~Let's just take a moment to enjoy this oddly aesthetic picture of an apparent rotting log.~

Hellooo, fellow readers! I will try to make this short. (Also, I didn't quite edit this chapter so apologies ahead of time.) I know these are rather recycled words, but once again thank you for all of the generous votes, comments, and reads; they truly do make my day :) . If any of you have your own stories you would like to share, I would love to read them! Only a few chapters left!! And once again, I was going to say something else, hmm....Enjoy! Kindest regards, Ninjafranbow

Chapter Seventeen

Day Eleven

"Arrrghhhh!" Ben claws at the dark lumps attached to his skin, scrambling out of the water.

"Ben stop you'll only get the suckers stuck there! Here," I show him my arm and gently scrape my fingernail beneath the leech, releasing it back into the murky water. Although there were only a handful latched onto our arms and necks, by the time we have finally finished blood runs down our arms.

"I don't understand..." Ben says, wiping impatiently at the blood and watching as the minuscule wounds only arise more. A memory flashes across my mind of one of my teachers back in District Four.

"Leeches...they have this sort of...anti-coagulant that prevents the blood from clotting. We need something...something sticky to clot the blood..." I trail off, skimming the swampy terrain.

"Yes, let me just go get my glue." Ben mutters, scratching at his bites. "...What are you doing?" I run my fingers along the surface of a spindly tree, resting on a part where the bark is slightly peeled away. I dig my fingernails into the rough surface and begin pulling it away. Bile rises up my throat, making me scramble back. There is not sap that I was hoping for beneath the bark. There are beetles, the same nauseatingly large black and yellow beetles that attacked us burrowed up and down amidst the wood. "So that's where they came from..." Ben said with revulsion. We careen away from the infestation and eventually gather enough sap for the wounds. Before long we are trekking through the mud once more, though straying far from the water.

.......

We hear them before we see them.

I suck in a breath and pull Ben behind a rotten log. I crouch tightly behind the wood, my vision obscured by the log. They slosh down the river, a tribute's voice growing louder as they make their way upstream. Beside me Ben stiffens. His hand grips his knife until his knuckles turn pearl. "...you should have seen her," the tribute cackles. "Looked like she fell flat on her face or something; it was all purple and swollen."

"District Eight?" A second tribute questions in a rather high-pitched voice.

"Does it matter? The fact is there are more ways to use a club than one." The first tribute cackles again. The sounds of their splashes grows chillingly closer.

"AARRRGHH!!" A third voice suddenly yells.

"What, did you know her or something?" The first tribute asks, clearly amused. Their splashes grow to a halt.

"NO, A BLOODY SNAKE. ARRRGGGHH!!" The tribute shrieks. "MY ANKLE!"

"Calm down, it's just a little bite." The other two laugh, resuming their splashing through the water. The third one seethes, curses flying out of his mouth. "Come on, we don't have all day." The first one says, his amusement suddenly replaced with annoyance. The other tribute grumbles, but the splashes that follow tell me he conceded. All of a sudden the splashes grow oddly louder. It takes me a moment to realize that another one has joined their cacophony. It comes from the opposite direction and is louder as if someone is trying to run through the water. A high-pitched scream pierces the air. My neck prickles and I hold my breath, ears straining.

"What the hell??" The second tribute gasps. I can't help but to peer over the log. The tributes—I realize with a shock that they are the career pack who killed Nine and Seven—have their weapons held in front of them, baffled expressions on their faces. Another tribute suddenly splashes into view. Mud covers her face, and the whites of her crazed eyes and her gleaming teeth are all that are distinguishable from the swamp. Blood coats the side of her face and all down her shirt, and her arms are covered with angry welts. She shrieks again and charges at the pack with a thin metal spear, tripping face first into the water and automatically getting back up again. The moment she comes within arm's length of the first tribute—Tyveck—he grunts and swings his club at her head. Her screams stop abruptly and she collapses like a ragdoll into the water. The cannon booms.

"What the..." Tyveck peers down at the body. "I thought you killed her!" He shouts at the third tribute.

"I thought I did too!" He yells, his face pale as is if he had just seen a ghost.

"That's why you wait for the cannon, you idiot!" Tyveck huffs, his face inches from the other.

"How....?" The second tribute—Elastine—breaks the tension, staring down at the body now floating in the water.

"My guess is that she went insane from a head infection or something." Tyveck nudges her body with his leg. She rolls onto her back, crimson blood from her head flowing in thick streams down the muddy river. My eyes widen, and suddenly I recognize the girl. She was with them the first time I saw them. She was the one that killed the bird. She—

"We should get going before they show up," Tyveck grunts, snatching the girl's spear before treading back down the river. Elastine and the other tribute—now with a slight limp—following close behind. The girl's blood weaves in and out of their wake as if in one last attempt to get revenge.

.........

"What's wrong?" I frown, hugging my knees to my chest. Ben's eyes bore into the night sky, staying there long after the capitol anthem comes and goes. It isn't like Ben to be quiet for so long...

"...nothing...it's just...that girl...she, um," he swallows, his eyes trained on the sky.

"Ben, it's okay," I whisper. I contemplate reaching my hand out to him, but instead let it fall on the ground beside me.

"My mother was like her," he said suddenly. I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue. "She was...mad. 'A loose screw', my dad said." He blinks. "Something that happened during the Dark Days..." He pauses, swallowing again. "Anyway, she died when I was young, so I don't have that many memories of her, but still..." He finishes, letting the silence swallow his words.

The following morning we trek in silence, though by now it is actually comforting, trustful, even. There are no signs of the careers from the day before, and all that is to be heard is the chirp of distant birds. Clouds begin to gather over the trees, though the sun continues to beat down upon the sluggish swamp; and if anything, the air seems to have grown even more humid. My bandages are glued to my skin and stained brown from the days spent in muck. Fortunately, the pain in my wrist has died down to an ache now, and the bruises that tattooed my skin have faded to a sickly yellow.

After a few more hours of hiking, we decide to stop for a brief lunch. Over the past few days, our food has grown dismal: the almonds have long since been devoured, and only a small portion of fish remain. After scouting the area Ben offers to search for food on land while I catch some more fish. I settle down beside the river, my knees tucked beneath me and the makeshift fish hook dipped into the water. For a moment, there are no cannon booms; no shouts of laughter or maniac cries; no incessant talking or imminent death...I feel my body relax, my mind loosen. There are only the birds that sing softly among the still branches of the trees; only the gentle hymn of bugs peeking beneath the mud; only the placid, delicate sound of the somber water flowing down the swamp, keeping pace with the funereal clouds that reflect above, drifting across the sun. Suddenly a pair of hands appear out of nowhere in the reflection and wrap around my throat. Before I have time to scream I feel a rope tighten around my neck, forcing the air out of my lungs. My heart hammers against my chest. I claw frantically with one hand while my other reaches out blindly in front of me. My head pounds. My lungs scream for air. Pressure pushes behind my eyes. I manage to twist my body to the left. Ben's dark eyes are slits against his grim face. My vision grows fuzzy. He tightens his hold on the rope around my neck. "I. Had. To." He says through gritted teeth. My fingers wrap around the small portion of string leading into the water. My throat is unbelievably tight. My head unbelievably swollen. I kick and flail on the ground, swinging my sprained wrist at his face. The fish hook digs into Ben's cheek and for a brief second his hold on the rope loosens. In that second I slip my fingers beneath the rope and yank. I gasp for air, my heart buffeting behind my eyes. Ben curses and pulls the hook out of his cheek. He shifts and reaches for his knife. Without fully comprehending what I am doing I scramble behind him and swing my elbow into his back, right where his age-old wound is. He howls in pain and the knife skids across the ground. He rolls onto his knees but my hands have already clenched the handle of the knife and all of a sudden the knife is thrust into his chest. He splutters, crimson escaping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are discs of shock. Anger. Fear. And then they glaze over, as if fully seeing death for the first time. The color drains from his body and he grows limp. The cannon booms. I stare down at the blade that protrudes from the boy's chest, dark red blossoming from the wound. My hand is still wrapped around it, though it seems alien. I immediately pull my hand away and stumble back. Ben's body collapses to the ground in a heap; his limp hair brushing across the hole in his cheek made by the hook—my hook. I look down at my hands now covered in his blood. My God, what have I done?