Сьюзен Коллинз - The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Back at the barrack, his fingers were so stiff he could hardly manipulate the uniform buttons, each one carrying the impression of the Capitol seal on its silver face. His legs had the same lack of coordination he associated with bomb time, but somehow he wobbled to the armory to collect his rifle. The other Peacekeepers, none of whom he knew by name, gave him a wide berth in the truck bed. He was certain he was tainted by association with the condemned.

As with Arlo’s hanging, Coriolanus was instructed to stand in a squad flanking the hanging tree. The size and volatility of the crowd confused him — surely, Sejanus had not garnered this sort of support in a few weeks — until the Peacekeeper van arrived and both Sejanus and Lil stumbled out in their chains. At the sight of the girl, many in the crowd began to wail her name.

Arlo, an ex-soldier toughened by years in the mines, had managed a fairly restrained end, at least until he’d heard Lil in the crowd. But Sejanus and Lil, weak with terror, looked far younger than their years and only reinforced the impression that two innocent children were being dragged to the gallows. Lil, her shaking legs unable to bear her weight, was hauled forward by a pair of grim-faced Peacekeepers who would probably spend the following night trying to obliterate this memory with white liquor.

As they passed him, Coriolanus locked eyes with Sejanus, and all he could see was the eight-year-old boy on the playground, the bag of gumdrops clenched in his fist. Only this boy was much, much more frightened. Sejanus’s lips formed his name, Coryo , and his face contorted in pain. But whether it was a plea for help or an accusation of his betrayal he couldn’t tell.

The Peacekeepers positioned the condemned side by side on the trapdoors. Another tried to read out the list of charges over the shrieks of the crowd, but all Coriolanus could catch was the word treason . He averted his eyes as the Peacekeepers moved in with the nooses, and he found himself looking at Lucy Gray’s stricken face. She stood near the front in an old gray dress, her hair hidden in a black scarf, tears running down her cheeks as she stared up at Sejanus.

As the drumroll began, Coriolanus squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could block out the sound as well. But he could not, and he heard it all. Sejanus’s cry, the bang of the trapdoors, and the jabberjays picking up Sejanus’s last word, screaming it over and over into the dazzling sun.

“Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma!”

Coriolanus soldiered his way through the aftermath, remaining stone-faced and speechless as he traveled back to the base, returned his gun, and walked to the barrack. He knew people were staring at him; Sejanus was known to be his friend, or at least a member of his squad. They wanted to see him crack, but he refused to give them the satisfaction. Alone in his room, he slowly removed his uniform, hanging each piece with precision, smoothing the creases with his fingers. Away from prying eyes, he allowed his body to deflate, his shoulders to droop in fatigue. All he’d managed to get down today had been a few swallows of apple juice. He felt too debilitated to rejoin his squad for target practice, to face Bug and Beanpole and Smiley. His hands shook too badly to hold a rifle anyway. Instead he sat on Beanpole’s bunk in his underwear in the stifling room, waiting for whatever was to come.

It was only a matter of time. Maybe he should just give himself up. Before they came to arrest him because Spruce had confessed to, or — more likely — Sejanus had divulged the details of the murders. Even if they had not, the Peacekeeper’s rifle was still out there, covered in his DNA. Spruce had not fled to freedom, probably lying low until he could rescue Lil, and if he had remained in District 12, so had the murder weapons. They could be testing his gun right at this minute, looking for confirmation that Spruce had used it to kill Mayfair and discovering that the shooter was their own Private Snow. The one who’d ratted out his best friend and sent him to the gallows.

Coriolanus buried his face in his hands. He had killed Sejanus as surely as if he’d bludgeoned him to death like Bobbin or gunned him down like Mayfair. He’d killed the person who considered him his brother. But even as the vileness of the act threatened to drown him, a tiny voice kept asking, What choice did you have? What choice? No choice. Sejanus had been bent on self-destruction, and Coriolanus had been swept along in his wake, only to be deposited at the foot of the hanging tree himself.

He tried to think rationally about it. Without him, Sejanus would have died in the arena, prey to the pack of tributes who had tried to kill them as they fled. Technically, Coriolanus had given him a few more weeks of life and a second chance, an opportunity to mend his ways. But he hadn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t care to. He was what he was. Maybe the wilderness would have been best for him. Poor Sejanus. Poor sensitive, foolish, dead Sejanus.

Coriolanus crossed to Sejanus’s locker, removed his box of personal items, and sat on the floor, spreading the contents in front of him. The only additions since his first search were a couple of homemade cookies, covered in a bit of tissue. Coriolanus unwrapped one and took a bite. Why not? The sweetness spread across his tongue, and images flashed in his brain — Sejanus holding out a sandwich at the zoo, Sejanus standing up to Dr. Gaul, Sejanus embracing him on the road back to the base, Sejanus swinging from the rope —

“Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma!”

He gagged on the cookie, bringing up a splash of apple juice, sour and acidic, along with the crumbs. Sweat poured off his body and he began to cry. Leaning back against the lockers, he curled his legs into his chest and let the ugly, violent sobs shake him. He wept for Sejanus, and for poor old Ma, and for sweet, devoted Tigris and his feeble, delusional Grandma’a’m, who would soon be losing him in such a sordid way. And for himself, because any day now, he would be dead. He started gasping for air in terror, as if the rope already choked the life from his body. He did not want to die! Especially not in that field, with those mutant birds echoing his last utterance. Who knew what crazy thing you’d say in a moment like that? And him dead and the birds screaming it all out until the mockingjays turned it into some macabre song!

After about five minutes, the outburst ended, and he calmed himself, rubbing his thumb over the cool marble heart from Sejanus’s box. There was nothing to do except try to face his death like a man. Like a soldier. Like a Snow. Having accepted his fate, he felt the need to get his affairs in order. He had to make what small amends he could to those he loved. Unfastening the back of the silver picture frame, he found quite a bit of cash still remained after Sejanus’s gun purchase. He took one of the creamy, fancy envelopes Sejanus had brought from the Capitol, stuffed the money in, sealed it, and addressed it to Tigris. After tidying Sejanus’s keepsakes, he returned the box to his locker. What else? He found himself thinking of Lucy Gray, the one and now only love of his life. He would like to leave her a remembrance of him. He dug through his own box and decided on the orange scarf, since the Covey loved color, and her more than most. He was unsure of how he’d get it to her, but if he made it to Sunday, maybe he could sneak off the base and see her one last time. He placed the neatly folded scarf with the strings Pluribus had sent. After rinsing the snot and tears from his face, he dressed and walked over to the post office to mail the money home.

At dinner, he whispered an account of the hanging to his miserable bunkmates, trying to soften it. “I think he died immediately. He couldn’t have felt any pain.”