Chapter Text
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Rodney Campbell
District 10, 16 years old
46th Hunger Games
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As much as it’s the least of my worries now, I’m cold.
Extremely so. The winter wind bites at my skin, the chill settling in my bones, pooling and stagnating. Miniscule ice particles swirl about in my lungs, and every breath I take feels like fine glass dust is being poured down my throat. I’ve been frozen in a grotesque embrace to this fir tree. My lifeline now more than ever, with the pack of wolves at my feet.
They are white as the snow that blankets the entire arena, but their eyes. The cold, hollow darkness of space itself. The wolves snarl, maws wide open like yawning chasms of death.
But they won’t kill me, because this is the finale of the 46th Hunger Games. And the Capitol wants a good old-fashioned battle.
Two cannons sounded in the morning, meaning the only thing standing between me and home is a Career, and I can take a guess as to which one. The boy from Two.
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Being Reaped was barely a thought in my head until it happened. Then it consumed my entire being. Shep wailed, old enough to understand the Games but not yet old enough to go into them. By the end of the visitations, I was convinced my last breath would be in the arena.
The Capitol was where I first saw the Two boy, and I knew then, his shadow looming over me, that he was Death.
It’s an old superstition, planted in bedtime stories and folklore, that Death is an actual person. Waiting, watching. They say you should never utter his name. That it marks you for a demise by his hand. His skeletal fingers wrapped around his scythe.
My version of Death held a broadsword. He rode on a chariot, cruel steel eyes glinting as the crowd cheered. He ripped through dummies in the training centre, and towered over the little boy from Twelve, who wet himself immediately after. He struck a primal fear in my heart. He was a predator, and I was his prey.
I will not utter his name.
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I found no allies in training except for my district partner. Enya and I agreed on a truce in case we ran into each other in the arena. I clung to traps and edible plants as my last vestiges of hope, what with the Careers dominating the weapons. The Gamemakers give me a 5, which is very frankly more than I expected for a simple snare.
He got an 11.
I stammered through the interview. The one question I answer coherently is about my family. I say I will miss them very much, and that my button collection will go to Shep. Caesar replies that he doesn’t know what a button collection is, but it sounds quaint.
He thanks the Capitol for the opportunity. He says he will make his district proud. He says he will win.
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My best-case scenario for the Bloodbath was to leave with my life intact. Maybe I could meet up with Enya and convince her to properly ally with me. Later that night, I would find out that I would never get the chance.
He stood there with his broadsword, already scarlet and dripping. Stoic and still. And in a split second, his demeanor changed. He bounded over in two large strides to the Twelve boy, desperately sifting through the supplies. With one fluid motion, the sword was in his gut, blood staining the snow.
Then he locked eyes with me and sneered, marking me for death by his blade. So I got the hell out of there, running for my life until the world spun and the screams faded away, with just one small bag. It had a meager amount of food and water, and some rope, but the real bounty was the knife, the blade barely longer than my finger. But it was a weapon nonetheless, and it’s what I clench in my hand now.
The two weeks felt longer, time viscous and sluggish like molasses. I spent my hours foraging for edible plants. When those ran out around the sixth day, I set snares, skinning the squirrels with my knife. I started a fire in a nearby cave so the smoke wouldn’t draw the attention of the Careers, but the firewood ran out eventually too. In the end, I ate the meat raw, like a district savage, desperate for something, anything to banish the hunger.
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Twice I got lucky.
It was the fifth day. Fifteen tributes left. The Careers were hunting. I heard their voices and scrambled up the tree, just out of their sight. No footsteps, a feature of the arena.
“It’s not fair that he gets every single kill. Like, leave some for the rest of us.”
The One girl, I think. I can also guess who she’s talking about.
“Yeah, he has to chill. He’s almost feral at this point.”
Two girl.
I hold my breath as they walk past, and shift my position every so slightly to see them.
One has a dainty little sword strapped to her back. She runs her fingers over her hair as she trudges forward. Two is gripping her axe, head on a swivel for tributes. But she doesn’t catch me as she offers a proposition to the other girl.
“When the pack breaks.”
“Mhm.”
“We should stick together.”
Two seems to stop for a moment, then nods firmly.
“It’s our only hope to stand against him.”
They never utter his name.
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The second time was on the twelfth evening in the snow-covered hellscape. Seven left. Most were Careers.
I lit a fire with the last of my firewood. The cave was a perfect find; it looked like a dead end, but there was a secret exit through a crack in the stone walls, only visible from the side.
The flames grew brighter. Suddenly, I heard a noise over the crackling of the fire. A wet squelch, not unlike that of a blade in a body. I thought of the sword in the Twelve boy.
Shit.
Thinking quickly, I dumped a handful of snow on the campfire, then scrabbled to the secret exit. As I squeezed through the crack, I heard the voice.
“I know you’re there!” it roared. A clang; steel against stone. I stayed there, cold rock poking at me everywhere, silent tears freezing on my face. I didn’t leave even when the footsteps ceased.
When I peeked my head out, there was no one. The firewood was gone, the only trace of it being a ring of ash on the floor.
But I know it was him.
(Never utter his name.)
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I have a choice, now.
I can let the wolves rip me apart, limb from limb. They will savor every bite of me. Maybe I can sate their own hunger since I can’t mine.
Whatever happens will be infinitely more merciful than if he catches me. I will bleed, watering the fertile battlegrounds. Dying for a cause I never believed in. I will not give them what they want.
A figure materializes in the corner of my eye. Isn’t that how all nightmares start?
A presence behind you becomes a monster.
A piece of paper becomes a life forsaken.
A figure in the corner of my eye becomes him.
(Never utter his name.)
He’s here. Now.
His cruel, steel eyes glint at me. He sneers. He raises his broadsword, blood-slick and sharp. It cleaves a wolf in two, its entrails spilt onto the forest floor. I realise suddenly that that will be my fate once he’s done with the wolves.
I want to throw up.
Better yet, I want to die. Make it quick.
I have no chance. None whatsoever. Right?
A stubborn shard of hope is lodged like a thorn in my side. If I can surprise him…
(Never utter his name.)
Get in a good hit or two.
(Never utter his name.)
It’s reckless. Foolhardy.
(Never utter his name.)
But there’s a thin line between bravery and foolhardiness. I will toe the right side of that line.
I leap. Away from him. For a moment, it feels like I’m flying. Serene bliss.
Then everything comes crashing down.
I stand up, half-blind and dazed. I catch his gaze.
(Never utter his name.)
Never utter his name.
Never utter his name.
Never utter his name.
Never–
“Brutus,” I choke out. “Brutus.”
A surge of adrenaline courses through my veins. I charge, knife in hand. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting.
Brutus is transfixed, the corners of his mouth forming a wicked grin. I won’t let him win. I close the distance between us. I’m almost there. Almost–
At the last second, I feint left, diving and stretching my arm for all it’s worth. I aim for his neck.
We move in slow motion. My knife heading for his throat, him unmoving. I’m doing it, it’s working. I’m–
I’m on fire. I look down. A sword is buried in my gut. Black spots fill my vision.
The pain. The agony. I grit my teeth, but I can’t hold it in. I scream, expelling everything. Every emotion, every thought crystallised into one pure stream of rage. Once I’m done, spittle dots Brutus’ face.
He removes the blade, and whatever was holding me together at my core collapses. I crumple, acutely aware of the warm blood leaking from my stomach. Dimly, I wonder whether I should be conserving heat.
Doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
I’ve failed. Death got me in the end.
Goodbye, Ma and Pa.
Goodbye, Shep.
The last face that swims before me is Death himself.