suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

“Who?” asks Peeta.
My head snaps from side to side as I examine the pack, taking
in the various sizes and colors. The small one with the red
coat and amber eyes . . . Foxface! And there, the ashen hair and
hazel eyes of the boy from District 9 who died as we struggled
for the backpack! And worst of all, the smallest mutt, with
dark glossy fur, huge brown eyes and a collar that reads 11 in
woven straw. Teeth bared in hatred. Rue . . .
“What is it, Katniss?” Peeta shakes my shoulder.
“It’s them. It’s all of them. The others. Rue and Foxface and .
. . all of the other tributes,” I choke out.
I hear Peeta’s gasp of recognition. “What did they do to
them? You don’t think . . . those could be their real eyes?”
Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their
brains? Have they been given any of the real tributes memories?
Have they been programmed to hate our faces particularly
because we have survived and they were so callously
murdered? And the ones we actually killed . . . do they believe
they’re avenging their own deaths?
Before I can get this out, the mutts begin a new assault on
the horn. They’ve split into two groups at the sides of the horn
and are using those powerful hindquarters to launch themselves
at us. A pair of teeth ring together just inches from my
hand and then I hear Peeta cry out, feel the yank on his body,
the heavy weight of boy and mutt pulling me over the side. If
not for the grip on my arm, he’d be on the ground, but as it is,
it takes all my strength to keep us both on the curved back of
the horn. And more tributes are coming.
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