Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns the characters and the plot. I, however, have made some changes to the original story making this FANFICTION, not the real story. Nor is this story affiliated with Suzanne Collins.

Chapter 21

Finnick snaps awake instantly, seeing the wall of fog, he tosses a still-sleeping Mags onto his back and takes off. Peeta is on his feet but not as alert. I grab his arm and begin to propel him through the jungle after Finnick.

"What is it? Katniss what is it?" he says in bewilderment.

"Some fog. Poisonous gas. Hurry, Peeta!" I urge. I can tell that however much he denied it the aftereffects of hitting the force field have been significant. He's slow, much slower than usual. And the tangle of vines and undergrowth, which unbalance me occasionally, trip him at every step. The fog keeps rolling towards us, but I refuse to leave Peeta. "Follow my feet. Watch where I step." I tell him, and it seems to help.

Peeta's artificial leg catches, and he falls, quickly I try to help him up. I become aware of something, the left side of his face has sagged as if every muscle in it has died. The lid droops, almost concealing his eye. "Peeta-" I begin. And that's when I feel the spasms run up my arm. I swear to god, if I lose the baby I'm going to kill the game makers.

Suddenly I realize the chemicals target out nerves and I yank Peeta forward. By the time he's up, he's spasming all over. I feel him lurch forward and realize Finnick has come back for us and is hauling Peeta along. I try to keep up with Finnick's rapid pace, but find it near impossible. "It's no good. I'll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?" he asks me.

"Yes," I say stoutly, although my heart sinks. Mags can't weigh much, but I don't either, even with pregnancy weight included. I lift Mags over my shoulders and follow Finnick through the vines. Eventually, I start falling, at first I can right myself quickly, but then it takes a while to get up.

"Can you carry them both?" I ask Finnick.

He says, "No I can't my arms aren't working. I'm sorry Mags." Mags hauls herself up, plants a kiss on Finnick's lips, and then hobbles straight into the fog. Immediately, her body is seized by wild contortions, and she falls to the ground in a horrible dance. Then I finally hear a cannon, signaling Mag's death. We keep running as well as possible, then Peeta and Finnick tumble down a hill landing in a heap, I'm not far behind adding to the pile. Maybe it's my eyes playing tricks, but the fog seems to be transforming. Yes, it's becoming thicker, as if it has pressed up against a glass window and is being forced to condense.

"It stopped." I try to croak out. Peeta and Finnick both look over towards the fog. "Mon-he's."I look up and spot a pair of what I guess are monkeys. I've never seen monkeys before in person, we learned about them at school and in previous Hunger Games.

We all crawl, since walking now seems as remarkable a feat as flying; we crawl until the vines turn to a narrow strip of sandy beach and the warm water that surrounds the Cornucopia laps our faces. I jerk back as if I've touched an open flame. And through the blue layer of water, I see a milky substance leaching out of the wounds on my skin. As the whiteness diminishes, so does the pain. I put one limb in at a time until I am fully submerged. Peeta seems to be doing the same, but Finnick has backed away from the water. When I'm feeling better, I scoop fistfuls of water and dump them on Finnick. Peeta recovers soon enough, and he helps me. Finnick lies there, eyes shut, giving an occasional moan.

I look around with growing awareness of how dangerous a position we're in. It's night, yes, but this moon gives off too much light for concealment. We're lucky no one's attacked us yet. We could see them coming from the Cornucopia, but if all four Careers attacked, they'd overpower us. If they didn't spot us at first, Finnick's moans would give us away soon.

Peeta and I agree that we need to get Finnick more in the water, so we each grab a leg and pull him into the water. We continue to detoxify him and bit by bit I feel my muscles improve. Finnick slowly begins to revive. His eyes open, focus on us and register awareness that he's being helped. I rest his head on my lap, and we let him soak about ten minutes with everything immersed from the neck down. Peeta and I exchange a smile as Finnick lifts his arms above the seawater.

"There's just your head left, Finnick. That's the worst part, but you'll feel much better after, if you can bear it," Peeta says. We help him to sit up and let him grip our hands as he purges his eyes and nose and mouth. His throat is still too raw to speak.

"I'm going to try to tap a tree," I say. My fingers fumble at my belt and find the spile still hanging from its vine.

"Let me make the hole first," says Peeta. "You stay with him. You're the healer." I glare at him, and he smirks, then kisses my lips lightly before going into the forest. That is a joke, but I don't say so for Finnick's sake. I try to put myself back together. I rescue my Mockingjay pin from my ruined jumpsuit and pin it to the strap of my undershirt. The flotation belt must be acid resistant since it looks as good as new. I can swim, so the flotation belt's not really necessary, but Brutus blocked my arrow with him, so I buckle it back on, thinking it might offer some protection. I undo my hair and comb it with my fingers, thinning it out considerably since the fog droplets damaged it. Then I braid back what's left of it.

Peeta has found a suitable tree about ten yards from the narrow strip of beach. We can hardly see him, but the sound of his knife against the wooden trunk is crystal clear. Finnick stays under the water for a long time, and I start to worry he has drowned. Then all of a sudden he pops up right next to me.

"Don't do that," I command him.

"What? Stay under or come up?" He asks.

"Either. Neither. Whatever. If you're feeling this good, let's help Peeta. As we walk into the jungle, maybe it's years of hunting, but I feel warm bodies positioned above us. I touch Finnick's arm, and he follows my gaze upward. I don't know how they arrived so silently. Perhaps they didn't. We've all been absorbed in restoring our bodies.

During that time they've assembled. Not five or ten, but scores of monkeys weigh down the limbs of the jungle trees. The pair we spotted when we first escaped the fog felt like a welcoming committee. This crew feels ominous.

I arm my bow with two arrows, and Finnick adjusts the trident in his hand. "Peeta," I say as calmly as possible. "I need your help with something."

"Okay, just a minute. I think I've just about got it," Peeta says, still occupied with the tree. "Yes, there. Have you got the spile?"

"I do. But we've found something you'd better take a look at," I continue in a measured voice. "Only move toward us quietly, so you don't startle it." For some reason, I don't want him to notice the monkeys, or even glance their way. They are creatures that interpret even slight eye contact as aggression.

Peeta turns to us, panting from his work on the tree. The tone of my request is so odd that it's alerted him to some irregularity. "Okay," he says casually. He begins to move through the jungle, and although I know he's trying hard to be quiet, this has never been his strong suit, even when he had two sound legs. But it's all right; he's moving, the monkeys are holding their positions. His eyes only dart up for a second, but it's as if he's triggered a bomb. The monkeys explode into a shrieking mass of orange fur and converge on him.

I've never seen any animal move so fast. The animals slide down the vines as if the things were greased. Fangs bared, hackles raised, claws shooting out like switchblades. I may be unfamiliar with monkeys, but animals in nature don't act like this.

"Mutts!" I spit out as Finnick, and I crash into the greenery.

I know every arrow must count, and they do. In the eerie light, I bring down monkey after monkey, targeting eyes and hearts and throats, so that each hit means a death. But still, it wouldn't be enough without Finnick spearing the beasts like fish and flinging them aside, Peeta slashing away with his knife. My heart sinks as my fingers draw back my last arrow. Then I remember Peeta has a sheath, too. And he's not shooting; he's hacking away with that knife. My knife is out now, but the monkeys are quicker.

"Peeta!" I shout. "Your arrows!"

Peeta turns to see my predicament and is sliding off his sheath when it happens. A monkey lunges out of a tree for his chest. I have no arrow, no way to shoot. I can hear the thud of Finnick's trident finding another mark and know his weapon is occupied. Peeta's knife arm is disabled as he tries to remove the sheath. No.. No! I throw my knife at the mutt, but the creature somersaults dodging the blade. This can not be happening, I run to step in front of Peeta, but I know it's a hopeless case. I won't make it to him in time.

She does, though. Materializing, it seems, from thin air. One moment nowhere, the next reeling in front of Peeta. Already bloody, mouth open in a high-pitched scream, pupils enlarged, so her eyes seem like black holes.

The insane morphling from District 6 throws up her skeletal arms as if to embrace the monkey, and it sinks its fangs into her chest.

Peeta drops the sheath and buries his knife into the monkey's back, stabbing it again and again until it releases its jaw. He kicks the mutt away, bracing for more. I have his arrows now, a loaded bow, and Finnick at my back, breathing hard but not actively engaged. The monkeys are withdrawing, backing up trees, fading into the jungle as if some unheard voice calls them away. A Gamemaker's voice, telling them this is enough.

Peeta moves the morphine to the beach. When I'm sure the monkeys are gone, I go over to Peeta and the morphine. I cut away the material over her chest, revealing the four deep puncture wounds. Blood slowly trickles from them, making them look far less deadly than they are. The real damage is inside. By the position of the openings, I feel confident the beast ruptured something vital, a lung, maybe even her heart.

She lies on the sand, gasping like a fish out of water. Sagging skin, sickly green, her ribs as prominent as a child's dying of starvation. I hold one of her twitching hands. There is nothing we can do. Nothing but stay with her while she dies.

Thanks for reading! I love that this is getting positive reviews seeing as I originally wrote it for myself, but I don't mind sharing. Expect my food that is mine. I hope you like this chapter, I'm sorry there isn't that much romance in it, but with all the fighting going on I didn't think it'd fit. I'm also sorry it's shorter than usual, which is why I'm adding the 22nd chapter in a minute or so. Please correct me on grammar and spelling; lord knows I can't find it. Happy late Valentine's Day by the way.

~XOXO KD Howell