Mocking Jay

I'm torn between making a beeline for the next intersection and trying to get to the doors that line the street
and break my way into a building. As a result, I end up moving at a slight diagonal. As the flap continues to drop, I
find my feet scrambling, harder and harder, to find purchase on the slippery tiles. It's like running along the side of
an icy hill that gets steeper at every step. Both of my destinations--the intersection and the buildings--are a few
feet away when I feel the flap going. There's nothing to do but use my last seconds of connection to the tiles to
push off for the intersection. As my hands latch on to the side, I realize the flaps have swung straight down. My
feet dangle in the air, no foothold anywhere. From fifty feet below, a vile stench hits my nose, like rotted corpses
in the summer heat. Black forms crawl around in the shadows, silencing whoever survives the fall.
A strangled cry comes from my throat. No one is coming to help me. I'm losing my grip on the icy ledge,
when I see I'm only about six feet from the corner of the pod. I inch my hands along the ledge, trying to block out
the terrifying sounds from below. When my hands straddle the corner, I swing my right boot up over the side. It
catches on something and I painstakingly drag myself up to street level. Panting, trembling, I crawl out and wrap
my arm around a lamppost for an anchor, although the ground's perfectly flat.
"Gale?" I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized. "Gale?"
"Over here!" I look in bewilderment to my left. The flap held up everything to the very base of the buildings.
A dozen or so people made it that far and now hang from whatever provides a handhold. Doorknobs, knockers,
mail slots. Three doors down from me, Gale clings to the decorative iron grating around an apartment door. He
could easily get inside if it was open. But despite repeated kicks to the door, no one comes to his aid.
"Cover yourself!" I lift my gun. He turns away and I drill the lock until the door flies inward. Gale swings into
the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. For a moment, I experience the elation of his rescue. Then the whitegloved
hands clamp down on him.
Gale meets my eyes, mouths something at me I can't make out. I don't know what to do. I can't leave him,
but I can't reach him either. His lips move again. I shake my head to indicate my confusion. At any minute, they'll
realize who they've captured. The Peacekeepers are hauling him inside now. "Go!" I hear him yell.
I turn and run away from the pod. All alone now. Gale a prisoner. Cressida and Pollux could be dead ten
times over. And Peeta? I haven't laid eyes on him since we left Tigris's. I hold on to the idea that he may have
gone back. Felt an attack coming and retreated to the cellar while he still had control. Realized there was no
need for a diversion when the Capitol has provided so many. No need to be bait and have to take the nightlock--
the nightlock! Gale doesn't have any. And as for all that talk of detonating his arrows by hand, he'll never get the
chance. The first thing the Peacekeepers will do is to strip him of his weapons.
I fall into a doorway, tears stinging my eyes. Shoot me. That's what he was mouthing. I was supposed to
shoot him! That was my job. That was our unspoken promise, all of us, to one another. And I didn't do it and now
the Capitol will kill him or torture him or hijack him or--the cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break
me into pieces. I have only one hope. That the Capitol falls, lays down its arms, and gives up its prisoners before
they hurt Gale. But I can't see that happening while Snow's alive.
A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I
choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself back together.
Okay, I'm still an anonymous refugee. Or did the Peacekeepers who caught Gale get a glimpse of me as I fled? I
remove my cloak and turn it inside out, letting the black lining show instead of the red exterior. Arrange the hood
so it conceals my face. Grasping my gun close to my chest, I survey the block. There's only a handful of dazedlooking
stragglers. I trail close behind a pair of old men who take no notice of me. No one will expect me to be
with old men. When we reach the end of the next intersection, they stop and I almost bump into them. It's the City
Circle. Across the wide expanse ringed by grand buildings sits the president's mansion.
The Circle's full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. I fit
right in. I begin to weave my way across to the mansion, tripping over abandoned treasures and snow-frosted
limbs. About halfway there, I become aware of the concrete barricade. It's about four feet high and extends in a
large rectangle in front of the mansion. You would think it would be empty, but it's packed with refugees. Maybe
this is the group that's been chosen to be sheltered at the mansion? But as I draw closer, I notice something
else. Everyone inside the barricade is a child. Toddlers to teenagers. Scared and frostbitten. Huddled in groups
or rocking numbly on the ground. They aren't being led into the mansion. They're penned in, guarded on all sides
by Peacekeepers. I know immediately it's not for their protection. If the Capitol wanted to safeguard them, they'd
be down in a bunker somewhere. This is for Snow's protection. The children form his human shield.
There's a commotion and the crowd surges to the left. I'm caught up by larger bodies, borne sideways,