Mocking Jay

"We might need to split up," I say under my breath. "There's a girl--"
Gunfire rips through the crowd, and several people near me slump to the ground. Screams pierce the air
as a second round mows down another group behind us. Gale and I drop to the street, scuttle the ten yards to the
shops, and take cover behind a display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller's.
A row of feathery footwear blocks Gale's view. "Who is it? Can you see?" he asks me. What I can see,
between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, is a street full of bodies. The little girl who
was watching me kneels beside a motionless woman, screeching and trying to rouse her. Another wave of
bullets slices across the chest of her yellow coat, staining it with red, knocking the girl onto her back. For a
moment, looking at her tiny crumpled form, I lose my ability to form words. Gale prods me with his elbow.
"Katniss?"
"They're shooting from the roof above us," I tell Gale. I watch a few more rounds, see the white uniforms
dropping into the snowy streets. "Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they're not exactly crack shots. It must
be the rebels." I don't feel a rush of joy, although theoretically my allies have broken through. I am transfixed by
that lemon yellow coat.
"If we start shooting, that's it," Gale says. "The whole world will know it's us."
It's true. We're armed only with our fabulous bows. To release an arrow would be like announcing to both
sides that we're here.
"No," I say forcefully. "We've got to get to Snow."
"Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," says Gale. Hugging the wall, we continue
along the street. Only the wall is mostly shopwindows. A pattern of sweaty palms and gaping faces presses
against the glass. I yank my scarf up higher over my cheekbones as we dart between outdoor displays. Behind a
rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper propped against a strip of brick wall. He
asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun. At the intersection, he shoots a
second Peacekeeper and we both have firearms.
"So who are we supposed to be now?" I ask.
"Desperate citizens of the Capitol," says Gale. "The Peacekeepers will think we're on their side, and
hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets."
I'm mulling over the wisdom of this latest role as we sprint across the intersection, but by the time we reach
the next block, it no longer matters who we are. Who anyone is. Because no one is looking at faces. The rebels
are here, all right. Pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways, behind vehicles, guns blazing, hoarse
voices shouting commands as they prepare to meet an army of Peacekeepers marching toward us. Caught in
the cross fire are the refugees, unarmed, disoriented, many wounded.
A pod's activated ahead of us, releasing a gush of steam that parboils everyone in its path, leaving the
victims intestine-pink and very dead. After that, what little sense of order there was unravels. As the remaining
curlicues of steam intertwine with the snow, visibility extends just to the end of my barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel,
citizen, who knows? Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively, and I'm no exception. Heart
pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy. Except Gale. My hunting partner, the one
person who has my back. There's nothing to do but move forward, killing whoever comes into our path.
Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people everywhere. As we reach the next corner, the entire block
ahead of us lights up with a rich purple glow. We backpedal, hunker down in a stairwell, and squint into the light.
Something's happening to those illuminated by it. They're assaulted by...what? A sound? A wave? A laser?
Weapons fall from their hands, fingers clutch their faces, as blood sprays from all visible orifices--eyes, noses,
mouths, ears. In less than a minute, everyone's dead and the glow vanishes. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over
the bodies, feet slipping in the gore. The wind whips the snow into blinding swirls but doesn't block out the sound
of another wave of boots headed our way.
"Get down!" I hiss at Gale. We drop where we are. My face lands in a still-warm pool of someone's blood,
but I play dead, remain motionless as the boots march over us. Some avoid the bodies. Others grind into my
hand, my back, kick my head in passing. As the boots recede, I open my eyes and nod to Gale.
On the next block, we encounter more terrified refugees, but few soldiers. Just when it seems we might
have caught a break, there's a cracking sound, like an egg hitting the side of a bowl but magnified a thousand
times. We stop, look around for the pod. There's nothing. Then I feel the tips of my boots beginning to tilt ever so
slightly. "Run!" I cry to Gale. There's no time to explain, but in a few seconds the nature of the pod becomes clear
to everyone. A seam has opened up down the center of the block. The two sides of the tiled street are folding
down like flaps, slowly emptying the people into whatever lies beneath.