the hunger games-饥饿游戏(英文版)-第27部分

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Hope　for　rain。　Thereˇs　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky。
Keep　looking。　Yes；　this　is　my　only　chance。　But　then；　another　thought　hits　me；　and　the　surge　of　anger　that　follows　brings　me　to　me　senses。
Haymitch！　He　could　send　me　water！　Press　a　button　and　have　it　delivered　to　me　in　a　silver　parachute　in　minutes。　I　know　I　must　have　sponsors；　at　least　one　or　two　who　could　afford　a　pint　of　liquid　for　me。　Yes；　itˇs　pricey；　but　these　people；　theyˇre　made　of　money。　And　theyˇll　be　betting　on　me　as　well。　Perhaps　Haymitch　doesnˇt　realize　how　deep　my　need　is。
I　say　in　a　voice　as　loud　as　I　dare。　¨Water。〃　I　wait；　hopefully；　for　a　parachute　to　descend　from　the　sky。　But　nothing　is　forthing。
Something　is　wrong。　Am　I　deluded　about　having　sponsors？　Or　has　Peetaˇs　behavior　made　them　all　hang　back？　No；　I　donˇt　believe　it。　Thereˇs　someone　out　there　who　wants　to　buy　me　water　only　Haymitch　is　refusing　to　let　it　go　through。　As　my　mentor；　he　gets　to　control　the　flow　of　gifts　from　the　sponsors。　I　know　he　hates　me。　Heˇs　made　that　clear　enough。　But　enough　to　let　me　die？　From　this？　He　canˇt　do　that；　can　he？　If　a　mentor　mistreats　his　tributes；　heˇll　be　held　accountable　by　the　viewers；　by　the　people　back　in　District　12。　Even　Haymitch　wouldnˇt　risk　that；　would　he？　Say　what　you　will　about　my　fellow　traders　in　the　Hob；　but　I　donˇt　think　theyˇd　wele　him　back　there　if　he　let　me　die　this　way。　And　then　where　would　he　get　his　liquor？　So　。　。　。　what？　Is　he　trying　to　make　me　suffer　for　defying　him？　Is　he　directing　all　the　sponsors　toward　Peeta？　Is　he　just　too　drunk　to　even　notice　whatˇs　going　on　at　the　moment？　Somehow　I　donˇt　believe　that　and　I　donˇt　believe　heˇs　trying　to　kill　me　off　by　neglect；　either。　He　has；　in　fact；　in　his　own　unpleasant　way；　genuinely　been　trying　to　prepare　me　for　this。　Then　what　is　going　on？
I　bury　my　face　in　my　hands。　Thereˇs　no　danger　of　tears　now；　I　couldnˇt　produce　one　to　save　my　life。　What　is　Haymitch　doing？　Despite　my　anger；　hatred；　and　suspicions；　a　small　voice　in　the　back　of　my　head　whispers　an　answer。
Maybe　heˇs　sending　you　a　message；　it　says。　A　message。　Saying　what？　Then　I　know。　Thereˇs　only　one　good　reason　Haymitch　could　be　withholding　water　from　me。　Because　he　knows　Iˇve　almost　found　it。
I　grit　my　teeth　and　pull　myself　to　my　feet。　My　backpack　seems　to　have　tripled　in　weight。　I　find　a　broken　branch　that　will　do　for　a　walking　stick　and　I　start　off。　The　sunˇs　beating　down；　even　more　searing　than　the　first　two　days。　I　feel　like　an　old　piece　of　leather；　drying　and　cracking　in　the　heat。　Every　step　is　an　effort；　but　I　refuse　to　stop。　I　refuse　to　sit　down。　If　I　sit；　thereˇs　a　good　chance　I　wonˇt　be　able　to　get　up　again；　that　I　wonˇt　even　remember　my　task。
What　easy　prey　I　am！　Any　tribute；　even　tiny　Rue；　could　take　me　right　now；　merely　shove　me　over　and　kill　me　with　my　own　knife；　and　Iˇd　have　little　strength　to　resist。　But　if　anyone　is　in　my　part　of　the　woods；　they　ignore　me。　The　truth　is；　I　feel　a　million　miles　from　another　living　soul。
Not　alone　though。　No；　theyˇve　surely　got　a　camera　tracking　me　now。　I　think　back　to　the　years　of　watching　tributes　starve；　freeze；　bleed；　and　dehydrate　to　death。　Unless　thereˇs　a　really　good　fight　going　on　somewhere；　Iˇm　being　featured。
My　thoughts　turn　to　Prim。　Itˇs　likely　she　wonˇt　be　watching　me　live；　but　theyˇll　show　updates　at　the　school　during　lunch。　For　her　sake；　I　try　to　look　as　least　desperate　as　I　can。
But　by　afternoon；　I　know　the　end　is　ing。　My　legs　are　shaking　and　my　heart　too　quick。　I　keep　forgetting；　exactly　what　Iˇm　doing。　Iˇve　stumbled　repeatedly　and　managed　to　regain　my　feet；　but　when　the　stick　slides　out　from　under　me；　I　finally　tumble　to　the　ground　unable　to　get　up。　I　let　my　eyes　close。
I　have　misjudged　Haymitch。　He　has　no　intention　of　helping　me　at　all。
This　is　all　right；　I　think。　This　is　not　so　bad　here。　The　air　is　less　hot；　signifying　eveningˇs　approach。　Thereˇs　a　slight；　sweet　scent　that　reminds　me　of　lilies。　My　fingers　stroke　the　smooth　ground；　sliding　easily　across　the　top。　This　is　an　okay　place　to　die；　I　think。
My　fingertips　make　small　swirling　patterns　in　the　cool；　slippery　earth。　I　love　mud；　I　think。　How　many　times　Iˇve　tracked　game　with　the　help　of　its　soft；　readable　surface。　Good　for　bee　stings；　too。　Mud。　Mud。　Mud！　My　eyes　fly　open　and　I　dig　my　fingers　into　the　earth。　It　is　mud！　My　nose　lifts　in　the　air。　And　those　are　lilies！　Pond　lilies！
I　crawl　now；　through　the　mud；　dragging　myself　toward　the　scent。　Five　yards　from　where　I　fell；　I　crawl　through　a　tangle　of　plants　into　a　pond。　Floating　on　the　top；　yellow　flowers　in　bloom；　are　my　beautiful　lilies。
Itˇs　all　I　can　do　not　to　plunge　my　face　into　the　water　and　gulp　down　as　much　as　I　can　hold。　But　I　have　jus　enough　sense　left　to　abstain。　With　trembling　hands；　I　get　out　my　flask　and　fill　it　with　water。　I　add　what　I　remember　to　be　the　right　number　of　drops　of　iodine　for　purifying　it。　The　half　an　hour　of　waiting　is　agony；　but　I　do　it。　At　least；
I　think　itˇs　a　half　an　hour；　but　itˇs　certainly　as　long　as　I　can　stand。
Slowly；　easy　now；　I　tell　myself。　I　take　one　swallow　and　make　myself　wait。　Then　another。　Over　the　next　couple　of　hours；　I　drink　the　entire　half　gallon。　Then　a　second。　I　prepare　another　before　I　retire　to　a　tree　where　I　continue　sipping；　eating　rabbit；　and　even　indulge　in　one　of　my　precious　crackers。　By　the　time　the　anthem　plays；　I　feel　remarkably　better。　There　are　no　faces　tonight；　no　tributes　died　today。　Tomorrow　Iˇll　stay　here；　resting；　camouflaging　my　backpack　with　mud；　catching　some　of　those　little　fish　I　saw　as　I　sipped；　digging　up　the　roots　of　the　pond　lilies　to　make　a　nice　meal。　I　snuggle　down　in　my　sleeping　bag；　hanging　on　to　my　water　bottle　for　dear　life；　which；　of　course；　it　is。
A　few　hours　later；　the　stampede　of　feet　shakes　me　from　slumber。　I　look　around　in　bewilderment。　Itˇs　not　yet　dawn；　but　my　stinging　eyes　can　see　it。
It　would　be　hard　to　miss　the　wall　of　fire　descending　on　me。

13
My　first　impulse　is　to　scramble　from　the　tree；　but　Iˇm　belted　in。　Somehow　my　fumbling　fingers　release　the　buckle　and　I　fall　to　the　ground　in　a　heap；　still　snarled　in　my　sleeping　bag。　Thereˇs　no　time　for　any　kind　of　packing。　Fortunately；　my　backpack　and　water　bottle　are　already　in　the　bag。　I　shove　in　the　belt；　hoist　the　bag　over　my　shoulder；　and　flee。
The　world　has　transformed　to　flame　and　smoke。　Burning　branches　crack　from　trees　and　fall　in　showers　of　sparks　at　my　feet。　All　I　can　do　is　follow　the　others；　the　rabbits　and　deer　and　I　even　spot　a　wild　dog　pack　shooting　through　the　woods。　I　trust　their　sense　of　direction　because　their　instincts　are　sharper　than　mine。　But　they　are　much　faster；　flying　through　the　underbrush　so　gracefully　as　my　boots　catch　on　roots　and　fallen　tree　limbs；　that　thereˇs　no　way　I　can　keep　apace　with　them。
The　heat　is　horrible；　but　worse　than　the　heat　is　the　smoke；　which　threatens　to　suffocate　me　at　any　moment。　I　pull　the　top　of　my　shirt　up　over　my　nose；　grateful　to　find　it　soaked　in　sweat；　and　it　offers　a　thin　veil　of　protection。　And　I　run；　choking；　my　bag　banging　against　my　back；　my　face　cut　with　branches　that　materialize　from　the　gray　haze　without　warning；　because　I　know　I　am　supposed　to　run。
This　was　no　tributeˇs　campfire　gone　out　of　control；　no　accidental　occurrence。　The　flames　that　bear　down　on　me　have　an　unnatural　height；　a　uniformity　that　marks　them　as　humanmade；　machine…made；　Gamemaker…made。　Things　have　been　too　quiet　today。　No　deaths；　perhaps　no　fights　at　all。　The　audience　in　the　Capitol　will　be　getting　bored；　claiming　that　these　Games　are　verging　on　dullness。　This　is　the　one　thing　the　Games　must　not　do。
Itˇs　not　hard　to　follow　the　Gamemakersˇ　motivation。　There　is　the　Career　pack　and　then　there　are　the　rest　of　us；　probably　spread　far　and　thin　across　the　arena。　This　fire　is　designed　to　flush　us　out；　to　drive　us　together。　It　may　not　be　the　most　original　device　Iˇve　seen；　but　itˇs　very；　very　effective。　
I　hurdle　over　a　burning　log。　Not　high　enough。　The　tail　end　of　my　jacket　catches　on　fire　and　I　have　to　stop　to　rip　it　from　my　body　and　stamp　out　the　flames。　But　I　donˇt　dare　leave　the　jacket；　scorched　and　smoldering　as　it　is；　I　take　the　risk　of　shoving　it　in　my　sleeping　bag；　hoping　the　lack　of　air　will　quell　what　I　havenˇt　extinguished。　This　is　all　I　have；　what　I　carry　on　my　back；　and　itˇs　little　enough　to　survive　with。
In　a　matter　of　minutes；　my　throat　and　nose　are　burning。　The　coughing　begins　soon　after　and　my　lungs　begin　to　feel　as　if　they　are　actually　being　cooked。　Disfort　turns　to　distress　until　each　breath　sends　a　searing　pain　through　my　chest。　I　manage　to　take　cover　under　a　stone　outcropping　just　as　the　vomiting　begins；　and　I　lose　my　meager　supper　and　whatever　water　has　remained　in　my　stomach。　Crouching　on　my　hands　and　knees；　I　retch　until　thereˇs　nothing　left　to　e　up。
I　know　I　need　to　keep　moving；　but　Iˇm　trembling　and　lightheaded　now；　gasping　for　air。　I　allow　myself　about　a　spoonful　of　water　to　rinse　my　mouth　and　spit　then　take　a　few　swallows　from　my　bottle。　You　get　one　minute；　I　tell　myself。　One　minute　to　rest。　I　take　the　time　to　reorder　my　supplies；　wad　up　the　sleeping　bag；　and　messily　stuff　everything　into　the　backpack。　My　minuteˇs　up。　I　know　itˇs　time　to　move　on；　but　the　smoke　has　clouded　my　thoughts。　The　swift…footed　animals　that　were　my