Chapter Thirty-Four
Clark trudged slowly down the road. When he had told Martha that he didn’t want her going out in the storm, he hadn’t just said it so he could have some time alone — the storm was rapidly turning into a blizzard with whiteout conditions, making visibility so low that even he couldn’t see where he was going.
After the second time he stumbled off the road and into a ditch, Clark gave up on walking. The cold and snow couldn’t hurt him, but the storm could keep him from getting to the farm. He didn’t dare to use his superspeed — even he couldn’t see through the blinding storm, and using his superspeed under such conditions was likely to end up with him crashing through a fence or tree, or worse, a building. There was also no way to know where he would end up — if he traveled at such high speed, with no way to see where he was going, he might wind up in an entirely different district.
By this time, Clark wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction anymore — for all he knew, he could have gotten turned around and be heading into town. After jumping out of the ditch, he tried once more to see through the darkness and swirling snow, then giving up, he launched himself skyward, flying straight up until he was above the storm.
There was plenty of light above the clouds — the sky was blanketed with stars and the moon was full and looked unusually large, a phenomenon known as a super moon, which was always prized by District 9 farmers during the planting and harvest seasons because it allowed them to work much later than usual.
Though it was stormy and most farmers were safely inside their houses or barns, the extra moonlight did prove valuable to Clark, allowing him to use his X-ray vision to see through the clouds and snow. Because of this, it didn’t take him long to locate and reach the Kent farm, and though the storm had knocked out the electricity, he was able to get the lantern from the house and bring it to the barn, using his heat vision to light it and hanging it far away from the hay to reduce the risk of fire.
The lantern light was dim, but it was enough for Clark to see what he was doing. He finished most of the chores quickly, then took the extra time needed to milk the cows and care for the injured mare, who had apparently forgiven him for the terrifying flights he had taken her on the night before and leaned against him as he cared for her injured leg.
When the animals were cared for, Clark moved around the barn at superspeed, finding and fixing any drafty spots he found in order to keep the livestock warm and safe. After doing the same with the chicken coop, he made his way back to the farmhouse, guiding himself with ropes he had strung between the buildings.
Carrying the lantern, Clark walked slowly through the house. It had been his intention to stay there for the night, giving him a chance to sit and think away from anyone else, but the longer he was there, the more restless he became. The house was cold, dark, and empty, and though he could remedy the first two problems easily enough, it didn’t change the feeling that the place was abandoned, that no one lived there anymore.
It was true, he realized as he sat at the old wooden table in the main room. The house
was abandoned, and had been for weeks. Clark and Martha had been slowly moving what little the Kents had owned from the farmhouse to Victor’s Village, and no one had lived in the house since the night Martha had brought Clark back to Victor’s Village.
There was a fine layer of dust on the table and the few other pieces of furniture — something Martha had never allowed while she was living there. The floors were unswept, and there was the occasional sound of rodents skittering across the floor and hiding in the walls, the eyes of the ones brave enough to venture out while Clark was there sometimes reflecting the lantern light.
The coal stove was cold, the ashes from that morning still lying within. Clark cleaned out the ashes and laid out the components of another fire, but didn’t light the stove. The cold didn’t bother him, so there was no reason to waste the meager fuel still available on the farm. Instead, he focused his heat vision on the metal of the stove — he may not have needed the warmth, but he found it comforting all the same.
As Clark wandered into his old bedroom and sat down on the narrow bed, he realized that the place where he had grown up really wasn’t his home anymore. The house in Victor’s Village didn’t feel much like home, either, but he was beginning to accept the changes in his life.
He realized that his mother was probably right, that she wouldn’t be able to keep the farm productive by herself, and because of the activities required of the victors, he might not be able to give her enough help to keep from being evicted. He didn’t like the thought of giving up the farm that had been his childhood home, but it was better than allowing Martha to be evicted and to be at the mercy of the Peacekeepers doing the evicting, even though there wasn’t much left there for them to steal.
Still, the farm held a lot of memories, and Clark was reluctant to give it up. He knew that if it was signed over to Pete and Lana, he would be welcome to visit, and they wouldn’t object to his help if he was around to give it. He wouldn’t be able to use his powers to help them, except in very subtle ways — for their safety, it was best if they never knew what he could do.
His friends needed a place to live, and the Kent farm would make a good home for them. The house was old, but thanks to the many repairs Clark and Jonathan had made to it, it was livable. They had made numerous repairs on the barn, too, so it would provide shelter for livestock for a long time to come. The soil was rich and could produce a lot of grain, and there was plenty of good, clean water in the well. It was close enough to both the Lang and the Ross farms that they would be able to see their families often, and it was fairly close to the town, too.
The farm didn’t hold the same memories for Pete and Lana as it did for Clark, though they had visited often while growing up. They didn’t know about the stillborn baby buried on the farm, or about the now-empty Kryptonite pit, or what had been found in the now partially filled in crater. They didn’t know precisely where Jonathan had died — a spot that Martha avoided whenever possible because seeing it brought her to tears, nor did they know where Clark had been flogged, a spot that now looked as though nothing had ever happened, since the autumn rains had even washed away the bloodstains.
It was the memories — good and bad — that made Clark reluctant to give up his childhood home. He had no memory of wherever he had been before his parents had found him, which was unsurprising, since he’d been only a few days old when they’d adopted him. The farm was the first home he remembered, and the prospect of giving it up was painful. Though Clark knew that his friends and their coming twins needed a place to live, he wasn’t quite ready to decide what to do.
Though Clark had intended to stay at the farm for the night — his excuse about flying somewhere else had been mostly to ensure that Martha wouldn’t go out in the storm looking for him — the longer he spent inside the house, the more restless he became. He didn’t know what to do about the farm, whether to sign it over to his friends or take the risk that he wouldn’t be able to provide enough help for his mother to keep it productive. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do it inside the cold, abandoned place where he’d grown up.
Clark blew out the lantern and set it on the shelf beside the door. The animals were secure and the fire could be lit easily if anyone stumbled upon the house in the storm and took shelter there. Quietly, he slipped out the door and into the storm. He took a few steps, reaching the edge of the porch, and jumped off, quickly making his way into the sky.
Once he was above the storm, Clark took a deep breath of the thin, cold air and looked around, trying to decide where to go. It had been months since he had flown for the sake of flying, and he had no particular destination in mind. The moon and stars were bright, making it easy to navigate, but he wasn’t sure which way to go.
There were various possibilities. He could circle Panem as he had the last time he had gone flying, the night before the Reaping. He could try to fly all the way around the world, across the remains of North America and the endless ocean until he at last reached Panem again. He could head north, to where the ocean at the top of the planet was supposedly covered in ice at this time of year.
Clark could go anywhere he wanted, but he couldn’t decide upon any particular destination. Finally, he just flew slowly to the west, listening to the storm below him and wondering how far it extended.
After a while, Clark flew past the fringes of the storm and could see the dark outlines of the land below him again. He saw the occasional lights of the different districts he flew over, though he couldn’t identify exactly which districts they were, and passed over and through a few more storms and banks of clouds.
At last, he saw the glittering lights of the Capitol in the distance and stopped, hovering above the Rocky Mountains and trying to make up his mind whether to continue to head in that direction or to fly around it. He remembered his parents’ admonishment that he should stay away from the Capitol, and knew that they had been right. If he had listened to them and avoided the Capitol, Snow would probably still have found out that Clark was different, but he wouldn’t know as much.
Clark circled around to the south, out over the desert, which was clear even on a night like this. When he’d gotten to the west of the Rockies, he turned and looked back at the Capitol, brightly lit in the early evening, the lights reflecting off the lake on the western outskirts of the city.
He knew that he should stay away from the Capitol. He had no good reason to go there, and though the odds of being caught where he didn’t belong were low if he stayed high enough, the risk was still there. He would be required to spend time in the Capitol later as a victor. There was no way around it, so he needed to keep his distance while he could.
Nevertheless, he found himself moving slowly in the direction of the city. He didn’t really want to be there, but couldn’t seem to resist the pull of the Capitol. Soon, he was hovering over the lake, looking east at the bright lights of the city.
Clark knew that he should turn back, simply fly away, but he kept going. Moments later, he was above the tall buildings and wide streets of the city, looking down at the crowds of people going about their business in the chilly but clear evening.
It was an ordinary Sunday night for the Capitolites. Many had the day off from work or school and were taking advantage of it, relaxing and enjoying the many entertainments available to them. The theaters and restaurants were busy, as were the shops. People went about their business, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched.
Clark felt a surge of anger as he watched them. To him, the Capitolites’ lives appeared carefree. They had plenty of food, warm, comfortable homes to go to at the end of the day, and electricity that could be counted upon to work whenever they wanted to use it. Hunger was something they only experienced just before mealtime, and there was no question that food would be available whenever they wanted it. They didn’t have to worry about freezing to death in the winter because they couldn’t afford enough coal to heat their homes, nor did they grow ill and even die from the summer heat. They could afford to concentrate upon the latest fashions and upon celebrities, and for them, the Hunger Games were something to celebrate. The youth of the Capitol never had to worry about being Reaped into the Games, and their parents didn’t have to fear losing their children to them.
Clark was surprised at how angry he felt. He seldom got angry at all — some people had dubbed him “mild-mannered” because of the way so little fazed him — and most of his anger over the Games and the events following them had been aimed at himself. Now he realized that he didn’t hold himself solely to blame for everything that had happened.
He didn’t blame the Capitolites on the streets below either, though. There was one person Clark held more responsible for everything that had happened than any other, and his home was easy to find. The President’s mansion lay directly at the center of the city, its sprawling grounds and beautiful architecture hiding the ugliness that lay within.
In seconds, Clark was hovering above President Snow’s home. The Remake Center and the Training Center were only a few blocks away — all of Panem’s presidents had wanted to keep the Games’ participants and victors close at hand. Though no one was in them, both buildings were brightly lit, drawing curious Capitolites who liked to gossip and speculate about the Games even in the off-season.
Clark ignored them, focusing instead upon the building below. Using his X-ray vision, he looked inside, searching for Snow, wondering what he was doing, or if he was even there.
Snow was indeed home on this chilly November night, but contrary to Clark’s imagination, he wasn’t tormenting some poor victor or drawing up legislation that would make the lives of the people in the districts even harder.
What Clark saw instead was an entirely ordinary scene, one played out by thousands of families across Panem, whether they were in the Capitol or in the districts. Snow sat at a table with three other people — a young man who resembled him, a young woman who sat near the young man, an elaborate ring bearing the Capitol seal on her left hand, and a little girl, not much more than a toddler, who sat in a booster seat, gnawing hungrily on a leg of some sort of poultry.
It was a family dinner, something that Clark would never have imagined Snow participating in. He’d always thought of Panem’s president as an aloof, frightening figure, not someone who would have a family or spend time with them if he did — though now that he thought about it, he did remember hearing a few years earlier about the birth of Snow’s granddaughter.
Looking closer, Clark recognized the child as the one who had carried the crown to him at his first post-Games interview. She’d been grinning widely then, he recalled, probably not at all aware of the significance of what she was doing, most likely just enjoying the attention.
Clark turned his attention to Snow, who was enjoying the rich food — food that people in the districts had slaved to produce while they starved. He wore fine clothing — something else produced by starving people. He had a beautiful home, servants to cater to his every whim, more power than anyone else in Panem — and it wasn’t enough. Snow wanted to control people, to maintain power over them, to use them for his own purposes — and he would stop at nothing to keep them under control. People’s lives meant nothing to him — it was all about power.
Clark drifted lower, scanning for cameras that might betray his presence. Seeing none, he came closer, moving downward until he was only thirty feet above the mansion — just high enough that he wasn’t likely to be seen in the darkness.
It would be easy, he thought,
so easy. I could destroy him so easily — he’d never even know what hit him … unlike the people he’s had tortured. Panem would be better off without him.Or would it? Clark froze in place, thinking. It was easy to contemplate murder — for murder it would be, if he killed Snow — but the actual consequences were hard to predict. Clark had been brought up to show kindness and empathy to others, to help where he could, and killing another person went against everything he had ever been taught. He couldn’t forgive himself for Lysander and Lois’s deaths, regardless of the circumstances. Would he be able to live with himself if he killed Snow, despite all the things the man had done?
Clark doubted it. The two murders he had already committed weighed heavily on him, and a third, no matter what the rationale behind it, might well push him over the edge. His mother had been wise to hide the Kryptonite from him — but for someone with Clark’s abilities, it wouldn’t be enough. He could find it easily if he wanted to.
Even if Clark could live with himself if he killed Snow, it might not end there. As Haver had said, the Hunger Games hadn’t started with Snow, and they probably wouldn’t end with him, either. If something happened to Snow, someone else would wind up taking power — and the odds of them ending the Games were unfavorable.
Who would take power if Snow died? Would it be Luthor? The man who had allowed his own son to take part in the Games, resulting in his death? Would it be the young man sitting at the table with Snow, the son of the powerful dictator? Or would it be someone unknown to Clark, perhaps someone far worse than Snow?
It seemed impossible that anyone could be worse than Snow, but the little history Clark had learned in school had made it clear that there had been leaders in the past who made Snow look beneficent. The folk memory of the people of District 9 said the same thing — stories were repeated, across the generations, of leaders in the time before Panem, even before the disasters that had destroyed most of the world, who had destroyed vast numbers of people, so many that it seemed impossible that so many people had ever even existed at once. Millions had died to cement power, or for someone’s ideals, or even simply because they had been born into groups that were unpopular. As bad as Snow was, his actions paled in comparison to the evils done by the leaders spoken of in history and legend.
There was an oft-repeated philosophy in District 9: “Count your blessings, because no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.” It was a lesson the people of District 9 — and the other districts — had learned painfully many times over the years.
If Clark killed Snow, someone just as bad, or worse, might well take power. The Games wouldn’t end, and people would continue to suffer. What would Clark do then? Would he kill the new president? Would he take it a step farther and destroy those who might take power? Might he even take his anger over the Games to its logical conclusion and try to kill everyone who was associated with the Games, who enjoyed them? How would he know who supported the Games and who disliked them or ignored them? If he destroyed everyone in the Capitol, what then? Would he move on to the Career districts? What about the people in the non-Career districts who made bets on the Games? What about the people who rejoiced when a family member or friend survived and was declared victor? Would he go so far as to destroy his own family and friends because they had rejoiced when he had come home?
Clark shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t in his nature to hate others, no matter what they’d done, or to deliberately do them harm. But if he let his anger get the better of him, if he took the path of revenge, there was no telling where it would stop. He possessed immense strength and power, enough to destroy everyone and everything. He could finish off what the disasters of the past centuries had started, and no one could stop him.
It wasn’t just these thoughts that made Clark hesitate, though. Even if he only killed Snow, there were those five tapes Snow had told him about. Clark had no idea who had them or where they were, but if he destroyed Snow, his own family and friends — and some strangers — would lose their lives or spend them as Avoxes. There would be no question as to who had killed Snow — the small dining room contained numerous potential witnesses, including not only Snow’s family members, but also the servants bringing food and standing nearby waiting for orders. If he killed them, too, on the off chance that he would be able to hide what he had done and save the lives of his loved ones, he would still have innocent blood on his hands — and chances were, those tapes would still be viewed and those he cared for would still be destroyed.
There was something else that held Clark’s anger in check, though. He knew how painful it was to lose someone he loved, and though he couldn’t be sure that Snow cared for anyone or anything beyond himself, it was obvious that there were people who cared for him — his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter, if no one else. What right did he have to inflict that sort of pain on them? They had no part in what Snow had done and did not deserve to be punished.
Still, the temptation to take revenge on Snow was strong, and Clark did not give up watching him until the little girl climbed out of her seat and into her grandfather’s lap, cuddling close and nibbling on a slice of purple melon that he handed to her. It was then that he realized that he couldn’t do it, that he couldn’t take someone’s life no matter how justified it might seem.
Closing his eyes to cut off his X-ray vision, Clark rose into the air, then looked around and disappeared into the night.
*****
A short time later, Clark stood on an empty beach on the west coast of the continent. The waves crashed on the shore, soaking him with their spray, but he paid them no heed. He stood staring out to sea, shaking with horror and revulsion.
He couldn’t believe what he’d almost done. It would have been easy, far too easy, to kill President Snow and find justification for it — and if he had, he would have been no better than Snow himself.
Clark knew that he could never afford to be ruled by anger. He was too strong, too powerful, capable of doing far too much damage. No prison could hold him, and the only thing that could stop him was Kryptonite — and the only ones who knew about it were his mother and Snow. If he had killed Snow and then gone on to kill others, the only person with the knowledge to stop him would have been Martha Kent — and it would kill her to have to destroy her son, no matter how necessary.
He sat down on the wet sand, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. Absently, he picked up one of the stones scattered nearby, crushing it into dust without a second thought.
Clark looked at the dust in his hand before flinging it into the wind. His parents had taught him to use his strange abilities for good, and yet he had almost used those same abilities to kill a man who was doing nothing more than eating dinner with his family. What Snow had done in the past was irrelevant — if Clark had given in to his impulse to kill him, it would have been murder, nothing less. It wouldn’t have been an accident, as Lysander’s death had been, or done out of mercy, as when he’d frozen Lois. It would have been done for revenge, and the potential consequences were unthinkable.
Clark got to his feet as a particularly large wave came in, leaving him sitting in several inches of water for a moment before it receded again. A rock that had been pushed by the wave bumped against his foot. He kicked it up into the sky, watching as it disappeared and did not return.
The wind tugged at his soaked clothing as he made his way farther up the beach, out of the way of the incoming tide. He was suddenly very grateful for his invulnerability, without which he would have been in danger of hypothermia.
Turning around, Clark looked back out at the ocean. Beyond the surf, the moon reflected off the water, looking large and bright on the clear but windy night.
He picked up another rock and tossed it in the direction of the reflection. He didn’t think he’d thrown it that hard, but when it hit the water, it splashed down with sufficient force to send a large quantity of water into the air, and the ripples caused the waves to come all the way up the beach and slam into the cliff.
Clark was unprepared for the sudden wave, which knocked him off his feet and slammed him into the cliff behind him, breaking off some sizable chunks of rock and causing a tree that had been clinging to the top of the cliff for years to plummet downwards and land on top of him.
Clark shoved the tree aside and pushed the pieces of rock that had fallen from the cliff away, startled but unharmed. He spat out a mouthful of sand and salt water, and with a quick cough, expelled the water he’d inhaled, then slicked his wet hair back and out of his face so he could see what was going on.
The ripples from where Clark had thrown the rock were dying down, but the waves had done some damage. Most of it was localized, though Clark had no way of knowing this — he wasn’t terribly familiar with the ocean. He could only hope that it hadn’t damaged any of the human settlements on the coast — Lois had mentioned that District 3 bordered on the Pacific Ocean, and it seemed logical that District 4, which provided fish and seafood for the Capitol, did too.
As the waves receded, Clark floated up to the top of the cliff and stood there, looking out at the ocean. He couldn’t stay where he was — he didn’t have enough control over himself at the moment, and he knew it. He needed to get as far from people as possible — but where could he go?
He thought about flying west, going around the world and across the vast, endless ocean until he reached Panem’s east coast. It would be safe, even though half the planet was in daylight — he’d learned in school that Panem was the only land still above water, and there were no people anywhere else in the world. No one would see him, and he would be as far from other people as was possible.
It still didn’t seem far enough, though, and Clark found himself looking upward, gazing at the moon. He had contemplated trying to go there when he first developed the ability to fly, but had never quite gotten the courage to try it. From what he’d learned in school, it was a stark, airless place, not quite 239,000 miles away, and when he’d looked at it with his telescopic vision — or even with his regular vision — he had agreed that it looked as though nothing lived there, and probably never had.
One of his teachers had said that people had walked on the moon long ago, but few students had believed her. How could anyone get to the moon, when it was too far away for even hovercraft to reach? What would people do there, anyway, and how could they survive without air?
Clark had wondered if what the teacher had said might be true, and had been tempted to try to find out — even his vision wasn’t sharp enough to see evidence that might have been left on the moon by visitors — but until now, he hadn’t thought about it quite so seriously.
He didn’t know if he could survive on the moon — he needed to breathe, though he could hold his breath for about twenty minutes, maybe a little more. Could he fly fast enough to get to the moon, look around a little, and fly back in twenty minutes?
It’s too dangerous, he told himself.
Flying around the Earth is much safer — I won’t run out of air here.Still, the full moon appeared so close, and he could see the craters fairly clearly from where he stood. If it was true that people had once walked on the moon, then it couldn’t be that dangerous, could it?
There was only one way to find out. Before he could talk himself out of it, Clark launched himself skyward.
If I can’t fly fast enough, he told himself,
I’ll just come back.Clark soon discovered exactly where the atmosphere ended — and it was nowhere near the moon. Gasping for breath, he flew back down to the Earth’s surface, hovering just above the ocean, where the air was thickest. He could get sufficient oxygen from even very thin air, but it was better to fill his lungs at sea level if he intended to go without air for more than a few minutes.
Taking a deep breath, he flew upward again, soon breaking free of the Earth’s atmosphere. He felt the change in pressure — the air in his lungs seemed to expand, and it felt as though his blood was also expanding, pressing at his veins and arteries as though trying to escape. An ordinary person would have exploded from the lack of external pressure, but Clark’s invulnerability kept him safe, so though he marveled at the strange sensation, he was in no danger and felt no pain.
Clark flew onward, occasionally dodging ancient, defunct satellites and debris still orbiting the Earth centuries after the civilizations that had produced them had disappeared. He caught one object, examining it curiously as he flew and recalling what his parents had told him about the strangers from the Capitol who had come to the farm the day after they found him, seeking evidence of aliens. For a moment, he contemplated the idea that he actually could be an alien, arriving on Earth from some unknown world in a rocket not unlike some of the orbiting objects he passed.
He didn’t dismiss the idea as readily as he once had, now that he’d seen the satellites up close, but he didn’t dwell upon it, either. He had other things on his mind and so, releasing the piece of debris he’d been examining, he flew ever faster toward the moon.
Clark was amazed at how quickly he was approaching the moon. On Earth, his speed had been hampered by flying through the atmosphere — excessive speed could kick up dangerous winds, and he had no desire to harm anyone. In addition, if he flew or even ran too fast, his clothing would be tattered or even burned by the wind — and if he destroyed his clothes, there wouldn’t be new ones to replace them, something his parents had emphasized to him when he had come home with his pants and shirt tattered and singed.
In space, there was no atmosphere, so he could go as fast as he wanted and test his limits. Thousands of miles flew past in the space of seconds — not light speed, nor anywhere near it, but still faster than any machine that had ever been built by mankind.
Less than two minutes after leaving the Earth’s atmosphere, Clark landed gently on the moon, slowing enough that he didn’t crash into the ground and leave another crater. Turning slowly, he basked in the sunlight which, with no atmosphere to filter it, was almost too strong for him — like eating a rich meal after weeks of living on bland tesserae rations.
Floating a few inches above the surface in order to avoid disturbing anything, Clark moved along, searching for any evidence that people had actually visited the moon. His troubles momentarily forgotten, he flew down into craters and up over mountains, finding occasional tire tracks that ended in long-abandoned rovers, most long-defunct but a couple still trying to send signals. After discovering this, he approached them more carefully, just in case some machine on Earth was still receiving the signals. He couldn’t afford for anyone to see him on the moon.
At last, Clark found himself in an area known as the Sea of Tranquility, though there was no water anywhere. He had seen it many times from District 9, but not as clearly as he saw it now — and what he saw confirmed what his teacher had said.
He was attracted by a wide and squat object that stood out on the flat plane. When he moved closer, he could see that it was indeed a manmade artifact. Near it, there were footprints on the ground, pressed deep into the soft dust — evidence that people had indeed reached the moon in that long-ago time before the disasters that had changed the world. In the atmosphere-free environment, the footprints were undisturbed even after several centuries.
A flag stood amongst the footprints, bleached so white by the sun that it was impossible to say what it had once looked like. Clark reached out to touch it, then pulled his hand back, afraid that it would crumble into dust. If what his teacher had said was correct, the flag might once have had red and white stripes and a rectangle of blue with stars on it — the flag of the United States, the land that now made up most of Panem.
Something else caught Clark’s eye and he moved toward it, landing gently in an area far enough away to be free of footprints and looking at the object.
It was a plaque, left there by the long-ago visitors. It was dated July 1969, A. D. — a time so far in the past that Clark had no idea how many years ago it had been. At the top of the plaque were maps of the Earth as it had looked at the time, with large land masses separated by vast stretches of ocean. He had a good idea of where Panem was on the map, though the shape of the North American continent had changed somewhat when the ocean had risen. Little geography was taught in the District 9 schools, but the students were taught what the basic shape of the continent was, and even in the darkness, Clark had confirmed much of it while flying around Panem.
Beneath the maps were the words ‘Here men from the planet Earth first set foot upon the moon July 1969, A. D. We came in peace for all mankind.’ There were the names and signatures of three astronauts — not an occupation that existed any longer, but a concept that was still written about in adventure stories — and the president of the United States, which Clark could only assume was the same sort of position that Snow and the leaders of Panem before him had held.
It was an amazingly hopeful statement on the plaque, and Clark found himself wondering how long people had stayed on the moon, and whether they had ever returned after this visit. What had the world been like then? What had happened to make the hope displayed in that statement disappear?
There wasn’t time to explore further — Clark’s lungs were beginning to burn from lack of air, and he knew that he needed to get back to Earth quickly. Bending down, he picked up a small piece of rock, proof that he had been to the moon, then looked up, locating the Earth in the sky — and froze at what he saw.
In school, Clark had learned that Panem was the only place left above water on the Earth, that every other bit of land had been destroyed in the disasters. He had never bothered to explore outside of Panem, which occupied most of the North American continent aside from some supposedly uninhabitable wilderness areas in the extreme north and south of the continent.
What Clark saw now, however, showed that what he’d learned in school had been wrong. Though he could see only a small portion of the Earth — the Earth was visible in phases from the moon, it seemed — what he saw wasn’t Panem. The piece of land was too far south, and it was in daylight, while Panem was currently in darkness.
Looking back at the maps on the plaque, he studied them, identifying a continent that might be the one he was seeing, though he didn’t know what it was called.
There was no time left now to contemplate what he was seeing — he had to get back to where there was air, and that would take him at least two minutes. Clark took off in the direction of the Earth, his heart pounding and his lungs burning.
Clark was beginning to feel foggy from lack of oxygen by the time he reached Earth’s atmosphere. He took deep, grateful breaths of the thin air in the upper atmosphere, slowly moving downward to where the air was thicker. Even far above what would have been the “death zone” for an ordinary person, he could get enough oxygen, though he felt better as he drifted downwards toward the surface.
Briefly, Clark thought about exploring that sunlit piece of land he’d seen, but concluded that it was safer not to do so — at least not now. If his teachers had been wrong about Panem being the only land above water, then they might also have been wrong about the people of Panem being the only humans left on Earth. He might explore at a later time, but he needed to do so carefully.
Clark came to a stop about ten thousand feet above the ocean and, using the stars as a guide, made his way back toward Panem. He detoured around the Capitol, carefully avoiding the temptation to do what he knew was very wrong, and finally landed in the wide desert wilderness of southwestern Panem, a place he had flown over but never before set foot in.
It was cold in the desert at night at this time of year, though it made no difference to Clark. He walked slowly through the darkness for a while before pulling the chunk of rock from his pocket and examining it in the dim light.
The minutes he’d spent on the moon seemed almost like a dream, but the piece of rock was proof that he’d been there, that he’d seen what no one else had seen in hundreds of years. The rovers, the footprints, the flag and the plaque — they were all real. Long ago, people had visited that place, so close to the Earth and yet so inaccessibly far away — at least in the present era. Once, people had had hope for the future, and had inscribed that hope in a plaque and left it in a place now unreachable to anyone but him.
Clark didn’t know what the world had been like in 1969, or even how long ago it had been. Somewhere along the line, things had changed. The world had been beset by disasters, destroying much of it and leaving the human population a fraction of what it had once been. Even with his limited education and his sudden discovery that some of what he’d learned was wrong, Clark knew this to be true. North America was a little different now from what it had looked like on the map on the plaque, and the small continent he’d seen before flying back to Earth had changed some from what the map showed — if it was the place he thought he’d identified.
He’d seen the ruins of cities while flying around Panem, some of them barely above water and others flattened and crumbled by whatever cataclysms had taken place. Some had been largely taken over by nature, mankind’s demise providing a new start for other living things, while others had been so damaged by whatever had taken place — or were in such arid environments — that only the hardiest life forms could live in them, and the ruins remained much as they had been when they were abandoned, perhaps more bleached by the sun and battered by the weather, but essentially as they had been long ago.
Somewhere along the line, things had changed, and hope had been lost. What remained was a small, battered population slowly working its way back from the brink of extinction, living on the remnants of a once-great civilization. The people of what was now Panem had clung precariously to life, fighting for survival, and then fighting to free themselves from Panem and the Capitol — exactly why the war during the Dark Days had been fought was glossed over in school and in the annual speech made at the Reaping. Any hope that things might improve was gone now, and every year, the districts paid for what had happened in the past with their children, even though very few people now living had been alive during the Dark Days, and of those who had been alive, most had been very small children, too young to remember just what had happened and why it had happened.
Now, ostensibly to keep Panem from being torn asunder, children were taken from their families and killed for entertainment. The families of those children who were lost to the Games were left to grieve, while those few children who survived the Games were never the same after their experiences, and had to live with what they’d done to survive for the rest of their lives. Even then, after everything they’d been through, the victors weren’t left in peace — their loved ones were always at risk, and their children, if they had any, were guaranteed a place in the Games.
Clark could remember a time when he personally had had hope for the future, when he’d expected to have a normal life like anyone else. That was gone now — he would always be subject to Snow’s wishes, and the wishes of whoever came after Snow — and the simple, normal life that he had hoped for was never going to happen. He would never marry, never have children — and though never having a family would prevent the inevitable grief of losing them, he would also never know the joy of having them.
A normal life might not have been possible anyway, as different as he was — but he would rather have found that out for himself than have it torn from him by the simple act of his name being drawn on Reaping Day.
Clark floated up to the top of a mesa and sat down, looking out at the distant lights of one of the districts. He could never undo what he had done in the Games, or have a normal life, no matter how much he might wish to. What had happened in the Games couldn’t be undone, and he had to live with it, just like every other victor. He couldn’t change anything, but could only learn from it and try to use what he had learned in the future.
He thought of his visit to the Capitol earlier that evening and felt the same rage building up inside him. It would be so easy, even now, to fly to the Capitol and kill Snow — but he wouldn’t do it. No matter what, he wouldn’t do it.
Never again, Clark vowed.
I will never kill again — not for any reason. Not out of anger, not from carelessness, not for revenge — not even in mercy. I can’t bring Lois back, or Lysander — but I can make sure I never kill another person.It was a vow that might be difficult to keep, and Clark knew it. He wasn’t sure what Snow had planned for him, but he suspected that it involved using his powers to keep people in line — and that might mean killing. He wouldn’t do it, though. He would find another way, no matter what.
He couldn’t change the past or take back the things he’d done, but perhaps he could eventually learn to live with them. What he’d done to Lois was hardest to accept, but he was also beginning to realize something else — there was nothing else he could have done. The alternative to ending her suffering was watching her die slowly and painfully while the Capitolites enjoyed the spectacle. He had loved her too much to allow her to die that way.
Clark shook his head at the thought.
Loved? No … I didn’t love her … I barely knew her. I couldn’t have loved her. Could I?Much as he tried to push the thought away, though, it persisted. Sitting alone on the mesa, Clark could finally admit to himself what everyone else had figured out a long time ago — he
had loved Lois Lane. He didn’t know quite when he had fallen in love with her — when she’d saved his life in the arena? During the training for the Games, when she’d gotten between the Careers and Becky? When he’d seen her on television during the recaps of the Reaping, standing on the stage and looking at everyone with proud defiance?
Clark had done the only thing he could do for Lois, and it had been the hardest decision of his life. He regretted killing her, but he didn’t regret the fact that she’d had a little more dignity and a little less pain in the end.
Admitting to himself that he’d loved Lois — and still did — had opened the floodgate to all the other emotions Clark had been suppressing since the Games. Grief for everyone and everything he’d lost because of the Games rushed through him.
Tears blurred his vision. He started to blink them back, then changed his mind. Out here, there was no one to see him, no one to ask if he was okay or tell him that he should be grateful for everything he’d gained as a victor.
Burying his face in his hands, Clark finally wept for everything he’d lost to the arena.
*****
The next morning, Martha awoke at sunrise, much later than usual. She hadn’t slept well the night before from worrying about Clark, and had even gotten up at midnight and started to saddle the horse so she could ride to the farm and check on him before realizing that there was no point. The storm was too intense to ride through, and there was no guarantee that Clark was even there — he could be anywhere.
Martha had finally fallen into a restless, exhausted sleep just before morning. When she awoke, it was long past time to ride to the farm and take care of the animals.
She looked outside, then dressed quickly. It was still snowing, though the storm had lessened in intensity and it would be possible to make the trip to the farm.
Wondering if Clark had come home like he had promised he would, Martha stepped out of her bedroom and started down the stairs. She sighed with relief when she smelled the coffee brewing.
There was a pot of coffee waiting for her in the kitchen and a low fire crackled in the fireplace in the living room, but there was no sign of Clark. Frowning, Martha looked around, wondering where he could be.
At last, she saw the note sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, held in place by a piece of grayish rock.
Mom,
You don’t need to go out this morning. The animals
are taken care of, including the horse in the backyard.
Stay here where it’s warm.
ClarkMartha set the note down, frowning. Clark had obviously come home, but where was he now? Had he gone back to the farm?
She decided to check one more place. Going upstairs, she retrieved the key to Clark’s room, but found, to her surprise, that the door wasn’t locked. Half-afraid of what she might find, she quietly opened the door.
Clark lay sprawled across his bed, peacefully asleep for the first time since the Games. He opened his eyes for a moment when Martha took the quilt folded at the foot of his bed and put it over him, mumbling “Thanks, Mom,” then fell asleep again.
Smiling tenderly, Martha stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her and leaving him to rest.
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