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Chapter Twenty-Six

A few weeks later, the harvest had all been taken in. All of the farm families were getting ready for the winter, and both farm and factory kids had gone back to school now that the bulk of the work was done.

Clark continued to help his parents on the farm. Though the dawn to dusk rush of the harvest was over, there was still plenty to do, and he far preferred working to sitting alone in his house in Victor’s Village.

Jonathan and Martha were grateful for Clark’s help. It was the first year he’d been able to help every day in the fall — he’d spent most of his days during the last thirteen years in school, and before that he’d been too little to be of much help. With Clark’s strength and speed, his assistance was greatly appreciated by his parents.

There hadn’t been a repeat of the morning Clark had attacked the rodents in the hayloft. Worried that he might hurt or kill someone if he lost control again, Clark was keeping a very tight rein on himself. He was constantly vigilant, reminding himself that he was home and safe, and that none of the things he saw now were a threat to him. He couldn’t keep the nightmares away, but he was determined to be completely in control of himself while he was awake.

His parents helped. Though Jonathan had kept his word to Clark and hadn’t told Martha about the incident in the barn, she wasn’t blind to how tense and easily startled Clark was. When he would freeze, tilting his head to listen to something beyond the range of normal hearing, or push his glasses down and stare at something outside the walls of the house or barn, or too far away for the elder Kents to see, they would call to him, reminding him of where he was and what he was doing. They kept their distance from him then, though, in order to stay safe in case he lashed out — at least as safe as they could be from someone who had his abilities.

Clark hated the fact that his parents felt they needed to keep their distance from him, but he also knew that they were right. No matter how hard he worked at keeping himself under control, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that he wouldn’t do them harm if startled. Clark didn’t trust himself now, so he didn’t blame others for not trusting him.

Still, as the days passed without any more disturbing incidents, Clark became more confident that he could maintain his control. He began following some advice Haver had given him after the older victor saw him standing on the porch late one night, looking intently into the darkness as though he was sure something dangerous was approaching. “Start with what you know to be real, and go on from there,” Haver had told Clark. It was a piece of advice often given to young victors by their mentors — being excessively vigilant and easily startled was common amongst survivors of the Hunger Games.

My name is Clark Kent. I live in District 9. I won the 66th Hunger Games. My parents are farmers. I can fly …

Clark repeated these things to himself when a nightmare sent him plunging to the floor or when something startled him during his waking hours. This mantra, combined with his parents’ voices calling him back to reality, seemed to help. He was still tense and jumpy, but he also felt a little more in control of himself.

In spite of his misgivings, Clark stayed at the farm from early morning to late evening. Since the days had grown short, he could travel to and from the farm at superspeed without worrying that someone would see him. He left his house before sunrise and returned after sunset, staying there only to sleep. He wasn’t sure if anyone was actually monitoring whether he lived there or not, but just to be safe, he spent his nights there.

There was plenty of work to be done to get the farm ready for winter. The Kents had fallen behind on a lot of things while Clark was gone, both because they didn’t have his help and because they spent so much time watching the Games, hoping for a glimpse of their son, that they hadn’t gotten much work done.

Not only had Jonathan and Martha fallen behind on their work during the Games, but Jonathan seemed to be slowing down. He coughed a lot, sometimes had trouble catching his breath, and needed to rest far more than he had in the past.

Clark was worried about him, especially after he noticed that the tea Jonathan drank in the morning contained something more than the mint it was usually made from. Clark didn’t know what it was, but his sense of smell told him that something was different. When he asked what was wrong, though, his parents told him firmly that it was nothing to worry about, and when he went looking through the cabinets for the strange herb that was in his father’s tea, Martha scolded him soundly for getting into things that were none of his business.

Chastened, Clark stopped snooping. His parents were upset enough by his odd behavior — he didn’t want to make things worse by demanding answers they didn’t want to give. Nevertheless, he was worried about his father and took more and more of the workload on himself. It didn’t bother him, and he was glad to keep busy. He also started talking to his parents about them staying with him during the winter, hoping that whatever Jonathan was suffering from would clear up in the warm, well-insulated house in Victor’s Village — and if it didn’t, they would be close enough to town that the District 9 doctor could get there easily.

*****

One morning in mid-October Clark was eating breakfast with his parents when his superhearing picked up an unusual sound — that of cars being driven along the dirt road that led to the Kent farm. Puzzled, he tilted his head, listening closely. Not only were cars rare in District 9, but those few people who had them almost never drove them this far out of town — even the Peacekeepers usually drove a truck or rode horses when they had to deal with people who lived in the country.

When he heard the cars turn onto the rutted drive that led to the house, Clark pushed his glasses down his nose and looked through the wall to see who was approaching. What he saw made his heart pound with terror.

President Snow sat in the back seat of one car, which was being driven by a Peacekeeper. Four other Peacekeepers were in the second car. As the cars pulled to a stop in front of the house, Clark heard a third car approaching in the distance.

Jonathan and Martha stared at Clark as his face went pale. They cast a worried look at the front door as they, too, heard the car doors slam.

“Clark, what’s wrong? Who is it?” Martha asked.

“I-it’s President Snow,” Clark stammered. “Why is he here? What does he want? I wasn’t supposed to see him again until —“ He cut himself off abruptly. His parents didn’t know about Snow’s threats, and he didn’t want them to know. He was afraid of what might happen if he told them.

Clark froze, staring at the door. He pushed his glasses back up, trying to decide what to do. He wanted to run, to just fly out of there and escape, but that would mean leaving his parents to Snow’s tender mercies. He could grab them and fly off, but where would he take them? What would happen to his friends and fellow victors if he and his parents disappeared? What would the consequences be if he made the wrong choice?

Someone knocked on the door. Pushing his glasses back down, Clark looked through it and saw Snow standing on the porch, two of the Peacekeepers behind him. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over backwards.

“Clark, sit down,” Martha told him. “I’ll get the door.”

“Mom, no!” Clark rushed to intercept her, but Martha held her ground.

“Clark, I said sit down, and I meant it.”

“Mom, it’s President Snow. You … you can’t let him in.”

“Open the door!” one of the Peacekeepers demanded, banging on it loudly.

“If I don’t open the door, they’ll break it down — or just walk right in.” Martha walked quickly to the door and pulled it open. Looking at the Peacekeepers and Snow uneasily, she said, “Good morning. Is there something I can do for you?”

Snow gave her his most charming smile. “Good morning … Mrs. Kent, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I came to see how Panem’s latest victor is doing. Since he wasn’t at home, I asked his neighbors where he might be. Mrs. Teig told me he would probably be here.”

Clark tensed at the mention of Matilda, his jaw working angrily. Why had she told President Snow where to find him?

“Don’t even think about it,” Jonathan told him, so quietly that only Clark could hear him. “Whatever it is you’re considering, don’t do it. Be polite and hope they leave soon. That’s the only way to deal with Capitol officials.”

“Dad, you don’t understand …” Clark whispered.

“Explain it later,” Jonathan told him, “after they’re gone.”

Clark stared in alarm at Panem’s president as Martha brought an extra chair from one of the bedrooms. “We don’t usually have company,” she explained to Snow.

“This is fine,” Snow told her, sitting down.

“Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?” Martha asked.

Clark glared at his mother, wondering why she was being so accommodating. Martha shook her head at him. “Don’t say a word,” she whispered when her back was turned to Snow.

“Ah … no,” Snow replied. “I ate earlier on the train. Thank you for the offer.”

“Why are you here?” Clark asked Snow abruptly.

Jonathan and Martha both turned to look at Clark, their eyes wide and fearful. “Clark, be quiet,” Jonathan murmured almost silently.

“As I told your mother, I’m here to see how Panem’s newest victor is doing — and also to discuss a matter of some importance with you. My time is rather limited, however, so hopefully this won’t take long.” Snow reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, withdrawing an elaborately designed pocket watch. With a flick of his thumb, he opened it, turning it towards Clark.

Clark recoiled as a sudden, familiar wave of pain moved through him. He stared at the glowing green face of the watch as he realized that one of his worst fears had come true. Snow had made the connection between Platinum’s Kryptonite pendant and Clark’s initial illness in the arena.

Jonathan and Martha stared in horror at the pocket watch, realizing that somehow Snow had discovered Clark’s secret. Ignoring their own fear, they got up, trying to help Clark get away from the deadly radiation.

Snow gestured to the Peacekeepers, who were watching through the windows, telling them to come in.

The three Peacekeepers who had accompanied Snow burst through the door, guns pointed at the Kents.

“Arrest them!” Snow demanded.

Clark struggled to his feet, putting himself between his parents and the Peacekeepers. “Mom, Dad, run! Go out the back door!” He stumbled in the direction of the Peacekeepers.

Turning suddenly, Martha tried to take the pocket watch from Snow. One of the Peacekeepers pulled a stun gun from his belt and pressed it against Martha’s back, pulling the trigger. She slumped to the ground.

“Martha!”

“Mom!”

Clark and Jonathan both rushed toward her, but when the Peacekeeper who had stunned her pointed his gun at her, the threat clear, they stopped. The other two Peacekeepers quickly handcuffed them, while the third handcuffed Martha and slung her over his shoulder. She was dazed, but beginning to regain her senses.

Snow, satisfied that Clark wasn’t a threat, closed the pocket watch and put it back in his jacket. As the third car pulled up outside the house, he stood, pointing in the direction of the door. “Take them outside.”

The occupants of the other car were just emerging as everyone stepped outside. Two Peacekeepers got out of the front seat. Then they opened the door for the three people in the back. Haver, Matilda, and Sid were pulled roughly out of the back seat. All three were handcuffed. Haver and Matilda both sported numerous cuts and bruises, but Sid looked the worst. One eye was swelling shut, his nose was broken, three teeth were missing, and his lip was split. He was limping badly and his face and clothes were covered with blood.

When Clark saw Sid, he understood why Matilda had told Snow where to find him — she’d done it to save her husband. Any illusions that Clark might have had about Snow’s threats being empty ones disappeared in that moment. Panem’s president would do whatever it took to maintain power, including using a person’s family and friends as leverage to ensure their cooperation.

When Matilda saw Clark looking at her, she turned her face away, looking guilty. There was an unspoken code amongst victors that they would never betray one another, but when her husband of ten years had been threatened, she had betrayed Clark in order to save Sid.

“What’s going on?” Clark demanded. “What’s this about?”

At his outburst, the Peacekeeper escorting him gave him a shove, knocking him down. As Clark struggled to get up, Snow walked over to him.

“I did say I had something to discuss with you, didn’t I?” He smiled coldly. When the Peacekeeper had helped Clark back to his feet, Snow turned to address his audience.

“There are certain rules that must be followed in the Hunger Games. It may appear to be a free-for-all, but as our victors know, it’s anything but that. Mr. Kent — Clark, that is — violated a very important rule, one which cannot be overlooked.”

“What rule?” Clark asked, his mind working frantically as he tried to understand what Snow was talking about.

“You know what rule you broke,” Snow responded.

Clark shook his head. “No, I don’t. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

“Oh, not quite, Mr. Kent, and you know exactly what you did.”

“No … no, I —“

“Peacekeeper Thread!” Snow interrupted, gesturing to one of the Peacekeepers who had arrived with the residents of Victor’s Village. “Cuff him to that tree over there.”

At Snow’s words, Clark began to struggle against the handcuffs, trying to break them. District 9’s newest Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread, was known for being sadistic. Most local Peacekeepers carried out punishments with an air of resignation, doing only as much as required. Victims of these punishments were seldom killed or even severely injured.

However, Thread enjoyed his work, and had almost killed a fifteen-year-old boy who had been caught spray-painting an obscene statement about the Games on the wall of the town’s train station a few months earlier. The official punishment for vandalism was ten lashes, though more often the culprit was simply forced to clean up the mess they’d made, as well as cleaning up or repairing the messes left by those who hadn’t been caught.

The punishment was usually left to the discretion of the Peacekeepers after the judge had pronounced someone guilty or not. Though most of the time the Peacekeepers allowed the owner of the vandalized property to choose the penalty, Thread had been riling his colleagues up. He had recently been transferred from District 11, where punishments for the slightest infractions were severe, and wanted to bring the same “discipline” to District 9. He was near the bottom of the ranks, but somehow he was still able to get others to listen to him.

The boy had been caught vandalizing property before, and though the family that ran the train station was willing to let him clean it instead of having him flogged, the other Peacekeepers had decided to allow Thread to make an example of him. It was only a short time before the Games, and tensions always ran higher at that time.

Thread hadn’t stopped at ten lashes, but had continued whipping the boy until the head Peacekeeper stepped in, dragging him away. Thread had claimed that he had lost count of how many lashes he had given the boy, but the people who had witnessed the flogging had not been appeased, and tensions between the townspeople and the Peacekeepers were higher than they had ever been before.

The boy had barely survived, and the scars he now bore would never go away. No one wanted to run afoul of Romulus Thread, and people avoided him, but he didn’t seem to care. He enjoyed meting out punishment and, in his opinion, every rule needed to be obeyed without question and without forgiveness for even the most minor infractions. Being liked or even tolerated by the people he’d been tasked with keeping in line weren’t things he worried about.

Snow watched Clark struggling to break his handcuffs and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He opened the pocket watch, though he didn’t pull it out.

With the Kryptonite watch closed, Clark had begun to feel better, but the fresh exposure brought a new wave of pain and weakness. He glared at Snow as Thread grabbed him, pushed him in the direction of the tree, quickly unlocked one handcuff, and just as quickly recuffed Clark to a sturdy lower branch, his arms stretched over his head. When Clark tried to use the handcuffs to break the branch, Thread shoved his face against the tree trunk.

Clark struggled, trying to see what was happening to the others. Snow had told him that each of the people he cared about would have a different fate if Clark disobeyed him. His parents and mentors were here now, and he suspected that Sid was also among those who would suffer for whatever Clark had done.

Clark thought frantically, wondering what rule it was that he’d broken in the arena. He hadn’t stepped off the launch plate before the gong sounded — if he had, his parents and friends would already have been punished for his suicide. He hadn’t attempted to eat any of his fellow tributes. He’d been the last tribute alive. What rule could he possibly have broken?

Was this revenge for Lysander’s death? Had Luthor convinced Snow to punish Clark for killing his son? Killing other tributes was legal — and expected — in the arena, but a powerful man like Lex Luthor might have expected that his son would be the winner, and might be angry enough to destroy those Clark cared about in retribution for the loss of his child.

Or was it something else? Had Clark broken some unspoken rule when, instead of killing Mayson, he’d tried to comfort her in her last moments? Or was it because he’d covered the camera before Lois’s death? He’d covered it to keep his secret from being discovered and to give Lois a little dignity in her final moments of life. Had Snow guessed that Clark had covered the camera on purpose? Or worse, had he somehow found out that Lois hadn’t died from blood loss or from natural hypothermia? Had Snow somehow figured out that Clark had frozen her?

Thread punched Clark in the face, breaking one lens of his glasses and knocking them off. Then he tore the worn, faded fabric of the back of Clark’s shirt away. Thread took a coiled whip from his belt as he backed away. He moved to give himself swinging room and then he began to apply the lash to the young victor’s back.

Clark cried out in surprise and pain. He’d thought that he was being restrained so that he couldn’t go to the aid of the five other people being held prisoner. A part of him was relieved that he was the one being punished for whatever it was he’d done, rather than the innocent people being forced to watch, while another part feared that once Thread was done with him, the others would suffer the same fate — or worse.

Thread continued to flog him, the whip digging into his back again and again until Clark lost count of how many times he’d been hit. He clenched his teeth, trying to stay silent, but Thread was an expert at causing pain, and sometimes Clark screamed in spite of himself.

There was a commotion behind them. Someone fell to the ground with a thud, bringing startled cries and cursing from the spectators.

“Jonathan!” Martha shouted in panic.

Clark turned his head, trying to see what was going on. The whip lashed his face, barely missing his eye.

“Peacekeeper Thread, that’s enough!” Snow announced.

Thread didn’t listen, bringing the whip down on Clark’s back again. His superior stepped forward. “Stop!” When Thread hit Clark again, the supervisor grabbed Thread’s arm. “I said stop!” He wrenched the whip from Thread’s hand, coiling the bloody weapon and affixing it to his own belt. In a low voice, he said, “Disobey again and you’ll be the one being flogged — in front of the whole town, and don’t think I won’t do it!”

Thread stared sullenly at his supervisor, his hands clenching into fists. “I was following President Snow’s orders!”

“He told you to stop.”

“That kid’s a criminal … he had to be punished!”

“When the president of Panem tells you to do something, you do it. His word is law. You’ll be lucky if you’re not on a train to the Capitol tonight to be made into an Avox.”

Thread smirked slightly. “I don’t think I have to worry. I’ll be surprised if I’m not promoted.”

Clark heard them through a haze of pain and weakness. He tried to take a step, hoping to get to the end of the branch and free himself, but his legs buckled, leaving him hanging by the short chain on the handcuffs. The branch groaned under his weight, but didn’t break.

“Release him!” Snow ordered.

Unhappily, Thread unlocked the handcuffs. Clark fell to the ground, landing hard.

Thread kicked him in the ribs once, then stopped when Snow shook his head. “I want him alive,” Snow told Thread.

Thread looked at Snow questioningly, relaxing when Snow smiled slightly and nodded his head.

Clark had no idea what had been communicated between the two men, nor did he care. Breathing shallowly to keep his ribs from hurting anymore than they already did, he pushed himself up until he was on his hands and knees. Blood was running down his face from the cut above his left eye, obscuring his vision. He wiped it away, trying to see what was going on.

Jonathan lay on the dusty ground. One of the Peacekeepers knelt beside him, pressing rhythmically on his chest.

“Dad!” Clark tried to get up, but couldn’t quite manage it. He crawled forward, ignoring the agonizing pain in his back as he tried to get to his father.

“Stay back!” Another Peacekeeper blocked Clark’s path. He turned to look at the Peacekeeper performing CPR on Jonathan. “Anything?”

The man shook his head. “Nothing, but I’ll keep trying for a few more minutes.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Snow approaching. Backing away from the Peacekeeper blocking his path, he crawled in Snow’s direction.

“What … what did you d-do to him?” he asked Snow, fighting his increasing weakness as he came closer to the Kryptonite pocket watch.

“Nothing,” Snow told him. “His face turned red, he gasped for breath, and he fell. It was probably a heart attack.”

With effort, Clark turned his head toward where his father lay. Though his vision was blurring from being so close to the Kryptonite, he could see the Peacekeeper who had been trying to save Jonathan standing up. The older man lay still on the ground.

“No …” Clark whispered. “No!” He tried to move towards his father, but Snow grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up.

“Listen to me, Mr. Kent,” Snow hissed. “What happened today was just a preview of what will happen if you disobey again. Next time, it’ll be your mother under the lash, or one of your mentors, or your best friend, or even a total stranger. You won’t know who it is until it’s done. Nor will it stop there — they might be executed or made into an Avox … and perhaps other things will happen to them, as well. It will be your fault — and they’ll know it. They will die or live out their lives in silence, knowing that you could have prevented it.”

Clark gagged at the foul odor of blood on Snow’s breath, combined with the nauseatingly sweet scent of the rose pinned to the man’s lapel. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to be sick. “But … but what … what did I … do? I … don’t … know …”

Snow looked at Clark searchingly, a cruel smile crossing his face. “You really don’t know, do you?” He let go of Clark’s hair. “More’s the pity.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch. “We’re done here,” he announced to the Peacekeepers. “We —“ He looked down, startled, and drew back in disgust.

Clark’s head was pounding and his stomach was churning from the effects of the Kryptonite. Those things, combined with the sickening stench of blood and muttation roses, overwhelmed him. Still on his hands and knees, he vomited on Snow’s expensive shoes, then collapsed, unconscious.

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