Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 6 ▵ The Fall of Pompeii [EEK]

QUARTERFINALS

Once, early in the war, when the world had only just begun to turn sour, Ellie made a friend. He was shorter than her, but older by a year, and she knew him to be one of the quieter kids in her classroom. That was before they'd closed the schools two weeks prior, though (the mayor had declared that it was only precautionary until the fighting in the districts settled, but it hadn't settled yet). He was much louder in the corner of the village they shared, and that was how she'd found him: by following his raucous voice and asking - no, telling - him to, "Stop being so noisy."

He'd jumped back, startled. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ellie. You're Wyatt. Your dad commutes to and from the Capitol, doesn't he? Is that why you're being so loud? 'Cause he can't hear you all the way in the Capitol?"

Wyatt crinkled his nose and cracked the stick he held against a tree to get rid of the short beat of silence. "He's in the Capitol working out a defense against the rebels now. So yeah, he's there, but that's not why I'm being loud. I didn't think anyone could hear me out here." He looked to her, scratched his nose. "Do you wanna explore with me?'

And, well, Ellie being Ellie, she saw no reason to say no, saw no danger in the small request. She'd joined his side heartily, even found a stick of her own, which she used to turn up snow-covered rocks and draw pictures that were much better than Wyatt's in the soft powder. Upon finding the river, they'd used it to see how far they could drive it into the mud beneath the water. Ellie suggested trying to spear fish, but he'd shot her down profusely. It wasn't right to just spear fish for fun. It was too cold for the fish, anyways. They'd swam elsewhere for the winter.

A roll touched her eyes and she stuck her tongue out at him, but she retracted it just as quickly. There was a quick round of pop-popping from where the direction of their mountain village. Gunshots. Wyatt yelped, and his yelp made her jump. A lethal jump - her foot slipped on a rock when she landed and she slid right into the river. She had never known pain until then, never known cold, true cold, until she was submerged in it, soaked to the bone. When she resurfaced, her mouth worked around the words naturally: "Wyatt! Help me!"

She looked around for him, saw nothing. No, there. She'd seen his backside, cutting and running, leaving her for dead as the current swept her down. It wasn't a strong current by any means, but the water hurt, and she hurt, because he'd left her and now was she going to die in the war like those people on the television but not from protecting anyone but from falling in the river and drowning?

Naturally, she screamed. She screamed until the icy current took her to a branch, which she latched onto with desperation and nearly let go of as she tried to catch her bearings. She held on tight, by herself. She worked the muscles she didn't have to lug herself to land, by herself. The wind turned the cold into agony and, shivering violently, she walked, sopping wet, back to the village. By herself. By the time she made it to her back door, her clothes and hair had frozen over and everything was stiff. But she'd done it all. By herself.

Sure, one of the Peacekeepers had lifted her from the stoop and ran her to the hearth, calling out for her parents. And sure, her parents had come running with terror in their throats and blankets in their trembling hands. She was fussed over for hours by every one of the soldiers they were housing, brought soup and given all the sheets from their makeshift beds. It was so much care and concern compared to the one boy who'd left her crying in the river, and in all honesty, she could've forgotten all about it.

Would've, had she not fallen ill from the cold in her bones. Between the sneezing and coughing and misery, she had to remember his flight and those gunshots for two more weeks.