Сьюзен Коллинз - Mockingjay

«Yes. Our goal is to take over the districts one by one, ending with District Two, thus cutting off the Capitol’s supply chain. Then, once it’s weakened, we invade the Capitol itself,» says Plutarch. «That will be a whole other type of challenge. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.»

«If we win, who would be in charge of the government?» Gale asks.

«Everyone,» Plutarch tells him. «We’re going to form a republic where the people of each district and the Capitol can elect their own representatives to be their voice in a centralized government. Don’t look so suspicious; it’s worked before.»

«In books,» Haymitch mutters.

«In history books,» says Plutarch. «And if our ancestors could do it, then we can, too.»

Frankly, our ancestors don’t seem much to brag about. I mean, look at the state they left us in, with the wars and the broken planet. Clearly, they didn’t care about what would happen to the people who came after them. But this republic idea sounds like an improvement over our current government.

«And if we lose?» I ask.

«If we lose?» Plutarch looks out at the clouds, and an ironic smile twists his lips. «Then I would expect next year’s Hunger Games to be quite unforgettable. That reminds me.» He takes a vial from his vest, shakes a few deep violet pills into his hand, and holds them out to us. «We named them nightlock in your honor, Katniss. The rebels can’t afford for any of us to be captured now. But I promise, it will be completely painless.»

I take hold of a capsule, unsure of where to put it. Plutarch taps a spot on my shoulder at the front of my left sleeve. I examine it and find a tiny pocket that both secures and conceals the pill. Even if my hands were tied, I could lean my head forward and bite it free.

Cinna, it seems, has thought of everything.

The hovercraft makes a quick, spiral descent onto a wide road on the outskirts of 8. Almost immediately, the door opens, the stairs slide into place, and we’re spit out onto the asphalt. The moment the last person disembarks, the equipment retracts. Then the craft lifts off and vanishes. I’m left with a bodyguard made up of Gale, Boggs, and two other soldiers. The TV crew consists of a pair of burly Capitol cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who has a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On careful observation, I see his tongue has been pierced, too, and he wears a stud with a silver ball the size of a marble.

Boggs hustles us off the road toward a row of warehouses as a second hovercraft comes in for a landing. This one brings crates of medical supplies and a crew of six medics—I can tell by their distinctive white outfits. We all follow Boggs down an alley that runs between two dull gray warehouses. Only the occasional access ladder to the roof interrupts the scarred metal walls. When we emerge onto the street, it’s like we’ve entered another world.

The wounded from this morning’s bombing are being brought in. On homemade stretchers, in wheelbarrows, on carts, slung across shoulders, and clenched tight in arms. Bleeding, limbless, unconscious. Propelled by desperate people to a warehouse with a sloppily paintedH above the doorway. It’s a scene from my old kitchen, where my mother treated the dying, multiplied by ten, by fifty, by a hundred. I had expected bombed-out buildings and instead find myself confronted with broken human bodies.

This is where they plan on filming me? I turn to Boggs. «This won’t work,» I say. «I won’t be good here.»

He must see the panic in my eyes, because he stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders. «You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could.»

A woman directing the incoming patients catches sight of us, does a sort of double take, and then strides over. Her dark brown eyes are puffy with fatigue and she smells of metal and sweat. A bandage around her throat needed changing about three days ago. The strap of the automatic weapon slung across her back digs into her neck and she shifts her shoulder to reposition it. With a jerk of her thumb, she orders the medics into the warehouse. They comply without question.

«This is Commander Paylor of Eight,» says Boggs. «Commander, Soldier Katniss Everdeen.»

She looks young to be a commander. Early thirties. But there’s an authoritative tone to her voice that makes you feel her appointment wasn’t arbitrary. Beside her, in my spanking-new outfit, scrubbed and shiny, I feel like a recently hatched chick, untested and only just learning how to navigate the world.

«Yeah, I know who she is,» says Paylor. «You’re alive, then. We weren’t sure.» Am I wrong or is there a note of accusation in her voice?

«I’m still not sure myself,» I answer.

«Been in recovery.» Boggs taps his head. «Bad concussion.» He lowers his voice a moment.

«Miscarriage. But she insisted on coming by to see your wounded.»

«Well, we’ve got plenty of those,» says Paylor.

«You think this is a good idea?» says Gale, frowning at the hospital. «Assembling your wounded like this?»

I don’t. Any sort of contagious disease would spread through this place like wildfire.

«I think it’s slightly better than leaving them to die,» says Paylor.

«That’s not what I meant,» Gale tells her.

«Well, currently that’s my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I’m all ears.» Paylor waves me toward the door. «Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends.»

I glance back at the freak show that is my crew, steel myself, and follow her into the hospital. Some sort of heavy, industrial curtain hangs the length of the building, forming a sizable corridor. Corpses lie side by side, curtain brushing their heads, white cloths concealing their faces. «We’ve got a mass grave started a few blocks west of here, but I can’t spare the manpower to move them yet,» says Paylor. She finds a slit in the curtain and opens it wide.

My fingers wrap around Gale’s wrist. «Do not leave my side,» I say under my breath.

«I’m right here,» he answers quietly.

I step through the curtain and my senses are assaulted. My first impulse is to cover my nose to block out the stench of soiled linen, putrefying flesh, and vomit, all ripening in the heat of the warehouse. They’ve propped open skylights that crisscross the high metal roof, but any air that’s managing to get in can’t make a dent in the fog below. The thin shafts of sunlight provide the only illumination, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out row upon row of wounded, in cots, on pallets, on the floor because there are so many to claim the space. The drone of black flies, the moaning of people in pain, and the sobs of their attending loved ones have combined into a wrenching chorus.

We have no real hospitals in the districts. We die at home, which at the moment seems a far desirable alternative to what lies in front of me. Then I remember that many of these people probably lost their homes in the bombings.

Sweat begins to run down my back, fill my palms. I breathe through my mouth in an attempt to diminish the smell. Black spots swim across my field of vision, and I think there’s a really good chance I could faint. But then I catch sight of Paylor, who’s watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have been right to think they can count on me. So I let go of Gale and force myself to move deeper into the warehouse, to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.

«Katniss?» a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. «Katniss?» A hand reaches for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an injured leg. Blood has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are crawling with flies. Her face reflects her pain, but something else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. «Is it really you?»