Chapter Three

Fern had no idea how long she had been locked in this bare room with only her thoughts for company. She sat on the floor, her hands manacled in front of her, thinking about the family she might never see again, reliving the moment Mayor Henshaw had called her name and she'd had to step forward and take her place in the First Hunger Games. Soon, she thought, the Peacekeepers would come to take her and Logger to the train station and from there they would be taken to the Capitol. And at least one of them would not be coming back alive. Not a very pleasent thought, but there was nothing to do in here except think and that was the thought which dominated her mind right now.

No doubt it dominated Logger's mind too, not that she had any way of knowing. She hadn't had chance to speak to him before they were locked in the holding cells in the basement of the Justice Building, and she had no way of communicating with him after. But from what she'd seen of him, it seemed he was going to give the Peacekeepers some trouble; she recalled how he'd had to be forced to uncross his arms so they could put the handcuffs on him. What were the handcuffs for anyway? To remind them that they were now prisoners of the Capitol, condemned to fight to the death as punishment for the actions of the rebels? No other explanation made sense. It wasn't like she could get out of a locked room and even if she could, it was unlikely she would get very far.

On the floor in front of her was a metal tray which had earlier been pushed through a slot in the wall to deliver the only meal she'd had since before the reaping. A hunk of bread, a bowl of soup and a glass of water. Sensing it would be a while before she was given any more food, she'd eked it out as far as possible, but it was now completely gone and no-one had come to bring her any more. Not that she minded going hungry; many people in the poorer districts faced periods with very little food, especially since the Capitol won the war and took control of food distribution again. During the war, Panem's food-producing districts (District 4 which was responsible for fish and other seafood, District 9 which grew the nation's grain, District 10 which raised livestock and District 11 which grew fruit and vegetables) had been in the hands of the rebels, who had tried to starve the Capitol into submission. Only it hadn't worked and the Capitol was now using the same tactic against the districts. Turning food, or the lack of it, into a means of controlling the population.

Which, Fern recalled, was one of the reasons the rebellion had happened in the first place; the people in the districts had had enough of those in the Capitol wanting for nothing while they struggled to put food on the table. So, spurred on by agitators in District 13, they'd started demanding that Panem's resources be distributed more equitably, but President Ravinstill's only response had been a clampdown on the food rioters, leading to . . .

Fern's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the door, which then banged open to reveal three Peacekeepers, two men and a woman. "On your feet!" the female Peacekeeper ordered in a tone which made it clear she was in charge of the trio and was not to be crossed. So Fern pulled herself up off the floor where she had been sitting for the last few hours and stood facing the Peacekeepers, though she did not look any of them in the eye. In her experience, looking Peacekeepers in the eye could, and did, land you in trouble. And that was the last thing she wanted right now; it was bad enough that she was about to be sent away to face almost certain death.

"Is it time to go?" she asked, not expecting an answer. However, she received one anyway.

"Yes." The female Peacekeeper again. "The train's at the station and it mustn't be kept waiting. So get moving!" As she said the last three words, she and her two comrades drew their guns and pointed them at the small of Fern's back, forcing her to walk forwards, out of the cell.

As soon as she stepped out into the corridor, Fern saw Logger being led out of the neighbouring cell, his face bruised from where one of the Peacekeepers had clouted him . . . Was that yesterday? It must be; another Peacekeeper had said the train would arrive "first thing in the morning" and if the train had now arrived, that meant she had been locked in the cell all night. So Teresa, Aspen and Ralph had just spent their first night without her. She wished she could have seen them one last time, but the Peacekeepers had made it all too clear that this would not be allowed, so all she could do was picture their faces, and Silvia's, in her mind and try to hold them there.

However, she did not have time to dwell on those she was leaving behind before the Peacekeepers marched her and Logger out of the basement and through the Justice Building, which they left by the back door. The two tributes were then loaded onto an army truck and driven to the station.

The train which stood at the platform had only two carriages, both padlocked shut, both windowless. A cargo train, Fern realised, not one designed for passengers. Clearly there had been a mistake; this couldn't be the train that was going to transport her and Logger to the Capitol. But she then noticed that one of the Peacekeepers was talking to the train's driver, who tossed him a set of keys. The Peacekeeper used these keys to undo the padlock on the rear carriage and rolled back the door to reveal two teenagers crouching on a floor strewn with hay. Their faces were in shadow, but Fern could see that they were a boy and a girl and that, like herself and Logger, they had their hands cuffed in front of them.

"Oi, you two!" the Peacekeeper who'd unlocked the carriage (or rather cattle waggon since that was what the carriages on this train were) called out. "You've got company!" He turned to his comrades. "Load 'em on," he instructed, nodding towards Fern and Logger who then found themselves being lifted up by the Peacekeepers and roughly shoved into the waggon. As they landed in the straw, the boy who was already in the waggon crawled forward and began to berate the Peacekeepers.

"Why are you treating us like animals?!" he demanded. "We've done nothing wrong!"

"Cabochon, hush!" his companion said, pulling him away. "Don't make it worse for us."

"How can it get any worse than it already is?!" the boy, whose name was clearly Cabochon, shot back. "We're already on our way to our deaths, Flicker!" He addressed the Peacekeepers once more. "This is supposed to be a punishment for the rebellion, right? Well, my family had nothing to do with it and neither did hers." He jerked his head in Flicker's direction. "Half of us in District 1 supported the Capitol!"

"Which means half of you didn't," one of the Peacekeepers said shortly. And, without saying another word, he slammed the door shut and padlocked it once again, leaving the four tributes trapped in the waggon.

Fern tried to make out her surroundings by the dim light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling. There were no seats of any kind, so all four of the waggon's reluctant occupants were either sitting on the straw-covered floor or standing up, the waggon being just tall enough to allow this. No food either, though there was a bucket which she guessed contained drinking water. Another bucket, which stood in the far corner, had a cover placed over the top and she could guess why. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought, but she didn't have long to dwell on it before the waggon lurched and started moving.

She was on her way to the Capitol.

"So where are the others?" Fern wondered out loud as she, Flicker, Cabochon and Logger sat on the floor of the waggon, feeling the train vibrating under them. She recalled being told that District 7 would be the eighth district to choose its tributes, after Districts 12, 8, 6, 11, 3, 9 and 1, in that order and that the tributes would be picked up by the train in the same order. Which meant there should now be sixteen tributes on the train, but there were only four in this waggon, so where were the other twelve?

Flicker, who was sitting next to Cabochon in contrast to Fern and Logger who were on opposite sides of the waggon, shrugged. "In the other waggon, I suppose, not that it makes much difference. After all, we didn't come here to make friends." Not that this had stopped her from sitting next to Cabochon, Fern noted, which suggested that they were probably friends already. This must really suck for them; to be forced into the Capitol's sadistic Games was bad enough, but to face the possibility of having to kill a friend . . .

At least she and Logger hadn't known each other back in District 7. And, she decided, she was not going to bother getting to know him beyond what she already knew and the same would apply to the rest of her fellow tributes; it would just make it harder to kill them later. Kill them. She had no wish to do that and she suspected the other tributes felt the same, but it was what she would have to do if she were to have any hope of seeing District 7 again.

District 7, the district said to contain more trees than people. The district where she had been born and brought up, and where her brother and sisters still were. She wondered what they were doing right now, how they were coping without her. Especially Aspen who was so prone to worrying. She must have struggled to fall asleep last night for thinking about what could happen to her oldest surviving sibling, the big sister who had taken care of her, and Teresa and Ralph, for the past three years. Had she sought comfort from Teresa the way she used to seek comfort from Fern?

Hours passed, not that the tributes had any way of measuring the passage of time since none of them was wearing a watch and there was no clock in the waggon. They sat in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, as the train rumbled on towards the Capitol.

Flicker recalled how she and Cabochon had discussed the reaping the night before it took place and concluded that they would have nothing to worry about the next day because both their families had supported the Capitol during the Dark Days. The Hunger Games were a punishment for the rebels, and they were not rebels. It was more likely that two kids from rebel families would be chosen, so it had come as quite a shock when Mayor Pershing stepped up to the microphone and announced: "The District 1 girl tribute is Flicker Willis." She remembered stepping up to the stage, convinced someone would say there had been a mistake and she wasn't supposed to be on the stage. But all that happened was that Mayor Pershing drew the name of District 1's male tribute, one Cabochon Doyle. The son of her mother's sister, which made him her cousin. His family had been just as much in favour of the Capitol as hers, but it hadn't made any difference; Flicker and Cabochon's names had still been drawn.

As for Cabochon, he had spent every moment since the reaping fuming at the unfairness of it all. Just because some of the people in District 1 had been stupid enough to support the rebels, everyone had been tarred with the same brush. And that meant all the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds in the district had ended up behind the ropes, regardless of which side their families had supported. It was bad enough that he and Flicker had been forced into this sadistic killing game, but they weren't even being treated like human beings, made to travel in this windowless waggon like the livestock from District 10. Those two kids who'd been put on the train in District 7 were probably used to hardship, but he'd been brought up to expect a certain level of comfort even during the Dark Days.

Fern thought of how her parents and Hickory had died fighting to free Panem from the tyranny of the Capitol. They'd fought bravely, as had many others in the districts, but it had all been in vain. The rebels had lost the war, District 13 had been obliterated and the remaining twelve districts forced to sign the treaty that had landed her in this waggon. The treaty which meant all but one of the kids on this train would never see their families again, condemned to death as punishment for the rebellion. Worse, President Ravinstill had said another batch of kids would suffer the same fate the following year, and another the year after that , and another . . . For a moment, she wondered if things would have been better if the rebellion hadn't happened. True they would still have had the oppressive laws that made sure the Capitol prospered at the expense of the districts, but at least the Hunger Games would never have been implemented. However, the rebellion had happened and the Capitol had won, so she and the other tributes were going to have to pay the price.

Logger remembered how his father had always taught him not to let himself be pushed around. His father, Elwood Hook, who had spat at a Peacekeeper while being dragged to the whipping post. He'd refused to let himself be taken without a fight and Logger had done the same when he'd tried to stop the Peacekeepers from cuffing him. "Why should I?" he'd demanded. Why should he co-operate with the Capitol? Of course, his small act of defiance over the matter of the cuffs had earned him a clout from a Peacekeeper, but at least he'd made his point. And he was going to do so again. Somehow, though he wasn't sure how yet, he was going to get through these sadistic Games without killing anyone.

As the train gradually slowed to a stop, the four tributes exchanged glances, all of them wondering the same thing. Which unlucky pair of kids would be joining them on this journey of doom?

"Where are we?" Fern wondered out loud, wishing she could see what was outside the waggon. Travelling in a windowless box was very disorientating; she had no way of knowing which direction the train had been headed, but it had finally stopped, so she and the others must be in another district. But which one? There were still four more stops before they reached the Capitol.

"District 4, I think," replied Cabochon, who was standing with his back resting against the wall of the waggon. At the same instant, the door was rolled back to reveal a platform on which two handcuffed teens stood with several Peacekeepers. The girl (whose name was Cowrie Seaforth) wore a dark blue dress, with a shell which had had a hole bored in it on a string around her neck, while her companion, Skipper Finn, wore a white t-shirt and beige trousers. Both had the tanned look typical of District 4, many of whose citizens spent long hours on fishing boats; indeed it was said that the inhabitants of 4 were taught the ways of the sea almost from the moment they were born. Much like how the people of District 7 learned about trees from a young age.

Cowrie and Skipper were looking at the interior of the waggon with shocked expressions on their faces, expressions Fern guessed must have been on the faces of herself and Logger when they first saw how they would be travelling to the Capitol. After several seconds of stunned silence from the District 4 tributes, Cowrie spoke.

"We have to go in there?"

"Yes," one of the Peacekeepers on the platform replied sourly. "Now, get a move on; we haven't got all day."

And with that Cowrie and Skipper from District 4 were lifted up and thrown into the waggon to join Flicker and Cabochon from District 1, and Fern and Logger from District 7. The door was closed again and the padlock replaced before the train continued on its way, now carrying eighteen tributes. Twelve in one waggon and six in the other. And those in the latter would be joined by six more young people who had been chosen at random to take part in the First Hunger Games.

Fern was dozing while leaning against the side of the waggon when she was woken by low voices conversing nearby. Pretending she was still asleep, she listened in on the discussion taking place between two of her fellow tributes.

"So you're saying you want us to work together?" Flicker's voice and it sounded as though she was responding to a suggestion made by whoever she was talking to.

"Yes," Cabochon replied. "There'll be more chance of one of us winning this thing if we team up. We didn't want to be here, but since we are we might as well prove our loyalty to the Capitol. And what better way than to take out a few rebels?"

"And what happens if we're the last two left?"

"I don't know. Maybe they'll let us both win since we're from the same district. And then they'll make it so that District 1 never has to take part in these Games again."

Fern continued to listen as Flicker and Cabochon discussed their plan to team up. It was a sound idea in theory, but would it work in practice? Especially in a situation like the Hunger Games where anyone could kill anyone else. Of course, none of the tributes had had their willingness to kill put to the test yet, but once they got to the arena it was only a question of time. As for Cabochon's suggestion that he and Flicker might both be allowed to win if it came down to the two of them, she had a feeling there was no way the Capitol would permit this. President Ravinstill had made it pretty clear that only one victor, and therefore only one survivor, would be allowed. Everyone else would die and, even if Flicker and Cabochon refused to fight each other in the final two, the Capitol would have one of them killed anyway.

In the other waggon, Anthea from District 9 was kneeling beside her brother and fellow tribute, Malt, pleading with him to stay with her. The rest of the tributes in this waggon (Fusey and Zack from 3, Caddie and Mercury from 6, Georgette and Heddle from 8, Nigella and Roots from 11, Morag and Shaft from 12) were watching the siblings, but Anthea paid them no heed. All her attention was focused on Malt, who had collapsed suddenly shortly after the train made its third stop since it picked up the tributes from 9 and now lay in the straw on the floor of the waggon.

"Please, Malt." Anthea's voice was choked with tears as she gripped his hand desperately. "You have to hold on."

Malt looked up at his sister, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. "N - not going to . . . make it . . . Sorry . . . Anthea. I was never gonna . . . win this thing . . . anyway."

"Don't talk like that!" Anthea tightened her grip on Malt's hand, willing him not to die even though she knew it was futile. He'd collapsed like this before, but he'd always pulled through, though he had never completely recovered. His heart, they said. Something was wrong with his heart and it was unlikely he would make it to adulthood; it was a miracle he'd even reached double digits. So far, he'd defied the odds, but the fear that one day he might collapse and not come through it had always lingered at the back of her mind and the minds of their parents. Sooner or later, his heart would fail and there would be nothing that could save him. Had he been born in the Capitol, surgery might have been an option, even transplantation, but he hadn't been born in the Capitol; he'd been born in District 9 which didn't have the resources to fix a congenital heart defect.

Now his heart had finally given out. Anthea knew it was only a question of time, but she still willed him to hang on so she wouldn't have to face the Games without him. He was right; he probably wouldn't win even if he did make it into the arena, but she'd wanted him in there with her, if only for a short time. They might be faced with twenty-two potential killers, but at least they would have had each other. And maybe she would have found a way to get him out alive, even though it meant sacrificing herself in the process.

"It's . . . true," Malt gasped out. "You . . ." That was as far as he got before his chest heaved one last time and he went still. Anthea let go of his hand and looked at him, small and vulnerable, lying on the floor of a cattle waggon heading for the Capitol. Then, tears streaming down her face, she reached out with her manacled hands and closed his eyelids.

The Hunger Games had claimed their first victim and the tributes hadn't even reached the Capitol.