THE ODDS WERE ALWAYS IN OUR FAVOR ─── CLATO

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑𝟎

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕

DAY SEVENTEEN — EIGHTEEN

Muttations. No question about it. I've never seen these mutts, but they're no natural-born animals. Like tracker jackers, these have been genetically engineered by the Capitol.

They resemble huge wolves, but what wolf lands and then balances easily on its hind legs? What wolf waves the rest of the pack forward with its front paw as though it had a wrist? These things I can see at a distance. Up close, I'm sure their more menacing attributes will be revealed.

I don't wait another second. I grab my knives in one hand and Cato in the other, running through the trees. There are no paths to follow— we run where the mutts are leading us. My heart hammers against my rib cage with every strike of my boots against the dirt. My veins are flowing with adrenaline.

One grabs Cato's heel. He screams out in agony. I throw my knife in the head of the mutt. I stare at it's dying body, which I wish I didn't. The green eyes glowering at me are unlike any dog or wolf, any canine I've ever seen. They are unmistakably human. And that revelation has barely registered when I notice the collar with the number 1 inlaid with jewels and the whole horrible thing hits me. The blonde hair, the green eyes, the number...it's Glimmer.

"It's Glimmer," I pant, as we continue running from the mutts.

"What?"

My head snaps from side to side as I examine the pack, taking in the various sizes and colors. The small one with the red coat and amber eyes...Foxface! And there, the ashen hair and hazel eyes of the boy from District 9 who I killed in the Bloodbath! And worst of all, the smallest mutt, with dark glossy fur, huge brown eyes and a collar that reads 11 in woven straw. Teeth bared in hatred. Rue...

"What the hell is it, Clove?"

"It's them. It's all of them. The others. Glimmer and Foxface and...all of the other tributes," I choke out.

I know Cato has understood from his silence. "What did they do to them? Are those their real eyes?"

Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their brains? Have they been given any of the real tributes memories? Have they been programmed to hate our faces particularly because we have survived and they were so callously murdered? And the ones we actually killed...do they believe they're avenging their own deaths?

I can't say anything before I realize that they're driving us to the Cornucopia. We are running through the last stretch of woods, I realize. I can see the Cornucopia up ahead, horn glistening in the moonlight. My lungs are burning for air, and the sight of it urges me to keep pushing. Keep running. Don't stop.

"We have to climb!" I say, as we finally reach the Cornucopia. The cold dents in the metal help us find our footing and I am easily able to reach the top of the Cornucopia. Cato takes more time— considering his huge size and weight. I pull him up as best as I can.

As soon as he reaches, we embrace, quickly. "We're okay," I say between breathes. "We're okay."

We stare at the mutts down below us. They are on their hind legs, scratching furiously at the metal of the Cornucopia, but they don't have the capability to climb up. They persist, but only end up with the same result each time: sliding down the slippery metal.