Chapter Forty-Two
An hour later, Clark got into a car with Marcius and his mentors, heading in the direction of District 12’s Victor’s Village. He was still annoyed with Marcius and his attitude towards the hungry children, but not nearly as angry as he had been earlier.
As reluctant as Clark was to admit it, Marcius was right about the risks he was encouraging people to take by trying to give the extra food away. The Peacekeepers who had been tasked with keeping the Victory Tour group safe and out of trouble weren’t going to tolerate groups of hungry and potentially dangerous people hanging around the train. There was too much danger of someone with a grudge against one or more of the victors or the Capitol starting trouble.
Clark wanted to help people, but he didn’t want his attempts at making things better to do the opposite. Under the circumstances, tempting starving people with food was likely to end with them getting shot. Starvation was a terrible way to die, but a person would live longer with an empty belly than with a bullet to the head, and Clark had no desire to see anyone die violently, least of all children. He’d already seen enough of that to last him a dozen lifetimes.
Clark knew that he could help others, not just with his powers but in other ways, too, but he didn’t know how to go about helping people in a way that wouldn’t endanger anyone. Doing the wrong thing could harm not just the people he was trying to help, but also his family and friends. Good intentions didn’t mean much when they only made things worse.
He had gotten away with it this time, but he couldn’t distract the Peacekeepers every time. They would soon grow wise to him, and then both the hungry kids and Clark would be in trouble. Awful as it was, it was safer to let people go through the trash after the train had left and risk getting contaminated food than to tempt them to risk their lives by approaching a train guarded by nervous Peacekeepers.
At least the boy, Gale, had gotten away with the food, and when Clark had used his superhearing to eavesdrop on the Peacekeepers, he’d learned that they didn’t intend to go after the boy or try to find out who he was. They were Capitol Peacekeepers, along on the Victory Tour to provide security, and weren’t terribly concerned with local problems as long as they didn’t involve the members of the tour group.
Still, Clark knew better than to press his luck. Staging an accident has worked once, but it wasn’t likely to work a second time, and if Marcius hadn’t already guessed that Clark had slipped on purpose, he would if it happened again — and Clark might not be so lucky as to get away with just a lecture the next time.
After that incident, Clark had been surprised when he’d stepped out of the train and found that the little remaining snow on the platform and steps had been cleared away and salt had been spread to take care of the ice. Marcius had informed him that he’d ordered the platform to be cleared to avoid any more accidents, though the way he’d said ‘accidents’ had led Clark to suspect that Marcius knew exactly what he’d been up to.
When the car came to a stop outside the gate to Victor’s Village, Clark slid out and looked around. The whole community looked dilapidated, a stark reminder of the fact that District 12 had only had two victors in all the years the Games had been going on, and only one of those victors was now living. The first victor, Malvina Fairwater, had won in 7 and died in 44, six years before the sole living victor, Haymitch Abernathy, had survived the second Quarter Quell in 50.
Clark didn’t remember the Quarter Quell. He’d only been two years old when it had taken place, and it wasn’t among his few hazy memories from that age — something for which he was grateful. He’d never seen a rerun of that Quarter Quell, but from what he’d heard, it had been horrific.
In spite of not having a mentor, Haymitch had survived his Games, and had taken up residence in the otherwise empty Victor’s Village, with no neighbors, and soon, no family. Clark wondered how Haymitch had handled the aftermath of the Games and the changes in his life with no mentors to talk to and no family to support him. It had been hard enough for Clark to handle, and he’d had people to help him. Haymitch had had no one.
Clark felt a sudden surge of gratitude for the people he’d had around him after he’d come home from the Games. He hadn’t been alone. He’d had his parents and his mentors, and his friends had stuck with him even when he’d attempted to push them away. His relationship with Rachel had been irrevocably altered, but even she had forgiven him and renewed their friendship.
They’d been there for him even when he had been very difficult to deal with, and with their help he had gotten through those first hard months, even with the added strain of losing his father. Clark couldn’t drown his sorrows in alcohol, magic grass, or morphling like his mentors and many other victors did, but things could have turned out far worse than they did.
Haver and Matilda had been to District 12 before, and what they saw clearly dismayed them. “It’s worse than last time,” Matilda remarked. “This place makes our Victor’s Village look —“
“Matilda!” Haver scolded her, but he didn’t disagree.
Clark didn’t say a word. He’d never been to District 12’s Victor’s Village before, but he agreed that it looked much worse than their own Victor’s Village. Even though most of District 9’s Victor’s Village was empty, the houses were better maintained and the worst of the occupied houses, the one belonging to Haver, was still in better condition than the foul-smelling building belonging to Haymitch.
Marcius knocked on the door. When there was no answer, Haver pounded on it.
“Haymitch, open up! It’s tour day!” Haver shouted. To Clark, he said, “Never, under any circumstances, approach Haymitch Abernathy when he’s sleeping. He always sleeps with a knife, and though he tends to swing it indiscriminately, there’s always the chance he could get lucky and stab you with it.”
Clark heard footsteps approaching on the road outside Victor’s Village and turned to look. He had never met Haymitch before, but he recognized him from viewing the Games on television, so he knew who the man stumbling down the icy road was.
Haver was peering through one of the dirty windows, trying to determine if Haymitch was home. He whirled around, startled, when Clark tapped him on the shoulder to tell him Haymitch was on his way and almost punched the young man.
Clark quickly moved out of his way, not wanting Haver to break his fist on him. Even after thirty-six years, Haver still didn’t like anyone sneaking up on him.
“Don’t surprise any victor, even if they’re awake,” Matilda said sardonically. She watched as Haymitch came through the rusty gate, two glass bottles of white liquor under his arms and a third, already partially emptied, in his hand.
Haymitch came to a stop when he saw his fellow victors gathered on his doorstep. Haver had quickly moved away from the window when Clark had pointed in Haymitch’s direction, not wanting to appear to be spying on him.
“It’s tour day,” Haver told him.
“I know.” Haymitch indicated the bottles of liquor under his arms. “Didn’t expect you here so early.”
“We arrived exactly on schedule,” Marcius told him. “If you’d been watching the time …”
Haymitch rolled his eyes and pushed past the group, opening the door to his house with his free hand.
The odor made all four of the visitors step back, hands flying to their noses. Even Haver, whose sense of smell was dulled from years of smoking magic grass, was repelled by the odor.
Marcius gagged at the smell, backing away. “Since you’re running late, I’m going to go and make sure everything is ready for your coal mine tour,” he informed them, looking grateful for the excuse to get away as he hurried in the direction of the car parked outside the gate.
The remaining visitors breathed through their mouths as they stepped inside. Matilda, who had evidently been expecting this, pulled a perfumed handkerchief from her pocket and held it over her nose to block the smell. Haver and Clark had to continue to breathe through their mouths, and Clark was glad that his super sense of smell was accompanied by an extremely strong stomach.
The floor was covered with debris — liquor bottles, some of them broken, dishes with dried, rotten food encrusted on them, dirty clothes, gnawed bones, and even some dead rodents. The odors of spilled liquor, vomit, rotting food, scorched cabbage, and burned meat mixed with the garbage to form a miasma that offended everyone but Haymitch.
“When was the last time you cleaned this place?” Matilda asked, looking around in disgust.
Haymitch shrugged, uncorking the partially empty bottle he was carrying. “Fall.”
“Of what year?”
“Last year. I hired a woman from the Seam to clean this place.”
“What’s the Seam?” Clark interrupted.
“It’s where the miners live,” Haymitch told him. He looked at Matilda as she picked up a glass bottle with a label on it and read it, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re moving up in the world,” she commented. “Vintage Sauvignon Blanc from District 3. I wish they sold this in District 9.”
“They don’t sell it here. Ripper just uses whatever bottles she can get.” Haymitch reached for the bottle.
Matilda lifted it to her nose and sniffed. “It
smells like wine.”
“Hey!” Haymitch grabbed the bottle from her, fumbled, and dropped it. The bottle hit the floor and broke.
The dried residue on the glass smelled like wine to Clark, too, and he wondered why Haymitch was so reluctant to admit it. He knew that home brewed liquor was semi-illegal in District 9, and that it was virtually impossible to get alcoholic beverages from other districts there, and could only assume that the same rules applied in District 12. Perhaps Haymitch feared being reported for having contraband, though he didn’t seem to mind them knowing that he had just purchased white liquor.
“This place is disgusting,” Matilda informed Haymitch.
“Who cleans your house?” Haymitch retorted, uncorking the partly consumed bottle of liquor and taking a drink.
“My husband.” Matilda eyed the unopened bottles of white liquor.
“Well, see, I ain’t got a husband, Sweetheart.”
“You could find a wife.”
Haymitch glanced around, then took another drink. “Nah.”
“What about the woman from the Seam? The one who cleaned your house?”
“She’s got a husband and three boys. She also charges plenty to clean.”
Matilda put the handkerchief back to her nose. “I don’t blame her.” Then she looked at the bottles of alcohol that Haymitch was still carrying. “Are you going to share that?”
“Matilda!” Haver scolded her.
“You’ve got good taste. I’ll give you that.” Haymitch picked his way through the garbage to the kitchen and swept everything off the table with one arm. “There’s cups around here somewhere.”
“The bottles are probably cleaner.” Matilda took one of the unopened bottles and started working at the cork.
Clark, having tasted District 9’s version of white liquor, didn’t think it would be a good idea for Matilda to drink an entire bottle of the stuff. He walked carefully over to the cabinets, picking his way around the debris on the floor. When the cabinets yielded nothing more than a desiccated apple and some mouse droppings, he picked up two cups that were lying in the sink and quickly used his X-ray vision to locate two more on the floor. All of them were filthy, but he turned on the water and started scrubbing them. The hot water didn’t work, so he turned away from the others and discreetly used his heat vision to sterilize the cups.
He brought the clean cups over just as Matilda took a swig from the newly opened bottle. Haver reached over and tugged it from her hand, ignoring her protests. He took the cups from Clark and filled each one, handing them around.
Haymitch raised an eyebrow at the warmth of his cup. “How’d you get the hot water to work? It’s been running cold all winter.”
“Uh … maybe it’s working … ah … intermittently,” Clark stammered. He’d hadn’t expected the question.
Haymitch didn’t appear to notice. “Alcohol kills everything anyway.”
“Including you, one of these days,” Haver muttered, but he took a drink anyway.
Clark sniffed at the white liquor. He could tell from the smell that it was stronger than the moonshine Haver had shared with him.
“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” Haver told him.
“It’s fine,” Clark said. He took a sip, making a face at the taste. When Haymitch laughed, Clark frowned, then took a larger drink, draining half the cup.
“Watch out for him,” Haymitch advised Haver and Matilda. “He’ll drink up all your liquor.” He raised his cup. “To the lovebird, who set a new standard for the tributes and lived to tell about it.”
Haver and Matilda looked horrified. “Don’t tell him that!” Matilda hissed. “He’ll have enough to worry about at the next Games without thinking the Capitol expects another love story. It’s no wonder you’ve never been able to get a tribute home.”
Haver shook his head. “Clark, it doesn’t matter about the love story. The Capitol wants a good show. You gave them one. Every year is different, and that’s how they like it. Don’t think the next District 9 tributes have to do what you did.”
“It wasn’t for show.” Clark drained the rest of the white liquor from his cup and reached for the bottle, wishing alcohol could take the edge off his feelings like it did for everyone else. “It was real.” He poured some more liquor into his cup, then looked at Haymitch and blurted out, “I’m sorry about your tributes.”
“You didn’t kill them,” Haymitch pointed out.
“I know, but …”
“Don’t apologize for the dead tributes,” Haymitch told him. “The Capitol doesn’t like it, and you weren’t responsible for most of them anyway.”
“They’re still dead.”
“Not at your hands, and you’ll make the Capitol mad if you act like you’re sorry. You
do not want to do that. Trust me on that one.” Haymitch nodded at Haver and Matilda. “They’ll tell you the same thing.”
“He’s right, Clark,” Haver said. “You can be as sorry as you want in private. In public, you need to keep your mouth shut.”
Clark wanted to argue, but he knew that they were right. Looking down, he picked up his cup and concentrated on the strong liquor. He had to get through this tour, and if that meant pretending that he was happy when he wasn’t, it was what he would do.
He couldn’t afford to make Snow angry.
*****
Early that afternoon, Clark stood inside the District 12 Justice Building, listening to the crowd outside. The weather was raw and cold, with a light snow falling, and it didn’t sound like anyone was happy to be there.
After leaving Victor’s Village, the tour group and Haymitch had gone to the coal mines for a tour. The foreman had greeted them and led them into the slow, creaky elevator that took the miners deep into the ground.
All of the easily available coal was long gone, so the miners had to go down a long way — far enough down that the temperature actually rose. The elevator had moved very slowly, creaking ominously the whole way, and Clark had not been reassured when the foreman had told them that there hadn’t been an accident with this elevator in a long time.
Clark had felt trapped and closed in down in the mine, something that he had never felt before. He had never felt so restricted in the wide-open spaces of District 9, not even in the storm cellar, and didn’t understand why it bothered him so much.
Even though he was well-aware that he couldn’t be killed by either an elevator accident or a mining accident, and that he could probably save a lot of people with his powers, Clark had breathed a sigh of relief when they’d gotten back to the surface and he’d gone back outside. Going deep into the ground had bothered him, and he wondered how he would have handled it if he’d grown up in District 12.
Outside, the crowd was growing louder as the time for Clark’s speech approached. A man cursed furiously, enraged at Snow, the Gamemakers, and the Capitol, then started sobbing loudly.
Curious, Clark lowered his glasses and looked through the wall of the Justice Building. Beneath the banner bearing the image of the District 12 boy who had been killed in the Games, a man was crying with rage and grief, his fists clenched. A woman tried to soothe him, looking around nervously, while several children and teens clung to each other and tried to stay out of his way.
“One more year, Nelly! One more year, and he would have had some experience in the mines, some skills to keep him alive. He was done with school and almost ready for the mines. Why couldn’t the Capitol wait one more year before they took him?!”
“Ash, it was random chance. The Capitol didn’t plan to take him — why would they? He meant nothing to them. Nothing … at … all.” She burst into tears.
Clark felt a lump in his own throat as he watched them. It struck him again how cruel it was for the Capitol to punish people for a war that had taken place long before they were born by taking their children and killing them for entertainment. How could anyone think it was right or just?
“Clark?”
Clark jumped, startled, as Haver and Matilda came into the room. He quickly pushed his glasses up and turned away from the wall, blinking at the sudden change.
Haver looked at the wall, wondering what Clark had been staring at. It looked completely blank to him. “What were you doing?”
“I … I …” Clark cleared his throat and tried again. “I was just … thinking.”
Haver clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Clark. Just remember what Haymitch said. Don’t apologize. You had nothing to do with the deaths of those kids.”
“I didn’t do anything to help them, either.”
“What could you have done?” Matilda asked in exasperation. “You could barely stay on your feet.”
“You couldn’t have helped them, Clark.” Haver looked at him seriously. “No matter how strong and tough you think you are, some things can’t be helped. The Careers killed them, and they would have killed you, too, if you’d tried to interfere.”
“I know, but …”
“What more could you have done, anyway?” Matilda asked. “Chased the Careers down and puked on them?”
“Matilda!” Haver sighed, but stopped as Clark, struck by the ludicrousness of the idea, clapped a hand over his mouth and snorted with laughter.
Clark couldn’t have said why he found the idea so funny, but he did. He supposed that it was better than dwelling upon the grief of the parents of the deceased tributes, though it seemed somehow wrong to be laughing at such a time.
“That’s better,” Haver told him. He pushed Clark in the direction of the outside door. “Now, go out and show Panem what District 9 is made of.”
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