District 10 unites.
The Settler rebellion is an abject failure.
When Katniss's arrow flies into the forcefield, the settlements erupt into resistance. Some of the younger Settlers, kids of reaping age, throw Molotov cocktails through the windows of the Justice Building and burn the cars and jeeps of the Peacekeeping force. There's some sabotage of the processing plants, a shootout at a dairy farm, and when a small cell of rebels is located in the honey farms, every one burns to the ground – houses, hives, bees, and rebels alike.
But the Settlers aren't organized. There's no central leadership, no strategy, no plan. The strikes are random and the targets are often times of no strategic or symbolic value. Windows are broken, shops burned, cattle released into wild, with no point and no purpose. Body after body swings from the hastily erected gallows. No one comes to save them, no rescues are attempted. And then in the night another saloon or checkpoint goes up in flames, and in the morning more are lined up to hang.
The only success the Settlers have is psychological. Because the Peacekeepers took Settler loyalty for granted. In the Dark Days, the Settlers were what kept District 10 from aiding the rebellion at all, depriving those long-dead rebels of necessary food and reinforcements. The Peacekeepers became entitled to Settler deference, Settler hospitality, Settler camaraderie. The Settlements were their place, their safe space, in contrast to the wilds of District 10.
Seventy-five years is a damn long time though. Seventy-five years of Games. Three broken Victors. Charlie and Veala Perez-Hooley, sent into the Quarter Quell together. Settler children bleeding out in front of the Cornucopia. Crude and vile stereotypes about the District's affinity for animal husbandry becoming a staple of late-night Capitol television and Games coverage. Farms confiscated and turned over to rich Capitol investors. Crackdowns. Disappearances.
Tributes, after tributes, after tributes.
And at some point, Settler loyalty became Settler playacting, and the Peacekeepers never noticed. And now, it deeply unnerves them. Because the Anasazi have disappeared into the red mountains, with their families and their horses and the weapons they've been stealing and stockpiling and maintaining for decades. Even the Ranchers are against them, that cream of District 10's little hierarchy, turning each ranch into a veritable death trap of snares and booby-traps.
The Peacekeepers have no way of knowing which Settlers remain loyal and which are hiding murder behind their polite little smiles. Head Peacekeeper Domitius Thread appeals to the Capitol. The order comes. District 10 is a complete loss. Retreat to the airfield and prepare to be airlifted back to District 2, where the rebels were preparing an assault on the Mountain Fortress.
But Domitius Thread is both cleverer than his younger brother in 12, and crueler. He knows he doesn't dare turn his back on the Settlers, leaving them to harass their retreat, especially when the Anasazi are still out there. Besides. Sedition must be punished. Examples must be made. The Capitol will always win.
The order goes out.
Every Settler is ordered to assemble in the square of their Settlement. They are allowed one bag each. One bottle of water. No food.
Families are herded out of their homes. Children scream. Spouses sob into each other's shoulders. The old and infirm stare into the horizon in a daze, leaving behind the only homes they've ever known. Those of reaping age, the window-breakers and fire-setters, clench their fists helplessly.
The Peacekeepers set the real fires. The Settlements go up in flames. Houses, shops, shacks, the genetic labs, all of it. Great clouds of smoke rise into the blue skies, black flags of misery that can be seen for leagues and leagues.
And then the Peacekeepers point their guns at the Settlers. "March," is the only order. "March."
The march lasts for two days. Out into the farthest reaches of the red deserts. Settlement joins settlement until the great exodus is thousands strong, straggling across stones and brush and sands. Those who collapse are left to die. Heatstroke and exhaustion claim another dozen every hour. No one is allowed to sleep.
They finally reach a great plain, almost in the shadows of the Red Mountain. The mayor is nearly dead of thirst, his feet torn and bleeding. Lips chapped and blistered.
"Let us go," he whispers to Domitius Thread. "Set us free."
Thread gestures to the expanse. "There. You're free. Go wherever you will, with the Capitol's blessing. This is what you fought for. It's yours."
He nods to his second in command. "Get the trucks ready."
The Settlers know what's happening. The Peacekeepers will drive away, in the trucks and jeeps they brought with them. The Settlers will be abandoned. No food. No water. It's a death sentence as certain as a bullet to the skull, without the waste of ammo.
Only a few cry. The Peacekeepers load their trucks. The engines fire up.
Domitius Thread squints into the distance.
A line of dust floats at the base of the Red Mountains. A thin brown line, growing larger and larger. Specks appear in the haze. A noise rises up, like a hundred roaring engines. A thousand thundering hooves. Ten thousand uplifted voices.
Thread's eyes widen. "Form up!" he screams. "Form up!"
But it's too late. The Anasazi have come.
They come on foot, they come on mules, they come on horses, they come in vehicles older than the Dark Days. They come with homemade slingshots and stolen firearms. They come in a ramshackle cavalry charge that whips the desert into the sandstorm.
At the center of the charge is a old, battered truck. On the roof of the cab stands the Victor, grey hair whipping in the wind, nightgown flapping against her bony legs, a pitchfork in one hand and a pistol in the other, shrieking a war cry that reaches the eagles in the sky.
"Shoot them down!" screams Domitius Thread.
As one, the Settlers rise up from the dirt.
From their packs and bags they pull out the weapons they smuggled along on the march. Meat cleavers, butcher knives, firearms that the Anasazi smuggled to them from the moment the Quell was announced. Every man, every woman, every child has something to fight with. And when Thread and his Peacekeepers see the glint of steel and hear the first gunshots ring out, they understand their last mistake.
Look weak, act pathetic, march into the desert like sniveling, cowardly fools. The tributes weren't the only ones who learned a thing or two from Johanna Mason.
The hammer of the Anasazi comes down on the anvil of the Settlers. The Peacekeepers are caught in the middle. It's not a battle so much as a brief massacre. Within four minutes, two hundred Peacekeepers lie dead on the ground and the District is free.
There's not so much a celebration as there is a collective sigh of relief. The Anasazi have brought food, medicine, and water. They treat the injured, tend to the sick. A song breaks out once or twice. Several prayers lift to the ancient goddess Maria. Bovina Martinez walks down the line, touching hands, holding children, kissing friends, weeping for the lost.
As the sun disappears behind the Red Mountains, the Settlers and Anasazi rise and begin the long trek home. Back to the ruined settlements, back to the bombed-out homes, back to the Mockinjay and her ruinous war.
Back home.
Together.