The ride to the camp is as tense as it is uneventful. I don't know what's waiting for us at our destination, but I have a feeling it's not going to be pleasant.
To make things go on the smoother side, and because she wants to see things for herself as well, Paylor offered us her hovercraft to take us there due to the distance. Despite my orders, the medic from Thirteen, who we're insisting on coming with us, was hesitant in giving me the location of the POW camp and claimed that orders came from above me; however another soldier — the same one who deferred to me to deal with the new arrivals earlier — seemed actually happy and relieved to cooperate in giving us the coordinates, which are a little over a hundred miles to the southwest of the main city.
So in meantime, I sit to alternate between watching mountains give way to rolling expanse and observing the operation occurring right next to me.
Wilson lies on his belly and stripped down to his underwear to allow Stone to carefully work on his back and nape of the neck. I don't know what kind of care the former Peacekeeper was given, but the Corpsman's right: it doesn't even come close to the bare minimum required. In some cases, Stone actually has to brush and rinse away old long-dead skin so that the raw tissue underneath can grow, and he has to rinse and wash the back over with disinfectant… several times, which leads to gritted outbursts of pain.
I try not to think about how much this reminds me of all the times I've had to help carry a friend from the mines over to the Everdeens; I try, but I just can't help it. In spite of myself, and in spite of our previous interactions, I offer a hand for Wilson to cling onto, which he takes albeit with some initial hesitation.
After applying several injections, an even coating of some salve, and a thin medical fabric to cover the injured skin, Stone carefully turns the former Peacekeeper to the side and helps him up to a sitting position to make sure he's actually able to support himself. After that, the Corpsman focuses his attention on other possible wounds sustained — including what looks like a partially-healed bullet wound through the calf — and injuries that may need care, before Wilson is finally allowed to dress himself. For obvious reasons, the soiled tunic is discarded and he's only able to wear the jacket after Stone sprays some disinfectant over it and makes sure the interior fabric won't cause any issues.
One thing's a constant throughout the procedure: Stone's consistent chattering with his patient; I mean, he reaches Delly-levels of social energy. Usually, unless it has to deal with the operation itself, the topics at hand consist of the most inane and sometimes surreal rambling. Also, usually, they are one-sided with Wilson staring at me with a look that plainly asks, "Does this guy ever shut up?"
I just respond to that with a shrug.
In any case, it's not long after that we reach what they call "Camp Victory".
Midway through the campaign to take District Two, it was decided that, there was little need to have POW camps scattered throughout the land since the majority of the nation was now solidly in rebel hands. So a location was chosen towards the southern edge of this district to serve as a spot where the rebels could consolidate all of the prisoners. So Camp Victory was born.
As the hovercraft descends, I'm able to see the camp: a fenced square superimposed over an abandoned village on the banks of a river. A pair of channels is dug from the river and crosses the fence at the upstream and downstream corners to connect to the interior perimeter ditch; it's likely the only source of water considering that the surrounding landscape is flat scrubland with not a single tree in sight except along the river. Each side of the square has to be around a mile long with guard towers evenly spaced every hundred meters; this spacing doesn't factor in the main gate, which faces the river. On the outside of the gate is the landing pad, rail depot, and what's likely the encampment for the guards.
But once we disembark the hovercraft and get exposed to the cool dry air— granted, a bit warmer than back in the main city —there's one thing that supplants all other observations: the stench. Even though we aren't even downwind of the camp, a powerful mixture of decay and human waste assaults my senses in a thick overbearing cloud and just grows stronger the closer we get. While I have to resist the urge to surrender to my gag reflexes, Paylor doesn't look the least bit affected in terms of nausea; instead, she's positively livid. Considering what this scent is starting to remind me of, I think I have a good idea why she's so upset.
When we reach the gate, the warden is present to greet us. While deferential to me and Paylor, it's obvious that he doesn't want any of us to be here. He doesn't even bother being cordial with Wilson or Stone, complete with accusations of the former being ungrateful and the latter some unfamiliar interloper; the Corpsman is unruffled by the accusation and lightly replies that a medical hovercraft is still on its way. Ultimately — probably because he doesn't want to risk insubordination with key Rebellion figures — the warden allows the two through; though he tells them that they are not afforded the same protection from prisoners as we are.
In the process of our entrance we're all required, "for the sake of security", to relinquish our weapons, from firearms and grenades all the way down to combat knives and swords; Stone's slightly forward-curving blade looks less like an actual sword — such as my and Paylor's Thirteen-issued command sabers; I still don't know how to effectively wield the damn thing — and more like an ornate and lengthened machete. Wilson's cane is almost confiscated, but I manage to persuade the guards to allow it. In turn, it's suggested that we stay near the perimeter so as to remain under the protection of the watchtowers. With that out of the way, our group finally makes its entrance.
Between Wilson's condition and the statement that it's supposed to be good, the awful odor filling our nostrils, and the disturbingly familiar hum of the electric fence we pass under… there's an implication that I'm in for an awful spectacle, and I steel myself accordingly. So with this expectation in place, I'm at least somewhat prepared for the following scene… right?
Wrong.
Right past the gate, we have to cross a fifty-yard-long bridge that passes over a marshy moat-like expanse of mud, plants, and water. After those fifty yards is technically where the dry land starts and the camp proper is, with the interior border being marked by a series of posts.
It's also where I see the first bodies.
The whole bank is evenly lined with corpses. Some look like they fell yesterday; others are bloated in an advanced state of decay; all of them have bullet wounds in them. While some individuals were obviously risking an escape, when I see the small pails or cups next to the lifeless hands of many of the bodies, it vaguely occurs to me that the reason they crossed the boundary was just to go for water; others are even frozen in the act of grabbing an ankle or wrist of another person, as if they were attempting to retrieve them.
As we pass a cart stacked to the brim with individuals likely awaiting burial, I bear witness to the fact that things don't get any better in the camp proper. It's obvious that the buildings of the village, which is now in shambles, aren't enough to hold all the occupants; so a sea of make-shift tents is what greets us. In the spaces between the tents, human waste covers the ground to the point that after those first couple minutes I don't even bother watching where I step; I still watch myself so as not to step on the seemingly just-as-plentiful corpses scattered around… or the bold vermin which feed on both waste and human.
If the smells weren't enough for my senses to take in, there's the field of speakers blaring messages either with words trumpeting the good of the Rebellion or shaming those who supported the Capitol. No matter where you stand, the volume is just the same. And just in case that's not redundant enough coverage, propos are projected all along the high outer fence.
And just when I feel that I've acclimated myself to the horrors surrounding us, I bear witness to the living residents of the camp; except that "living" is too generous of a term. Sure, hearts beat and electrical impulses flash between nerves… but to call them alive fits in only the strictest academic sense. Instead, what take the place of living people are beings reduced to walking skeletons with eyes shadowed in skull-like visages and bellies distended by malnutrition; it's a wonder that they are even able to move. Once-white uniforms, now soiled with various form of filth, hang as loosely on their frames as their mottled skin. This just factors in the ones with actual clothes to wear; not those who shamble in cobbled-together rags or nothing at all, despite the increasing threat of winter. Not to mention the full tableau of various possible ailments: bleeding mouths of scurvy, dehydration-induced shakes from diarrhea, the few who aren't fully skeletal but rather swollen with dropsy… That's just a snippet of what I come across.
There had been bad times in the Seam, especially during the winter, where the dead delay their status for a few months only to finally end on a doorstep. I'm more than a bit familiar with starvation and hardship; it's what motivated me. This though… this makes the Seam in the harshest of winters look downright cozy several times over.
Wanting to distract myself, I take stock of my fellow travel companions: Beetee and Paylor both looking much older than they are, Stone clenching his jaw, and Wilson… just being resigned.
After a while the prisoners finally take note of their new visitors, and recognition flashes behind dull eyes when they see me. However, while I'm expecting hatred, I only see relief as they begin to congregate. One sickly mass crowding towards me.
The spectacle becomes too much to bear, and I can't help but flee from these wretched beings. Feeling that I put enough distance, I lean up against a wall to breathe, "This… this is wrong… this is so wrong…"
I can hear Wilson approach me before I look up to see him, and I expect for the former Peacekeeper to be ready to tear me a new one with the same hostile fire he had earlier today. Instead, when I make eye-contact… I just see sorrow and pity.
"Just because these people have been dying of disease and starvation, instead of being suffocated and crushed, now you object to how they are treated, sir?" he asks with a quiet voice full of rebuke yet equally devoid of anger. Maybe he's just too tired to be pissed-off anymore.
"It's…" I remember this conversation. Katniss telling me how wrong I am… me mocking everybody for being hung up on the fact that those in the Nut would have their deaths prolonged as opposed to being blown up in a coal mine…
I try to find the voice to say that what I did had to be done; that this is not the same. But for some reason, I can't.
Did I really want to kill others so badly?
As if to answer me, the projectors begin playing the footage of the Nut's destruction. And that's when I see myself… that's when I see what Wilson was talking about when he accused me of being happy. Because I really do look happy— no… I look downright gleeful with a crazed grin that stretches all the way up to wide eyes. I'm practically hopping up-and-down and whooping with joy as those avalanches come to smother the entrances… as they come to suffocate thousands.
"Shut it off…" I mutter. The footage keeps going; dozens of Gales leering down at me… eager to pass judgment… eager to reap destruction… "Shut it off! Shut these damn broadcasts off! ALL OF THEM; THAT'S AN ORDER!" I scream, stalking back to the bridge in the process.
Somebody must have received the message because both the projectors and speakers are turned off, and a silence falls that's so palpable it almost feels as if a thick woolen blanket covers the whole area. I have been here less than an hour, yet the shift is noticeable as I walk back to the group; even more for the prisoners, who appear absolutely lost and bewildered now that their hearing is no longer continuously assaulted by those damn propos. Wilson just changes back to that unreadable expression again.
Barely a few minutes pass when Stone briskly strides ahead to address the group gathering before us. In an upbeat and chirpy tone completely at odds with the environment and his prior demeanor, the Corpsman doesn't waste any time in introducing himself and telling his audience that they are now under his care.
Despite the physical condition they're in, many of the prisoners actually laugh at this, and one speaks up to quip, "This is rich. Some hillbilly bastard child is going to be the one looking after us?" More laughter.
Any reasonable individual would take offense at that comment; hell, I've punched fellow rebels in the face for calling me a hillbilly. To my surprise however, Stone doesn't lose his cheer. In fact, he actually laughs with them. "Yep. Though I do need to clarify that I'm actually a bastard from a bastard from a bastard from a maybe-maybe-not-bastard; I hail from a long not-so-proud line of courtesans. Fact."
The Corpsman's frank, and frankly insane, statement succeeds in catching some of the previously-heckling prisoners off-guard and rendering them silent. Still another yells, "You mean whores!"
"You sound just like my sis," he shoots back with rolled eyes before saying in falsetto voice, "'When they're dead, they're all whores. No exception.'"
This time, most of the crowd now partakes in the raucous display of mirth, during which I ask a dumbfounded Wilson, "How could they tell he's illegitimate."
"His name." As that really doesn't explain much, the former Peacekeeper immediately clarifies: "'Stone' is the surname given to someone born a bastard."
"Well, what if the family name is 'Stone'?"
He shakes his head. "Unlikely, sir. Most bastards try to marry a person of legitimate birth; no matter the gender, the legitimate name will always take precedence. Sometimes two bastards may marry, but that's really rare."
The whole thing sounds convoluted. "Huh… but still, this sounds like just a practice of your district. It's a pretty far leap to make considering that the Corpsman doesn't even sound like he's from around here."
"Not really considering that community recruits from our population. Even I don't know what they do to twist our people into… well…"
"'Tattooed hillbilly freaks'?" Beetee helpfully adds as he enters our conversation.
For all his loaded opinions earlier today, Wilson immediately tries to backtrack now: "I didn't mean to offend, sir. And don't get me wrong; your doc has done a great job," he says while gesturing to the bandages. "It's just that… from those who stopped by, I've heard many… uh… stories…"
The victor just chortles at the former Peacekeeper's befuddlement. "It's alright, kid; if we're being honest, they've taken to calling themselves THFs." He follows that up by giving a pointed look towards the Corpsman and musing, "I wonder how these Peacekeepers would react if they found out Luce's line of illegitimacy started out with Philippos Singh."
"What?" Wilson all but yelps.
"Uh… who?" I ask.
"The late Commander Singh was the third Generalissimus of this nation," Wilson explains with no small measure of awe, "second Head Peacekeeper of District Two, and hero of the Dark Days."
"Don't forget a bit of a cad…" Beetee adds.
The former Peacekeeper seems ready to object but then simply bows his head with a sigh. "That too…" Though he follows that by looking earnestly at the victor to say, "But if Doc Stone really is descended from the Lion of Founders' Pass, then it doesn't matter if he's a bastard so many generations removed; most of these soldiers would immediately defer to him with the respect his bloodline deserves."
"He would… if that's his intention. But it's not," Beetee says before pointing to the crowd again. "Why do you think he's making all these cracks at his own expense? Why was he making banter with you on the ride here?"
I watch Stone as he begins looking over the first of the prisoners, many of whom now engage him in conversation.
"It's to put them at ease…" I murmur. "Or at least take their minds off things."
"I was going to say that it's because that's just the kind of person he is," Beetee states then shrugs, "but sure; that too."
As I watch these people laugh and joke, I try to match what I see before me with the monsters that I have fought all through this past war and suffered under all my life; with the ones who bombed thousands, beat my neighbors indiscriminately, and even killed their own whenever one would speak out. Yet I can't; for some reason I can't see these people as anything more than just that: people. Still… "But why should he? You said it yourself that his community was attacked by Peacekeepers; that he likely lost comrades. And from the looks of that scar, he even personally fought against them. I'm not arguing against treating these prisoners, but why should he be all chummy?"
The old victor addresses me with the patience of a schoolteacher: "Yes, he fought and was attacked by Peacekeepers. But like I said before, anybody who personally engaged him was dispatched, and the remainder were dealt with. These prisoners are not them; there is no reason for him to hold a grudge."
Something in me suspects that Beetee is not just talking about Stone. However, I don't have time to mull that over; because I hear something that makes my blood run cold with horrified realization:
"Mark-Mark!"
They have children here…