Chapter Twenty

As the train passed through vast fields of wild flowers, Dyson found himself comparing what he saw through the train's window with what he had seen on his approach to District 12. Unlike in the coal mining district and its surrounding area, there was no snow on the ground; in fact, the weather was sunny and warm, even though it was January. Then again, a consistently warm climate was essential in order to keep crops growing all year round and growing crops was District 11's principle industry.

District 11. From what Dyson recalled, it was located in the part of Panem that had been known as the Deep South back when this was still North America. An appropriate name since only neighbouring District 10 extended further south, into what had once been Mexico. Most of Panem lay in the former United States, which had also been ruled by a president, except their president had been replaced every few years, whereas many people in Panem had never known life under any president other than Snow. However, information on the nation's history before Panem arose from the ruins of the old world was scarce and most of that which did exist was tightly controlled by the Capitol, especially since the Dark Days. As for the world beyond Panem's borders, no-one knew what it was like or even how much of it had survived the ecological disasters which had destroyed the old world.

A fence suddenly loomed on the horizon. Ten metres high and topped with coils of barbed wire, it seemed much more menacing than the fences which bordered Districts 5 and 12. Those were much smaller and there was no barbed wire; nor were there any watchtowers with armed guards of the sort Dyson could see positioned along District 11's fence at regular intervals. This fence, however, gave the impression that District 11 was one huge prison, its citizens confined within its boundaries and only able to leave with the Capitol's permission. Of course, the same was true of all the districts, but Dyson had not known until now that some districts were governed more strictly than others. And District 11 was the most strictly governed of all.

The train continued on its way, passing vast fields of fruit and vegetables. One field contained rows of tomato plants, another was used for growing beans, a third was lined with lettuces . . . and so on. A sizeable number of people, some of them children, were tending the crops, among them the muscular boy Dyson had glimpsed shaking hands with Husk at the reaping. Dressed in a pair of faded overalls with no shirt underneath, he was lugging a basket filled with potatoes with no help from any of his fellow field hands. Again, Dyson thought he could be one to watch if he ever got reaped. His strength could make him useful as a potential ally, but it could also make him dangerous if he made it to the latter stages.


After travelling past several groups of shacks, most of which were in an even worse state of repair than the houses in District 12, the train pulled into the station. Dyson, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and beige trousers, and his entourage climbed out onto the platform to be greeted by another squad of Peacekeepers, who escorted them to the waiting cars and drove them straight to District 11's Justice Building, a crumbling structure which smelled of mildew and rot; it was obvious that the place had been neglected for years, decades even, but Dyson was given no time to look at the decor, such as it was, before he was escorted to the front doors.

The doors opened and Dyson emerged onto a shaded verandah to the applause of the assembled crowd. He made his way down a flight of marble stairs until he reached the stage, from which he was able to look out over District 11's main square. Like the one in District 12, this square was lined with stores, only most of them were boarded up and abandoned, giving the impression that the place had been left to fall into decay. Even the banners which had been hung on the buildings in celebration of the Victory Tour did little to hide their derelict appearance.

There followed a repeat of the ceremony which had taken place in 12. The mayor's speech. One of the local children, a boy of around eight years old who had the dark skin typical of District 11, presenting Dyson with flowers. Dyson giving the scripted thank you provided by the Capitol. This time, Dyson tried to avoid looking at the kids assembled before him, especially those on the platform for the families of the dead tributes. Mallow's four younger siblings, two brothers and two sisters, who seemed be the only family she had since there was no sign of anyone who might be their parents or guardians. Husk's teenaged sister, who stared rigidly ahead as she sat between her parents.

He was here because neither Mallow nor Husk had survived the arena. And yet the Capitol expected him to thank their still grieving families for their sacrifice as if the two tributes had given their lives for a worthy cause. The only thing Mallow and Husk had given their lives for was the Capitol's continued oppression of the districts, forcing them to participate in their sadistic Games. Dyson tried to sound as if he meant every word of the speech he was required to give, but he knew he didn't and he suspected a lot of the people in the crowd knew it as well.

If only he could say what he really thought of the Capitol. But he dared not speak out, knowing the Capitol would make an example of him if he openly defied them, especially now that he was a victor. Not by punishing him directly - the last thing the Capitol wanted was for any of the victors to become martyrs around whom any potential rebels might rally - but by targetting his loved ones. Before he'd left District 5, Piper, whom he hadn't spoken to since the Games, had called on him and told him what had happened during her Victory Tour more than forty years earlier. While in District 12, she'd impulsively shouted that Caligula Price, the president of the day, was "a butcher" and had "blood on his hands." She'd spoken out in other districts as well, ignoring Aurora when she warned her not to, returning at the end of her Tour to find her parents and brother, Andre, strung up at the entrance to 5's Victors' Village. A sign had been hung round eleven-year-old Andre's neck, bearing the words:

Piper Hale has blood on her hands.

The message couldn't have been clearer. Piper was not only responsible for the deaths of the tributes she'd killed in the Games, but the deaths of her family as well. She'd spoken out against Price, so her parents and brother had been murdered as an act of retaliation and as a reminder to others, especially other victors, that the Capitol would tolerate no dissent. They weren't prepared to kill victors, but they were prepared to kill the loved ones of victors who caused trouble. It had been Coriolanus Snow who'd suggested the idea back when he was a young Gamemaker, and Piper's parents and brother were only one of the families who had fallen victim to it.

Five years later, Piper mentored Rik to victory in the Forty-second Hunger Games. He had no family and had been raised in District 5's Community Home for children who had no-one to look after them, but she'd warned him not to speak out on his Victory Tour all the same. Even though he didn't have blood relations, he had friends she feared might pay the price if he did anything foolish. And, since she knew how close Dyson was to his family, and to Paula Saxon, she'd given him the same warning she'd given Rik.

Fortunately, the time soon came for Dyson to receive his victor's plaque, which the mayor handed to him. Some mandatory applause followed, during which Dyson focused his gaze on one of the boarded-up stores, before the ceremony ended. Much to Dyson's relief.


"Dyson, meet Yield, Seeder and Chaff."

Dyson and his entourage were back in District 11's Justice Building, where the Victor's Dinner was about to take place. Before that, though, Janus was introducing Dyson (who had changed into a light green dress shirt and black trousers) to the victors from 11, who stood in a row as Dyson stepped forward and shook hands with each of them in turn. First Yield, an elderly man in his early eighties with snow white hair which contrasted with his dark skin, whose grip on Dyson's right hand had a strength which belied his physical frailty. He'd been the victor of the Fourth Hunger Games and was the second oldest of all the living victors; only Tammy from District 10 was older and only by a month.

Seeder, a woman in her fifties, was next in line. Her skin was somewhat lighter in tone than that of most people in District 11, but she had the characteristic black hair. There was something motherly about her as she smiled at Dyson, but the pain in her eyes was clear to see, prompting Dyson to tell her that he was "sorry about her tribute." Though "sorry" hardly began to cover how he felt right now, facing Mallow's mentor, knowing the only reason he was shaking hands with her was because the girl she'd prepared for the Games was dead. Dead. The word echoed in Dyson's mind. Dead, while he was alive. As were twenty-two other kids.

"It's OK," Seeder said. "It's not like you were the one who killed her."

"I know that - it's just that I'm alive when she's . . . not."

Seeder looked at Dyson seriously. "Listen," she said. "You survived the arena, even though it cost the lives of all your fellow tributes. It's a terrible thing the Capitol did to you, to all the victors, but it's done now. You just have to find a way to learn to live with it, preferably without going down the same path as your mentor." She nodded towards Rik, who was standing nearby, the ever-present hip flask in his hand. "There are enough victors addicted to drugs and alcohol as it is. We don't need any more."

"How do you live with it?" Dyson asked, thinking to himself that he would never be able to do so. For as long as he lived, the memory of the arena and those who had died in it would continue to haunt him. Not to mention that he would have to do his share of mentoring District 5's male tributes in future Games. Most of those boys would not get out of the arena alive, meaning he would have their deaths on his conscience as well. Over the last few months, he had come to appreciate why so many of his fellow victors had turned to various substances in a bid to blot out the memory of what they had seen and done in the arena. Zeta had told him she didn't want him turning into another Rik, but he couldn't see any alternative.

"I try not to think about it," Seeder replied. "And to do that, I give myself things to do. Such as tending my garden." Shortly after she'd returned to District 11 after winning the Thirty-third Hunger Games, she'd used some of her prize money to purchase an assortment of flowers which she'd planted outside her house in 11's Victors' Village. More than thirty years later, her garden was still thriving and, when she wasn't away mentoring in the Games, she could often be found tending her blooms. Her plants were like her children, the children she, like many other victors, had not dared to risk having for fear of them ending up in the Games.

Seeder looked like she was about to say more. Before she could do so, however, Chaff suddenly flung his arm around her, planting a kiss right on her lips. "Cut it out, Chaff!" she protested, pushing him off her. "Sorry about that," she added as Dyson stared at the two District 11 victors. "He's like that with all the female victors, tries it on with them every chance he gets."

"Just being friendly," Chaff muttered. But he stepped away from Seeder all the same and walked over to join Rik. Within moments, the two men were passing Rik's hip flask back and forth, becoming increasingly drunk as they gulped down the contents. By the time the announcement that dinner was served came, Chaff was passed out on a nearby couch and Rik was drunkenly singing a song about raindrops falling on his head.

Seeder shook her head at the sight of them, then walked over to the woman who had made the announcement, sighing as she did so. "Marigold," she said, "will you tell Mayor Belling that Chaff and Rik will not be joining us at dinner?"


The District 11 Victor's Dinner, while not as extravagant as the fare served in the Capitol, still consisted of more food than most of the district's citizens had access to. Which, Dyson thought, was rather ironic considering District 11 produced so much of Panem's food; surely some of the crops he had seen growing in the fields could be spared to feed the local population. But no, everything went straight to the Capitol, Seeder had told him, with the exception of the vegetables prepared for the Victor's Dinner. Those were always the pick of the crops grown locally, a piece of Capitol propaganda to give the victor and their entourage the impression that 11 was a place of plenty. Which it was - for the Capitol. For those who actually lived there, however . . .

"Does anyone ever try to eat the crops?" Dyson asked before he could stop himself. He knew he shouldn't pry into another district's affairs, but it was hard for him to imagine what it must be like being surrounded by agricultural produce and not be allowed to so much as taste any of it.

"Yes, but the punishment is a public whipping," Mayor Belling, a paunchy middle-aged man who looked like someone you crossed at your peril, replied. "No exceptions. We don't allow anyone to steal from the Capitol and get away with it. Repeat offenders get shot," he added casually, speaking through a mouthful of food. "That way, we know they'll never steal again."

Dyson paused with his fork half-way to his mouth, unable to believe what he was hearing. He'd known from the moment he saw the fence with its barbed wire and watchtowers that District 11 was more strictly policed than Districts 5 and 12, but he'd never imagined that it was so strictly policed that you could get whipped, or even killed, just for wanting to eat. Of course, nowhere in Panem was free from the Capitol's oppression, but it sounded as though the people in 11 had it especially tough. It was no wonder so many of their kids signed up for tesserae if the only other alternative to starving to death was stealing crops and risking the harsh punishments Mayor Belling had described.

"Dyson?" Seeder's voice cut through his train of thought. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm OK," Dyson replied, a little too quickly. "I was just listening to what your mayor was saying." And, to prove that he was indeed "OK", he moved his fork to his mouth and continued eating. But every mouthful seemed to taste like sawdust; he couldn't enjoy the meal he'd been served when he knew the people who'd helped provide it were not allowed to enjoy their district's bounty.


The next morning, the Tour continued with Dyson and his entourage boarding the train and making their way to District 10, a large district dominated by livestock farms. Huge herds of cattle. Flocks of sheep. Pigs wallowing in the mud. Chickens scratching in the dirt. Dyson, who had never seen so many animals in one place before, tried to keep count of the numbers, but quickly had to admit defeat. The whole district seemed to be nothing but animals everywhere he looked, the only signs of human habitation being the occasional farm house and outbuildings.

Presently, the train pulled into District 10's station. Dyson, having changed into navy blue jeans and a red-and-white checked shirt, climbed out onto the platform where, as had been the case in the first two districts he'd visited, a squad of Peacekeepers waited to greet him and his party. A short journey by car ended at the rear entrance to the Justice Building, where Dyson went through a repetition of the ritual he had already been through in 12 and 11.

Walking through the Justice Building to emerge through the doors which led to District 10's main square. Listening to the mayor's speech. Being presented with flowers by one of the local children. Thanking the people of 10 for "offering up" Tallulah and Randall. Dyson had hated the words the Capitol had given him from the moment he first uttered them in District 12, but he had no choice but to say them; they were part of the victory ceremonies held in each district and had been ever since the first Victory Tour had taken place nearly sixty years earlier. Being presented with his victor's plaque. The people of District 10 applauding even though he could tell they would rather not.

Especially the families of the dead tributes who, as had been the case at the first two ceremonies, sat on a platform immediately below the stage. On Tallulah's side there was a couple in their mid thirties and a small boy; the latter had to be Walter, the brother Tallulah had mentioned at her pre-Games interview. She'd promised that she would "see him soon", but she had been unable to keep that promise, thanks to the tributes from District 1. They may not have killed her directly, but they had been chasing her when she fell off that cliff.

As for Randall's family, who consisted of his mother and two younger sisters, Dyson had caught a glimpse of their expressions when he first emerged onto the stage - and to say they weren't happy to see him would be the understatement of the century. In fact, they were glaring at him as though he was the one who'd killed Randall when the real killer had been . . .

. . . Astra, his district partner. He hadn't thought about her for months, but seeing the family of the boy she'd killed brought it all back. Randall attacking him from behind, attempting to strangle him with a length of rope. Feeling something warm and wet spray against the back of his neck. Randall falling on top of him as the cannon fired. Crawling out from under the body to find that Astra had knifed the District 10 boy in the back of the neck. The boy who, with Tallulah already dead by that point, had been his district's last hope of victory in the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games and a tribute from District 5 had taken that hope away.

No wonder Randall's family weren't pleased to see him. They must think he was somehow responsible for what had happened to Randall because he and Astra were . . . had been from the same district. Guilt by association.

It felt as though the ceremony was never going to end, that he was going to have to stand on the stage and face the accusing eyes of Randall's family for the rest of his life. But it was only a matter of moments before the mayor of District 10 declared that particular part of Dyson's visit to the livestock district over. Dyson quickly retreated into the Justice Building, thinking to himself that he was going to have to go through nine more of these victory ceremonies before the Tour was over.

Nine more ceremonies at which he would have to face the families of those who had died while he had survived. How was he going to get through that?