and say, “There won’t be any encore for
them
tonight.” Then, pleased with myself, I also say, “That show’s run is over.” Before moving on, I add geniusly, “District Ten just took its final bow.” And finally, “The only place they’ll see another standing ovation
is at their funerals.
”