Twenty Four Shades Darker: The Hunt

(7) Mutt

The trunk splintered, shards of wood fragmenting away from the blade. It wasn't a clean shot. The axe had caught it on the spin and only the bottom end - the heel, as Holly had called it - had actually caused any damage. It stuck at a crooked angle, the handle jutting out as though it had been thrown from the side. Several other marks on the tree showed signs of similar damage.

Erik sighed, squelched over, worked the axe free and returned to his starting line.

Right. Standing sideways, for accuracy. Elbow up, wrist flexed. This was going to be a better throw. He could feel it. The axe felt more solid in his hands; they were used to handling wires and belay ropes for the turbines and the rough wood was giving him splinters. At the moment he was working on just throwing it, because she'd said it was too short to really be used as an effective hand weapon as an enemy would have to get fairly close in order for it to cause any damage. He was trying to ignore the fact that he might find himself aiming at a person. The Careers might have no problem with it, and Jute had demonstrated that, despite all her protestations to the contrary, she would quite happily kill someone who was a threat, but he felt a little sick just at the idea of it.

He could still remember the blind, terrified panic of looking into Lincoln's eyes and seeing that the boy had been willing to kill him then and there, just for a slip of the tongue that had been intended as a joke. He'd suddenly been vividly aware of every heartbeat, every pulse of blood, and all the strength in his body had drained away through his boots. Everything had been so much sharper, so much more defined, and he'd been paralysed and unable to do anything. It had been worse than seeing the blazing hovercraft, marked with the false Capitol eagle, had tumbled from the sky and knowing that he had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the impact. He'd managed, though, and somehow unscathed.

That didn't change the facts. If he had to fight, he was as good as dead.

Don't think about it.

He squinted through his glasses and threw. This time the axe thunked into the exact center of the tree and the whole structure creaked and tilted. He smiled and clenched his hand into a fist triumphantly.

"Congratulations, you killed a tree."

The voice was unexpected but warmly familiar and he sauntered over to retrieve the axe as calmly as he could before turning around, already knowing what he'd see. Jute, alone, was leaning against a tree trunk and grinning fondly, the scar creasing around her cheek. Next to the whippy young sapling that she'd chosen as a post she looked steady and reassuringly solid and despite the injury and the inky stains under her eyes she seemed content to be just stood there watching him. Faintly embarrassed by this fact, he felt the two usual patches on his cheeks starting to go red.

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long." She shrugged. "The last couple of throws, maybe. That was your best one yet. Holly will be pleased."

He gave a short, ironic laugh as she lowered herself to the ground, perching on an old root that seemed to be attached to the oak tree that dominated the area they were in. The distant throb of conversation bubbled over from the campsite; the other tributes were starting to rise from the dozing state that had replaced sleep. He could pick out Avery's shrill, delighted laughter and the sound of Holly snapping. 'Not a morning person' didn't even begin to describe the prickly girl from Seven, who he still wasn't sure if he liked. She seemed to be ambivalent to him at best. At her worst she was downright resentful and hated them all.

"That girl is never pleased."

"She just needs time to warm up to people," Jute said, then spotted the look on his face. "Okay, sorry. I'm not just making excuses for her, though, not this time. A few days ago they were all enemies. Now we have to work together. It's not easy."