And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers’ point of view, this is the final word in entertainment.
It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn.
Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I’ll go completely insane. He’s fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it’s hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can’t let him go. I just can’t.
The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.
Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta’s face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.
Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato’s voice.
“I think he’s closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?” Peeta asks.
If he’s near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point.
“My last arrow’s in your tourniquet,” I say.
“Make it count,” says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.
So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta’s hands grip me for support.
It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he’s trying to say is please.
Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty.
“Did you get him?” he whispers.
The cannon fires in answer.
“Then we won, Katniss,” he says hollowly.
“Hurray for us,” I get out, but there’s no joy of victory in my voice.
A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it, disappearing as the earth closes above them.
We wait, for the hovercraft to take Cato’s remains, for the trumpets of victory that should follow, but nothing happens.
“Hey!” I shout into air. “What’s going on?” The only response is the chatter of waking birds.
“Maybe it’s the body. Maybe we have to move away from it,” says Peeta.
I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the reason for the delay?
“Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?” I ask.
“Think I better try,” says Peeta. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? I rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up. Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Peeta and bring a second to my lips.
A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the hovercraft appears and takes Cato’s body away. Now they will take us. Now we can go home.
But again there’s no response.
“What are they waiting for?” says Peeta weakly. Between the loss of the tourniquet and the effort it took to get to the lake, his wound has opened up again.
“I don’t know,” I say. Whatever the holdup is, I can’t watch him lose any more blood. I get up to find a stick but almost immediately come across the arrow that bounced off Cato’s body armor. It will do as well as the other arrow. As I stoop to pick it up, Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms into the arena.
“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” he says. “Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”
There’s a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it.
“If you think about it, it’s not that surprising,” he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he’s moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt —
Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.
“No,” he says. “Do it.” Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands.
“I can’t, I say. “I won’t.”
“Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don’t want to die like Cato,” he says.
“Then you shoot me,” I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. “You shoot me and go home and live with it!” And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two.
“You know I can’t,” Peeta says, discarding the weapons. “Fine, I’ll go first anyway.” He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth.
“No, you can’t kill yourself,” I say. I’m on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound.
“Katniss,” he says. “It’s what I want.”
“You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out.
“Listen,” he says pulling me to my feet. “We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me.” And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I’ve stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around.
We both know they have to have a victor.
Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers’ faces. They’d have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country.
If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were…
My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. “No, I won’t let you.”
“Trust me,” I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. “On the count of three?”
Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says.
We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.
“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” he says.
I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta’s hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. “One.” Maybe I’m wrong. “Two.” Maybe they don’t care if we both die. “Three!” It’s too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare.
The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. “Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of District Twelve!”
