Chapter Forty-Three
Clark sat in the viewing car as the train moved in the direction of District 11, a cup of coffee in one hand and his breakfast on the small, portable table in front of him. The train had slowed enough that he had been able to open one of the windows in order to enjoy the gradually warming air as the sun came up.
It was much warmer this far south than it had been in District 12, and spring was definitely in the air. There was no snow anywhere, even in the deepest shade, and some trees had begun to leaf out, while others were in bloom. After the cold, snowy weather in 12, the wilderness outside 11 felt pleasantly warm, and the sunshine felt good after so much time where it was overcast.
Clark set his coffee down, closing his eyes and stretching out his hands to enjoy the sunlight. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was actually looking forward to seeing District 11. It was, after all, a farming district like his own, although with a longer growing season and a far greater variety of crops, and he was interested in seeing it and meeting some of the people there.
*****
His visit to District 12 hadn’t been as bad as he had feared. Everyone in District 12 had turned out to see him — that district was so small, both in population and geography, that everyone could be required to attend his speech. People hadn’t looked especially happy to be there — it had been cold and snowy, and more than one person had gazed enviously at the warm coat he’d been wearing — but neither had there been the hatred that victors often faced during their Victory Tours.
Clark had expected people to hate him, especially the families of the dead tributes, but they hadn’t. He wasn’t a Career, someone who had grown up with all the advantages and trained for years before taking part in the Games, nor had he killed District 12’s tributes.
To Clark’s surprise, there had been a certain amount of acceptance from the people watching him. In a way, he was one of them. He wasn’t from District 12, but he was a kid from an outer district, someone for whom the odds had not been favorable, who had managed to survive. He hadn’t taken pleasure in participating in the Games, nor in destroying others, and when the families of the deceased tributes had brought him the required gifts — hothouse flowers from the Capitol, a plaque, and a piece of coal with the District 12 seal carved into it — they had been sad, but not angry at him.
Dinner had been held at the mayor’s home, attended by the few high-ranking people in the district — Haymitch Abernathy, a few of the most successful merchants, the top supervisors of the coal mines, and the Head Peacekeeper, Cray, who had sat next to Matilda and persisted in trying to put his hand on her leg until she had “accidentally” spilled her drink in his lap, then been excessively rough when trying to help him wipe it up. Cray had left, and Matilda had spent the rest of dinner trying to outdrink Haymitch.
Clark had been seated near the mayor and his family, although the man’s wife had pleaded a headache and left halfway through the first course. Trying to ignore the embarrassing behavior of his mentors — Haver had also drunk an excessive amount — Clark had spent dinner talking to the mayor and his daughter, wanting to know more about District 12. The mayor had been polite, though he hadn’t been very forthcoming with information.
The mayor’s 9-year-old daughter, Madge, had been more willing to tell him things. She had stared at Clark in a way that made him half-suspect she had a childish crush on him, and had happily answered his questions.
Clark had been caught by surprise, though, when she’d asked him whether he was looking forward to seeing Lois’s district. He had been trying to avoid thinking about facing Lois’s family, and the question had upset him more than he wanted to admit. He’d stammered nervously, not sure how to answer, and had been relieved when the mayor had taken pity on him and reminded his daughter that she shouldn’t ask adults personal questions.
Madge had looked confused, but she hadn’t asked about Lois again, nor had Clark encouraged more conversation. Dinner had been finished in awkward silence, aside from the drunken conversation of the other victors.
Clark had helped his intoxicated mentors into the car after the dinner was over while Marcius watched them in disgust. As the car had carried them back towards the train station, Clark had seen the two servants from the mayor’s home carrying bowls and platters of leftovers toward their families’ homes — apparently the mayor did not share the Capitolites’ attitude about leftover food and sharing it.
*****
This morning, both Haver and Matilda were suffering badly from hangovers, and neither had been pleased when Marcius had cheerfully awakened them. Marcius himself had taken one sip of white liquor the night before, then rejected it, so he was feeling fine, and he didn’t hesitate to hold that fact over their heads.
Between the crankiness of the older District 9 victors and Marcius’s deliberately excessive cheerfulness, the dining room was tense and unpleasant, causing Belarius and Clark’s prep team to make their apologies and take their meals to their rooms. The Avoxes, who had no choice but to stay, had made subtle gestures to each other about the people they were serving, indicating their opinions of their behavior.
Clark had tried to stay with his mentors, but after Marcius had complimented him loudly on how much more civilized he was than Haver and Matilda, and Matilda had responded by glaring at Clark and making some profane remarks under her breath about how it was only a matter of time, which Clark had heard clearly, he’d picked up his coffee and plate and headed for the viewing car. An Avox had followed to get him settled, looking grateful to get away from the dining room.
The train slowed further as it approached District 11. Clark pushed a button to open the rest of windows, looking around as the woods ended and the train passed through a gate into wide fields populated by herds of dairy cattle. The animals grazed placidly, barely looking up as the train passed them. Everything was peaceful in the early morning sunlight, and Clark wondered where all the people were.
A short time later, the train reached District 11 itself. Clark gaped at the tall electric fence, rising at least thirty-five feet in the air. It was topped with coils of barbed and razor wire, and the base of the fence was made of huge, heavy metal plates attached to a thick concrete barrier. As the train stopped, waiting for the gates to open, he used his X-ray vision to look under the fence. The concrete extended a good seven feet into the ground.
As the train moved into District 11, Clark saw the watchtowers, standing at even intervals and manned with heavily armed guards, looking incongruous amongst the grass and flowers of the meadows. The guards watched the train roll past — at least, Clark assumed they were looking at the train. Their faces with completely covered with dark face plates, making them look both less human and more threatening. He didn’t use his X-ray vision to peek through the face plates; he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the actual expressions on the faces of the Peacekeepers.
Clark had seen the fence and watchtowers before, lit up in the night as he flew around Panem, but he had always stayed far above them, never going close enough to see what they actually were. He had wondered about them, speculating that they were part of a huge prison that was rumored to exist, but had never come near enough to get a clear look.
Now that he knew what they were, the knowledge dismayed him. Why was this place so heavily guarded? He knew that District 11 was responsible for a great deal of Panem’s food production, but District 9 also kept the nation fed, and their fence was not nearly so high — only twenty feet. There were small metal plates at the base of his home district’s fence, but only enough the keep the fence anchored. The concrete they were attached to didn’t extend far underground — only a few inches. People could tunnel out or, for that matter, predators tunnel in, with little difficulty. The only guard towers in District 9 were around the grain silos, and the Peacekeepers who manned them only covered their faces in the most biting cold or the dustiest days.
The train kept going, moving past mile after mile of crop fields and orchards. People of all ages worked in the fields and orchards, their faces shaded by straw hats much like the ones used in District 9. Many of them paused in their work as the train went by, taking a moment to rest before returning their labors.
Clark gazed at the small communities of shacks the train passed, some of them too close to the tracks for safety or comfort. The small buildings were in poor condition, nearly as bad as that of the old house on the Ross farm, which had finally fallen down during the winter. The warmer climate made them slightly more livable, but not by much, and many of them showed signs of hasty repairs made with whatever materials could be found.
Something occurred to Clark as he looked at the people working in the fields and the few very elderly people and tiny children gathered in front of the small communities of shacks. Almost everyone was dark-skinned, while the Peacekeepers guarding the workers, identifiable by their somewhat modified uniforms and weapons, were almost all light-skinned. He wondered if the residents’ dark skin had anything to do with the heavy guard, though he couldn’t figure why that would be the case. There were dark-skinned people in District 9, but the Peacekeepers treated them no differently than the rest of the population.
The train passed more fields and orchards before reaching a collection of sprawling factories where much of the food was processed. More Peacekeepers guarded the factories, frisking each person as they left to be sure they hadn’t smuggled out any of the food they had processed during their shift. Even the dumpsters were guarded to be sure no one took anything.
The train stopped, waiting while a long freight train loaded with both fresh produce and processed foods moved slowly from the shared track to a set of parallel tracks. Marcius walked into the viewing car and saw Clark staring at the factories and the armed Peacekeepers.
“What are you doing?” Marcius asked, pushing the button to close the windows.
“Why are there so many Peacekeepers here?” Clark asked.
Marcius shrugged. “This is where most of Panem’s food is produced. It has to be protected.”
“But District 9 is the ‘Bread Bowl of Panem,’ and there aren’t nearly as many Peacekeepers there.”
“I suppose there’s more unrest here, more chance of rebellion.”
“Why?”
Marcius narrowed his eyes at Clark. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to ask questions?”
“I just want to know —“
“
Stop asking questions. You ask more questions than anyone I’ve ever met, and it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“But —“
Like a traffic cop, Marcius threw up a hand, palm forward as he almost shouted, “
Stop. This is neither the time nor the place for questions. The Peacekeepers here aren’t known for their sense of humor, and if anyone overhears you asking questions, they might think they can do the same thing.”
Remembering his experience with Thread, Clark knew that Marcius was right about the Peacekeepers. He looked at the District 9 escort, who was looking back at him sternly. Swallowing his pride, he said, “I’m sorry. This is all new to me.”
“You don’t need to know how things work outside your own district. It doesn’t concern you. There wouldn’t be so many Peacekeepers here if they weren’t needed, and why they’re needed is none of your business.
“Now, Belarius and your prep team are waiting for you. Once you’re dressed, you’ll be touring some of the fields and orchards before going to the Justice Building. You need to get moving before we get off schedule.”
The train started moving again, and Marcius nodded approvingly. “Things are going as scheduled, and that’s
all you need to know. Don’t ask questions, don’t try to give any food away, and don’t drink to excess even if your mentors are setting a bad example.”
“I haven’t been drinking to excess!” Clark protested, though he wasn’t quite sure how excess was defined.
“I know, and don’t start. You’ve done enough foolish things already. Being a victor doesn’t excuse you from the rules, and the sooner you learn that, the better.”
*****
Clark walked along a dirt road with his mentors and Marcius, their guide pointing out the different crops in the fields and orchards and occasionally stopping so they could receive samples of such foods as freshly-picked strawberries, oranges, and green onions.
Marcius trailed behind the others, complaining about the long walk, the condition of the road, and the smell of the manure used to fertilize the crops. The others tuned him out, enjoying the samples of fresh produce, some of which made Marcius turn up his nose in disgust and fall even farther behind the others — salads containing raw green onions were considered a delicious spring food in District 9, while Marcius found them disgusting and didn’t understand why the people he was escorting didn’t mind the strong smell and taste.
Clark kept his distance from Marcius, walking beside the guide and occasionally commenting on the differences between farming in District 11 and farming in District 9. The guide answered most of his questions — after all, farming was the main industry of both of their districts — and clenched her teeth at every new complaint from Marcius, who was sorely trying the patience of every member of the group.
Finally, the guide announced, “This is our last stop.”
“It’s about time,” Marcius grumbled.
Clark glanced back at the District 9 escort, then concentrated upon ignoring the man and listening to the guide. Marcius had complained about the tour of the coal mine, too, making Clark wonder if the man had any tolerance for any sort of work. He hadn’t been overly fond of the coal mine because of the darkness and feeling of claustrophobia, but touring the acres of cropland on a bright, sunny day suited him just fine.
The guide also ignored Marcius, gesturing to the acres of growing plants. “The main purpose of this crop isn’t food, although oil is made from the seeds, some of which is used in tesserae rations. This is cotton, and the main product of this plant is the fibers, which are processed and then shipped to District 8 to be spun and woven into the fine fabrics used in Capitol fashions.”
A man in clothing so patched and tattered that little of the original fabric remained muttered something unflattering about the Capitol under his breath. A couple of people near him glanced at him, then quickly looked away, but of the members of the tour group, only Clark could make out what he had said, and he wasn’t about to say anything.
The people who were tending the young plants had been singing as they worked before the tour group arrived, but they had stopped everything to stare at them. The Peacekeeper overseeing the workers scowled at the unauthorized break.
“Get back to work, you lazy pigs!”
Aside from a few muttered imprecations, no one protested the insult, and people got back to work.
Enjoying his display of power before the elite group of visitors, the Peacekeeper added, “Sing that song again — from the beginning. You’ve got victors and Capitolites to entertain!”
No one looked happy, but the people working in the field started singing again, though disjointedly at first. Clark and Matilda exchanged a knowing look as they listened — the song was also sung by workers in the District 9 fields, and though the tune was cheerful enough, the underlying implications of the words were anything but.
The Peacekeeper strode forward, grabbing the arm of a boy of about nine. “Why aren’t you singing?” he demanded. The boy snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, but said nothing.
“He can’t,” an older woman said, coming to the boy’s defense. “He’s got a cold and he can’t even talk.”
The Peacekeeper ignored her. “Sing, boy! I’m not gonna tell you again!”
The child sneezed, then tried to sing, but all that came out was a painful croak. The woman who had defended him tried again. “I told you, he’s sick!” She came toward them.
The Peacekeeper’s hand went to the butt of his gun, the threat clear. The woman stopped, but stood tensely, as though ready to throw herself into the path of a bullet to save the child.
“Get back to work,” the Peacekeeper demanded, “and keep singing!”
People complied, inching away from him. Only the woman stayed close, her eyes darting nervously from the Peacekeeper to the visitors, as though hoping that their presence would deter him from punishing the boy.
The Peacekeeper left the gun in its holster and instead reached for the whip fixed to his belt. Clark tensed at the sight, his fists clenching.
Since the day he’d been flogged, few things upset him more than that cruel form of punishment. There had been only two floggings in the town square since then, but both had sent him running from his house and fleeing into the wilderness, his superhearing picking up the sound of the whip hitting flesh and the screams of the victims. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from hearing it.
After the second incident, the whipping post had mysteriously caught fire, but it had been repaired soon enough, and Martha had warned Clark against taking the law into his own hands. His heart was in the right place, but if he got caught, everyone would suffer, and the consequences would be far worse than a flogging.
The floggings in District 9 had at least followed the proper legal procedure, and the victims had actually done something illegal — one had been a man who had gotten drunk and pelted a Peacekeeper with frozen horse manure on a bitterly cold night, while the other was a seventeen-year-old girl who had attacked another girl in jealousy over a cheating boyfriend, causing her enough injury that the judge had decided to make an example of her.
There was nothing illegal about being unable to sing, though, and this victim was a sick child. Clark clenched his fists tighter, trying to control the fury rising within him. He knew that he shouldn’t interfere, that it would make things worse if he did, but he hated floggings, and hated the look of anticipation on the Peacekeeper’s face.
Before he quite realized what he was doing, Clark lifted one hand to his face and lowered his glasses, focusing his heat vision on the whip. In less than a second, the whip had been sliced into several pieces and severed at the handle.
“What the hell?!” The Peacekeeper looked at his suddenly ruined weapon, at the pieces scattered on the ground. He bent down to pick them up, cursing in surprise as he felt the heat of the severed ends.
The boy had been cowering, his arms over his head to protect it from injury. When the Peacekeeper started cursing, he lowered his arms and turned cautiously to see what was going on.
The singing had stopped again, as had the work, as everyone craned their necks to see what had happened. The child hurried to stand behind his grandmother.
As the Peacekeeper continued to swear in anger and confusion, the boy’s grandmother looked from the broken pieces of the whip to Clark, and then back again, shaking her head as though trying to figure something out.
Clark pushed his glasses firmly back into place and dropped his arms to his sides, trying not to attract any more attention. He knew that he shouldn’t have let his temper get the better of him, though he wasn’t sorry he’d saved the child from being flogged. The old woman seemed to have some inkling that he’d had something to do with it, and that was a problem.
He had to keep his powers a secret. Too many lives depended upon it. He didn’t think she could prove anything, and her confused expression showed that she wasn’t sure about what she had seen, but if she talked to other people and word got back to Snow, the consequences would be unthinkable.
Clark hated to stand by while people suffered, but he knew that using his powers to help was likely to make things worse. He had to control himself, and he couldn’t give in to the desire to help, no matter how much he wanted to.
Asking questions and trying to help people were things he couldn’t allow himself to do, no matter how tempting. He had to try to keep a low profile, as difficult as that was for a victor, and make it through this tour with no further incidents.
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