{"id":2850,"date":"2026-01-03T22:52:27","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:52:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-hunger-games-03-collins-suzanne\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T22:52:27","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T22:52:27","slug":"the-hunger-games-03-collins-suzanne","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-hunger-games-03-collins-suzanne\/","title":{"rendered":"The Hunger Games 03 – Collins, Suzanne"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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1<\/span><\/span><\/h2>\n<\/div>\n
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I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. This is where the bed I shared with my sister, Prim, stood. Over there was the kitchen table. The bricks of the chimney, which collapsed in a charred heap, provide a point of reference for the rest of the house. How else could I orient myself in this sea of gray?<\/p>\n

Almost nothing remains of District 12. A month ago, the Capitol\u2019s firebombs obliterated the poor coal miners\u2019 houses in the Seam, the shops in the town, even the Justice Building. The only area that escaped incineration was the Victor\u2019s Village. I don\u2019t know why exactly. Perhaps so anyone forced to come here on Capitol business would have somewhere decent to stay. The odd reporter. A committee assessing the condition of the coal mines. A squad of Peacekeepers checking for returning refugees.<\/p>\n

But no one is returning except me. And that\u2019s only for a brief visit. The authorities in District 13 were against my coming back. They viewed it as a costly and pointless venture, given that at least a dozen invisible hovercraft are circling overhead for my protection and there\u2019s no intelligence to be gained. I had to see it, though. So much so that I made it a condition of my cooperating with any of their plans.<\/p>\n

Finally, Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker who had organized the rebels in the Capitol, threw up his hands. \u201cLet her go. Better to waste a day than another month. Maybe a little tour of Twelve is just what she needs to convince her we\u2019re on the same side.\u201d<\/p>\n

The same side. A pain stabs my left temple and I press my hand against it. Right on the spot where Johanna Mason hit me with the coil of wire. The memories swirl as I try to sort out what is true and what is false. What series of events led me to be standing in the ruins of my city? This is hard because the effects of the concussion she gave me haven\u2019t completely subsided and my thoughts still have a tendency to jumble together. Also, the drugs they use to control my pain and mood sometimes make me see things. I guess. I\u2019m still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating the night the floor of my hospital room transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.<\/p>\n

I use a technique one of the doctors suggested. I start with the simplest things I know to be true and work toward the more complicated. The list begins to roll in my head\u2026.<\/p>\n

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely he is dead. It is probably best if he is dead\u2026.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cKatniss. Should I come down?\u201d My best friend Gale\u2019s voice reaches me through the headset the rebels insisted I wear. He\u2019s up in a hovercraft, watching me carefully, ready to swoop in if anything goes amiss. I realize I\u2019m crouched down now, elbows on my thighs, my head braced between my hands. I must look on the verge of some kind of breakdown. This won\u2019t do. Not when they\u2019re finally weaning me off the medication.<\/p>\n

I straighten up and wave his offer away. \u201cNo. I\u2019m fine.\u201d To reinforce this, I begin to move away from my old house and in toward the town. Gale asked to be dropped off in 12 with me, but he didn\u2019t force the issue when I refused his company. He understands I don\u2019t want anyone with me today. Not even him. Some walks you have to take alone.<\/p>\n

The summer\u2019s been scorching hot and dry as a bone. There\u2019s been next to no rain to disturb the piles of ash left by the attack. They shift here and there, in reaction to my footsteps. No breeze to scatter them. I keep my eyes on what I remember as the road, because when I first landed in the Meadow, I wasn\u2019t careful and I walked right into a rock. Only it wasn\u2019t a rock\u2014it was someone\u2019s skull. It rolled over and over and landed faceup, and for a long time I couldn\u2019t stop looking at the teeth, wondering whose they were, thinking of how mine would probably look the same way under similar circumstances.<\/p>\n

I stick to the road out of habit, but it\u2019s a bad choice, because it\u2019s full of the remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of the flames and now lie reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by flies. I killed you,<\/span> I think as I pass a pile. And you. And you<\/span>.<\/p>\n

Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos.<\/p>\n

In my head I hear President Snow\u2019s words, spoken the morning I was to begin the Victory Tour. \u201cKatniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem.\u201d<\/span> It turns out he wasn\u2019t exaggerating or simply trying to scare me. He was, perhaps, genuinely attempting to enlist my help. But I had already set something in motion that I had no ability to control.<\/p>\n

Burning. Still burning,<\/span> I think numbly. The fires at the coal mines belch black smoke in the distance. There\u2019s no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the district\u2019s population is dead. The remaining eight hundred or so are refugees in District 13\u2014which, as far as I\u2019m concerned, is the same thing as being homeless forever.<\/p>\n

I know I shouldn\u2019t think that; I know I should be grateful for the way we have been welcomed. Sick, wounded, starving, and empty-handed. Still, I can never get around the fact that District 13 was instrumental in 12\u2019s destruction. This doesn\u2019t absolve me of blame\u2014there\u2019s plenty of blame to go around. But without them, I would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the wherewithal to do it.<\/p>\n

The citizens of District 12 had no organized resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this. They only had the misfortune to have me. Some survivors think it\u2019s good luck, though, to be free of District 12 at last. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the lash of our final Head Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. To have a new home at all is seen as a wonder since, up until a short time ago, we hadn\u2019t even known that District 13 still existed.<\/p>\n

The credit for the survivors\u2019 escape has landed squarely on Gale\u2019s shoulders, although he\u2019s loath to accept it. As soon as the Quarter Quell was over\u2014as soon as I had been lifted from the arena\u2014the electricity in District 12 was cut, the televisions went black, and the Seam became so silent, people could hear one another\u2019s heartbeats. No one did anything to protest or celebrate what had happened in the arena. Yet within fifteen minutes, the sky was filled with hoverplanes and the bombs were raining down.<\/p>\n

It was Gale who thought of the Meadow, one of the few places not filled with old wooden homes embedded with coal dust. He herded those he could in its direction, including my mother and Prim. He formed the team that pulled down the fence\u2014now just a harmless chain-link barrier, with the electricity off\u2014and led the people into the woods. He took them to the only place he could think of, the lake my father had shown me as a child. And it was from there they watched the distant flames eat up everything they knew in the world.<\/p>\n

By dawn the bombers were long gone, the fires dying, the final stragglers rounded up. My mother and Prim had set up a medical area for the injured and were attempting to treat them with whatever they could glean from the woods. Gale had two sets of bows and arrows, one hunting knife, one fishing net, and over eight hundred terrified people to feed. With the help of those who were able-bodied, they managed for three days. And that\u2019s when the hovercraft unexpectedly arrived to evacuate them to District 13, where there were more than enough clean, white living compartments, plenty of clothing, and three meals a day. The compartments had the disadvantage of being underground, the clothing was identical, and the food was relatively tasteless, but for the refugees of 12, these were minor considerations. They were safe. They were being cared for. They were alive and eagerly welcomed.<\/p>\n

This enthusiasm was interpreted as kindness. But a man named Dalton, a District 10 refugee who\u2019d made it to 13 on foot a few years ago, leaked the real motive to me. \u201cThey need you. Me. They need us all. Awhile back, there was some sort of pox epidemic that killed a bunch of them and left a lot more infertile. New breeding stock. That\u2019s how they see us.\u201d Back in 10, he\u2019d worked on one of the beef ranches, maintaining the genetic diversity of the herd with the implantation of long-frozen cow embryos. He\u2019s very likely right about 13, because there don\u2019t seem to be nearly enough kids around. But so what? We\u2019re not being kept in pens, we\u2019re being trained for work, the children are being educated. Those over fourteen have been given entry-level ranks in the military and are addressed respectfully as \u201cSoldier.\u201d Every single refugee was granted automatic citizenship by the authorities of 13.<\/p>\n

Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.<\/p>\n

The surface beneath my feet hardens, and under the carpet of ash, I feel the paving stones of the square. Around the perimeter is a shallow border of refuse where the shops stood. A heap of blackened rubble has replaced the Justice Building. I walk to the approximate site of the bakery Peeta\u2019s family owned. Nothing much left but the melted lump of the oven. Peeta\u2019s parents, his two older brothers\u2014none of them made it to 13. Fewer than a dozen of what passed for District 12\u2019s well-to-do escaped the fire. Peeta would have nothing to come home to, anyway. Except me\u2026<\/p>\n

I back away from the bakery and bump into something, lose my balance, and find myself sitting on a hunk of sun-heated metal. I puzzle over what it might have been, then remember Thread\u2019s recent renovations of the square. Stocks, whipping posts, and this, the remains of the gallows. Bad. This is bad. It brings on the flood of images that torments me, awake or asleep. Peeta being tortured\u2014drowned, burned, lacerated, shocked, maimed, beaten\u2014as the Capitol tries to get information about the rebellion that he doesn\u2019t know. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reach for him across the hundreds and hundreds of miles, to send my thoughts into his mind, to let him know he is not alone. But he is. And I can\u2019t help him.<\/p>\n

Running. Away from the square and to the one place the fire did not destroy. I pass the wreckage of the mayor\u2019s house, where my friend Madge lived. No word of her or her family. Were they evacuated to the Capitol because of her father\u2019s position, or left to the flames? Ashes billow up around me, and I pull the hem of my shirt up over my mouth. It\u2019s not wondering what I breathe in, but who, that threatens to choke me.<\/p>\n

The grass has been scorched and the gray snow fell here as well, but the twelve fine houses of the Victor\u2019s Village are unscathed. I bolt into the house I lived in for the past year, slam the door closed, and lean back against it. The place seems untouched. Clean. Eerily quiet. Why did I come back to 12? How can this visit help me answer the question I can\u2019t escape?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat am I going to do?\u201d I whisper to the walls. Because I really don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n

People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking. Plutarch Heavensbee. His calculating assistant, Fulvia Cardew. A mishmash of district leaders. Military officials. But not Alma Coin, the president of 13, who just watches. She\u2019s fifty or so, with gray hair that falls in an unbroken sheet to her shoulders. I\u2019m somewhat fascinated by her hair, since it\u2019s so uniform, so without a flaw, a wisp, even a split end. Her eyes are gray, but not like those of people from the Seam. They\u2019re very pale, as if almost all the color has been sucked out of them. The color of slush that you wish would melt away.<\/p>\n

What they want is for me to truly take on the role they designed for me. The symbol of the revolution. The Mockingjay. It isn\u2019t enough, what I\u2019ve done in the past, defying the Capitol in the Games, providing a rallying point. I must now become the actual leader, the face, the voice, the embodiment of the revolution. The person who the districts\u2014most of which are now openly at war with the Capitol\u2014can count on to blaze the path to victory. I won\u2019t have to do it alone. They have a whole team of people to make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances\u2014as if that<\/span> doesn\u2019t sound horribly familiar\u2014and all I have to do is play my part. Sometimes I listen to them and sometimes I just watch the perfect line of Coin\u2019s hair and try to decide if it\u2019s a wig. Eventually, I leave the room because my head starts to ache or it\u2019s time to eat or if I don\u2019t get aboveground I might start screaming. I don\u2019t bother to say anything. I simply get up and walk out.<\/p>\n

Yesterday afternoon, as the door was closing behind me, I heard Coin say, \u201cI told you we should have rescued the boy first.\u201d Meaning Peeta. I couldn\u2019t agree more. He would\u2019ve been an excellent mouthpiece.<\/p>\n

And who did they fish out of the arena instead? Me, who won\u2019t cooperate. Beetee, an older inventor from 3, who I rarely see because he was pulled into weapons development the minute he could sit upright. Literally, they wheeled his hospital bed into some top secret area and now he only occasionally shows up for meals. He\u2019s very smart and very willing to help the cause, but not really firebrand material. Then there\u2019s Finnick Odair, the sex symbol from the fishing district, who kept Peeta alive in the arena when I couldn\u2019t. They want to transform Finnick into a rebel leader as well, but first they\u2019ll have to get him to stay awake for more than five minutes. Even when he is conscious, you have to say everything to him three times to get through to his brain. The doctors say it\u2019s from the electrical shock he received in the arena, but I know it\u2019s a lot more complicated than that. I know that Finnick can\u2019t focus on anything in 13 because he\u2019s trying so hard to see what\u2019s happening in the Capitol to Annie, the mad girl from his district who\u2019s the only person on earth he loves.<\/p>\n

Despite serious reservations, I had to forgive Finnick for his role in the conspiracy that landed me here. He, at least, has some idea of what I\u2019m going through. And it takes too much energy to stay angry with someone who cries so much.<\/p>\n

I move through the downstairs on hunter\u2019s feet, reluctant to make any sound. I pick up a few remembrances: a photo of my parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for Prim, the family book of medicinal and edible plants. The book falls open to a page with yellow flowers and I shut it quickly because it was Peeta\u2019s brush that painted them.<\/p>\n

What am I going to do?<\/span><\/p>\n

Is there any point in doing anything at all? My mother, my sister, and Gale\u2019s family are finally safe. As for the rest of 12, people are either dead, which is irreversible, or protected in 13. That leaves the rebels in the districts. Of course, I hate the Capitol, but I have no confidence that my being the Mockingjay will benefit those who are trying to bring it down. How can I help the districts when every time I make a move, it results in suffering and loss of life? The old man shot in District 11 for whistling. The crackdown in 12 after I intervened in Gale\u2019s whipping. My stylist, Cinna, being dragged, bloody and unconscious, from the Launch Room before the Games. Plutarch\u2019s sources believe he was killed during interrogation. Brilliant, enigmatic, lovely Cinna is dead because of me. I push the thought away because it\u2019s too impossibly painful to dwell on without losing my fragile hold on the situation entirely.<\/p>\n

What am I going to do?<\/span><\/p>\n

To become the Mockingjay\u2026could any good I do possibly outweigh the damage? Who can I trust to answer that question? Certainly not that crew in 13. I swear, now that my family and Gale\u2019s are out of harm\u2019s way, I could run away. Except for one unfinished piece of business. Peeta. If I knew for sure that he was dead, I could just disappear into the woods and never look back. But until I do, I\u2019m stuck.<\/p>\n

I spin on my heel at the sound of a hiss. In the kitchen doorway, back arched, ears flattened, stands the ugliest tomcat in the world. \u201cButtercup,\u201d I say. Thousands of people are dead, but he has survived and even looks well fed. On what? He can get in and out of the house through a window we always left ajar in the pantry. He must have been eating field mice. I refuse to consider the alternative.<\/p>\n

I squat down and extend a hand. \u201cCome here, boy.\u201d Not likely. He\u2019s angry at his abandonment. Besides, I\u2019m not offering food, and my ability to provide scraps has always been my main redeeming quality to him. For a while, when we used to meet up at the old house because we both disliked this new one, we seemed to be bonding a little. That\u2019s clearly over. He blinks those unpleasant yellow eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant to see Prim?\u201d I ask. Her name catches his attention. Besides his own, it\u2019s the only word that means anything to him. He gives a rusty meow and approaches me. I pick him up, stroking his fur, then go to the closet and dig out my game bag and unceremoniously stuff him in. There\u2019s no other way I\u2019ll be able to carry him on the hovercraft, and he means the world to my sister. Her goat, Lady, an animal of actual value, has unfortunately not made an appearance.<\/p>\n

In my headset, I hear Gale\u2019s voice telling me we must go back. But the game bag has reminded me of one more thing that I want. I sling the strap of the bag over the back of a chair and dash up the steps to my bedroom. Inside the closet hangs my father\u2019s hunting jacket. Before the Quell, I brought it here from the old house, thinking its presence might be of comfort to my mother and sister when I was dead. Thank goodness, or it\u2019d be ash now.<\/p>\n

The soft leather feels soothing and for a moment I\u2019m calmed by the memories of the hours spent wrapped in it. Then, inexplicably, my palms begin to sweat. A strange sensation creeps up the back of my neck. I whip around to face the room and find it empty. Tidy. Everything in its place. There was no sound to alarm me. What, then?<\/p>\n

My nose twitches. It\u2019s the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved cousins, is a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.<\/p>\n

And I know immediately who\u2019s sent it to me.<\/p>\n

President Snow.<\/p>\n

When I begin to gag at the stench, I back away and clear out. How long has it been here? A day? An hour? The rebels did a security sweep of the Victor\u2019s Village before I was cleared to come here, checking for explosives, bugs, anything unusual. But perhaps the rose didn\u2019t seem noteworthy to them. Only to me.<\/p>\n

Downstairs, I snag the game bag off the chair, bouncing it along the floor until I remember it\u2019s occupied. On the lawn, I frantically signal to the hovercraft while Buttercup thrashes. I jab him with my elbow, but this only infuriates him. A hovercraft materializes and a ladder drops down. I step on and the current freezes me until I\u2019m lifted on board.<\/p>\n

Gale helps me from the ladder. \u201cYou all right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I say, wiping the sweat off my face with my sleeve.<\/p>\n

He left me a rose!<\/span> I want to scream, but it\u2019s not information I\u2019m sure I should share with someone like Plutarch looking on. First of all, because it will make me sound crazy. Like I either imagined it, which is quite possible, or I\u2019m overreacting, which will buy me a trip back to the drug-induced dreamland I\u2019m trying so hard to escape. No one will fully understand\u2014how it\u2019s not just a flower, not even just President Snow\u2019s flower, but a promise of revenge\u2014because no one else sat in the study with him when he threatened me before the Victory Tour.<\/p>\n

Positioned on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished business. It whispers, I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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