Always Home - Chapter 4/15
Characters: Luke’s POV (age 14), Reid (age 17), Little bit of: Casey (16), Lily, Holden, Faith, Natalie, Ethan and other Oakdale characters
Pairings: Luke/Casey, Luke/Reid
Rating: R for violence and language
WARNING: People will die in this, that’s the basis of the story. I’m not saying who dies though, but if you’ve read the book you know how it works.
Synopsis: After a terrible civil war North America is in ruins and is split up into 15 Districts. The country is called Oakdale, it is a totalitarian regime. Every year to mark the anniversary of The Republic crushing the civil war, they celebrate The Reaping where one member of each District must participate in a battle to the death, with one soul survivor.
Thank you: to my wonderful beta, Slayerkitty who has been helping me out this past month because apparently I don’t know grammar, lol! She has been, and continues to be, a big help so thank you very much!
Play list (so far)
Chapter 1: The Boxer
Chapter 2: Dare You To Move
Chapter 3: If I Die Young
Chapter 4: The World I Know
I open my eyes to see I’m once again in my compartment, the train still rattling against the tracks. I close my eyes tight and open them again, hoping this time to see my bedroom back home, to hear my siblings snoring beside me. The room remains the same, rocking back and forth as the train speeds towards my death. I can feel my whole body sink as my insides are pulled down to the pit of my stomach. Reality has paralyzed my nerves and I am immobilized by my fear. Images of my siblings growing up and starting their own families that I’ll never meet flash before my eyes. The birthdays I’ll miss, the winter holidays that I’ll never see. I miss the smell of pine already. The trees in the orchard were going to start blooming soon. My favorite part of the year is when the earth comes alive with blossoms in pale reds and yellows. Maybe that’s what we all are, filled with an incredible drive to live, a surge of rebirth right before the end.
My body rushes in an excited heat that prickles the back of my neck. The fleeting thought of winning, of bringing back the title of Champion and returning to my family victorious, rushes up my spine. We would no longer starve or freeze. Winners get to live in the Champions Commons with a brand new home and as much food as they can eat.
The smile has yet to spread to the tips of my lips before the idea has vanished. I’m not going to win. I won’t see them again.
I roll over to my side, clutching the comforter to my body like a child. I’m close to sucking on my thumb for the comfort. I pull my legs up to my chest as my body shakes with tears. I bury my face into the pillow and let it absorb my sorrow. I miss my family. I want to go home. I feel like a child during their first sleepover, when the reality sets in that they aren’t going to be going home that night and they fear they’ll never go back again. The empty pit of my stomach tightens and I sob openly.
“I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to die.”
My chest burns, my heart straining to beat. I force myself to take slow deep breaths. “You have to calm down, Luke. You can’t fall apart. The kids will be watching. You don’t want them to worry.” I take one last deep breath before uncurling myself and sit up in bed.
I tiptoe across the room to the dressing table and look at myself in the mirror. My skin has regained some color but there are still dark circles under my eyes and my cheeks are clammy from crying. I pull a tissue from the box on the table and wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I take another deep breath and try to compose myself, glad there are no cameras yet watching me to witness my meltdown.
I’m jolted forward suddenly; lotion bottles fall off the dressing table as the train squeals to a halt. The door to my room slides open and Craig Montgomery peeks his ugly face in.
“Get dressed, boy,” He growls and then walks away.
I open up the bureau to find a pair of jeans and a simple black long sleeved shirt with a blue number 8 on the chest. I put the clothes on and am surprised by their perfect fit. I don’t think I’ve ever worn clothes that have fit me correctly.
I pull the sweater down over my belt and check myself out in the mirror, turning side to side, grinning at how good the well-fitting clothes make my body look.
“At least you’ll look good for your death, Snyder,” I laugh to myself, hearing Casey’s voice in my head.
“Let’s go kid.” I turn around quickly to see that Craig Montgomery has once again appeared. I follow him down the train cars to the front, my heart hammering faster with every step.
The train door slides open, musty air fills my lungs, carrying the undistinguishable cries from a sea of flamboyantly dressed people who surround the train. Some have their hair dyed bright pink, orange, and blue, like the changing of a sunset. Elaborate hats don their heads decorated with wild feathers and sparkling sequins. Their faces are painted, heavy like masks. They blend together as one screaming nightmare.
Craig pushes me forward. My feet stumble over each other as hands claw at my arms and face. I can no longer hear their screams; I have been deafened. I reach the street where Craig pushes me into a strange looking carriage. It has warm leather seats inside and strange buckles. The carriage jolts and sputters before moving down the road, pulled by invisible horses.
I stare out the window as we pass building after building with white walls of marble that tower over me, blocking out the sun as we pass in their shadow. The buildings must be as tall as a hundred of our own cottages stacked on top of one another. As we continue on, twisting through the maze of tall buildings, elegant, manicured gardens of flowers and cement creatures that spout water, spread out in courtyards between the buildings. Children wearing bright clothes, reminiscent of Mayor Coleman, dance in the flowers, carefree and laughing. Children my age. The Reaping age. Children who will only ever see the arena on TV.
We turn a corner and I now see a large lake, pristinely blue, with the sunlight sparkling on its calm surface. The lake is encircled by a walk way and in the middle is an island where a gigantic marble statue of President Hughes is erected. I’ve seen the statue before, on the TV whenever The Republic issues a statement. They use the picture of the statue as an opening, letting us know an important announcement from The Republic is about to be broadcast.
We turn again and the statue drifts away in the back window. Everything in The Republic seems to look the same, tall buildings, beautiful gardens, and happy colorful people.
The Republic is polished, sleek and sterile.
The carriage stops outside a round short building that doesn’t seem to have a roof. Craig pushes me out the door and I follow him into a tunnel made of stone.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To meet your fans.”
As the light from the tunnel’s exit grows, the walls being to vibrate. A muffled roar begins to amplify around me. I feel trapped, in a cave with no exit except one that leads to the mouth of a wild animal.
I emerge from the tunnel and find myself in the middle of a gigantic stadium. Circling me are thousands of Republic citizens. They wave signs and banners depicting the name or likeness of their favorite Offering. Some even have signs for whom they want to see die. Colored lights swing around the stadium like a rainbow. Large screens project my bewildered face to the wild crowd.
“Luke Snyder of District 8!” A deep baritone voice booms over the never-ending thunder of the crowd.
“Wave.” Craig whispers in my ear.
I look up at him, my brows stitched in confusion. Wave? Why would I wave to these people who only want to see me die? They look as if they’ve gone mad, mouths open wide, screaming into the air already full of other’s unintelligible words.
Craig leads me around the arena. We make one quick lap, my eyes shutting after awhile, too dizzy to focus. I let Craig’s hand on my arm guide me. When he stops I open my eyes and notice that we’re at the other end of the arena now. Through the tunnel I had moments ago emerged from another Offering enters the arena and the crowd’s attention turns towards him.
“Reid Oliver of District 9!” The same voice announces.
I watch Reid Oliver walk into the stadium, his face, annoyed instead of bewildered, projects on the screens. His eyes still command attention like they did on the TV on the train. Suddenly I feel rough hands come around my arms. I turn my focus from Reid Oliver’s eyes to the two police officers that grip my arms, shoving me down another tunnel. We walk a few feet before they stop at a steel door built into the stone wall. Without a word they open the door with a long rusty key and push me into a holding cell.
I step onto the bare concrete floor of the small dimly lit room. The steel door slams behind me and I hear Craig and the policeman’s footsteps clicking against the stone, continuing down the tunnel. I am alone. Even the ruckus of the wild crowd above does not penetrate the walls.
I take a deep breath and turn from the door, taking in my surroundings. The walls are covered in grey tiles, the grout between them moldy and cracking. Square lights that hang from the ceiling tick and twinkle above me, sending shadows dancing in the corners of the drab room. There is a steel framed bed with a worn dirty mattress and rough looking wool blanket folded at the foot. Near the wall to my right is a glass tube, called a Pod, which will lift me up into the arena early tomorrow morning. On the opposite wall is a small cracked sink, water eerily dripping from the spigot, and beside the sink, a toilet which looks more like a hole they dug in the ground and covered with a splinter inducing seat. Otherwise, the room is bare and bleak. The appearance of this room contrasts jarringly with the opulence of the train car. The conditions here are worse than my district.
I sit on the cot and it squeaks and groans with my weight. The dripping of the sink plants the seed of a headache at the front of my brain. Each drap drap spreads the throbbing sensation a little further until my whole brain is humming in pain. I reach up to scratch my head, as if to tear the headache out.
Between drips of the faucet, the walls echo with the pitter pat of my feet nervously tapping against the cement floor. The bare tile walls heighten each sound I make from each subtle movement. I’m boxed in, like a casket, already in my grave. Dead beneath the roaring crowd.
I stare out into the drab molding room numbly. No, more like waiting. Waiting for my family to bust through the door laughing. Exclaiming, “Just kidding!” and bring me home. Saying my whole journey since my name was called was one big practical joke. Or better yet, the world we live in is a joke and they’re taking me somewhere we can be free.
I snort and it echoes off the bare walls as well, making me feel like someone else is in the room with me. Except for last night on the train I’ve never slept in a room alone before. Back home all five of us sleep in the same bedroom. My brother, sisters and I share the same bed. Their feet always kicked me, or their breath tickled my neck, their little hands reach up and claw at my arms trying to hold on to something when they have a bad dream. I used to get annoyed at the inconvenience, never slept a peaceful night. Now in the emptiness of my holding cell, I yearn for another human being to cling on to.
________________________________
I am startled awake by a clanging at the door. I watch as a smaller door cut out from the bottom of the steel opens and a tray of food is slid inside my room. The smaller door then clatters closed again and someone on the other side locks it.
I get up groggily, my muscles sore and tight from the uncomfortable mattress and springs I was forced to sleep on all night. I bend down to rub my calves as I make my way to the tray and pick it up.
The tray has different compartments in it and each is filled with a different food. There’s a glass of milk, a biscuit that gleams with butter, steaming eggs, greasy sausage links, and a few pieces of sliced fruit.
I sit back down on my cot and eat the food slowly, savoring each bite, reminding myself to enjoy, this will be the last good meal I’ll eat. I clean my plate and lick it for good measure, making sure each crumb has been consumed. I’ll need a full stomach and all my strength today if I have any chance to out run the stronger players.
The door creeks again, opening slowly. I stand up, my heart beginning to race. Is this it? Has the time already come?
Craig steps into the room, his arms full of clothing for me. Each Offering wears their District’s colors on regulation uniforms so that no one has an advantage; we all start out with the exact same things.
“I see you ate, good. Get dressed.” Craig barks, handing over the pile of clothes.
“Could you maybe, turn around?” I ask, flushing.
Craig rolls his eyes, but turns his back anyway. I slip out of my old clothes from the train and leave them in a pile on the cement floor. I smile to myself, a little bit of rebellion, my mother not here to berate me for not folding them and putting them away.
I pull on the crisp white T-shirt that will soon be caked in mud and possibly drenched in my own blood. A large 8 is printed in blue on the front and back of the T-shirt. I pull on the jean pants issued to me, I marvel once again at how well my clothes fit. I slide my hands into the pockets and find that they are deceptively deep. A black leather belt is looped through the waist. It has the ability to carry supplies, to keep your hands free for fighting or hunting. I slip on the blue and white sneakers, lacing them up tightly. A thin blue and black jacket made out of strange swishy material is the last piece of regulation clothing. I pull it on, and zip it up half-way. There is a large blue 8 on the back of the jacket and two smaller eights on each sleeve.
“Are you ready, Luke?” Craig asks and turns back around to look at me.
“To die? No. I must admit the thought that I could be dead in a little over a minute isn’t filling me with confidence.”
“I know. I wish there was something I could do, but as a mentor I’m not much help.”
“Sixty seconds left,” a voice announces, seemingly from nowhere. I swallow the lump that threatens to choke me. My heart tries to burst from my chest. One minute until the end.
“Good luck, Luke,” Craig says placing a hand on my shoulder. This is the first time I’ve ever seen or heard any genuine compassion from Craig Montgomery.
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’ll need it.”
“Look, I wish I could tell you how I won and then you could do the same exact thing and come back home, but it doesn’t work like that. Believe me, in years past I’ve tried. All I can tell you to do is to get the hell out of there the second the tube drops. Run, hide, wait them out, and hopefully you won’t starve or catch a disease.”
I smile fondly, remembering the words Casey spoke to me only yesterday; it feels like years ago. “That’s what my friend told me to do.”
“Smart friend.” Craig lets his hand fall from my shoulder. “I wish I could tell you that you’ll make it back, but you and I both know that’s probably a lie. I wish you well though, Luke.”
“Thank you. You know, you’re not as cold and cruel as you lead everyone to think you are,” I say. “If I come back from this, after witnessing everything that goes on in the arena, I can see myself ending up like you.”
“No, you Luke Snyder, you’ll never end up like me.”
A smile hitches on my face. “No, I guess not.”
“You’re too good for them.”
I laugh fondly. “Casey said that too.”
“I must find this kid, sounds like a smart one.”
“He is, in his own way,” I giggle.
“Thirty seconds left,” the woman’s voice says monotone, impassive.
“Be careful, be smart.” Craig adds as I walk towards the Pod.
“I will. Tell my parents not to worry, and that I love them,” I choke the last words over the lump that is growing in my throat.
Craig nods, watching as I step into the Pod, the door slides shut right before he says, “We’ll be watching you.” Then silence envelopes me.
The floor of the tube raises and I am lifted into darkness, rising through the ground. Suddenly my eyes are filled with white, until they adjust to the blazing sun. I am standing in a field of short vibrant green grass. The center square looms in front of me packed high with supplies and weapons. I cannot turn to look around me for the Pod is narrow and tight. Each Offering stands in a Pod equidistance apart from the Center Square. Until the whistle blows, sounding the beginning of The Reaping, the glass tube keeps you in place. Once the whistle blows it will fall away from each contestant at the same time and rate so no one gets a head start.
I look around me at my surroundings. Beyond the field I stand in now I see woods to the North and East. Far in the North I see the top of a peak. What it is, I am not sure. It is much sharper and taller than our tulip-stained hill. To the West there is a body of water and from the flat land I stand on I cannot see beyond it.
I blink my eyes forcibly; they are dry from the stuffy air in the tube. I can feel the audience’s anticipation around me, though I cannot see them. I feel their eyes on me even though the cameras are hidden. I look at the Offerings that stand to each side of me. One looks as sick as I feel, her face peaked and salty from sweat, her eyes half glazed with fear. The boy to my other side is built like an ox. His shoulders seem to be as long as my entire body. He looks like the boy from the coalmines with jet-black hair and squinting eyes, which are now pinned to the top of the heap in the middle of the Center Square. I am sure that he will be taking a claim to all the supplies and will probably succeed in capturing it for his own. The rest of the Offerings are only white statues from where I stand. I can read a few of the other brightly colored numbers, but the farther away they are the numbers begin to blur. There are three Offerings that I cannot see for the pile in the Center Square blocks them from my sight. I wonder if they are scared like me or fierce like the boy to my left.
Inside the Center Square food, supplies, weapons, medicine - anything that might give someone an advantage in the game is piled high. This is not the only place you can find food, water, and shelter - depending on what the area looks like, but for those Offerings who are from Districts that don’t offer the ability to learn about plants, hunting, climbing, and constructing, the Center Square is their one hope of survival. It’s also a great way for the Republic to kick off the games. Many contestants will run to the Center Square picking up as much as they can, and battling each other for the best weapons. For most games, during the first few minutes bloodshed and carnage are greatest. One year half the contestants died in the first five minutes fighting over supplies in the Center Square.
I remember the promise I made to Casey, which feels like years ago but was only yesterday. “I promise,” I whisper out loud, wondering if there is a camera inside my tube and he can hear me. “I won’t go for the Center Square.”
If only I could get my hand on a knife or an ax, I would at least have a weapon I know how to use. I look around me again at the deep forest that spreads out far to the North and East. Amongst the trees I will be able to build traps, tie snares, climb trees, pick non-poisonous fruits; skills most of the other Offerings will not have. Of course, I got lucky; some years the arena is a set of islands surrounded by ferocious waves. A few contestants had never seen what they call an ocean before, just like how some of the Districts have never seen what we call trees. There are usually trees in the arena, because the majority of Districts have seen trees, which makes it a level playing field for the most contestants; whereas only a few Districts know what bodies of water are and how to use it. Swimming is one trick that people in my District have no possibility of being able to practice. The Offering from my District, during the year where the playing field was only small islands, drowned before he made it to the Center Square. Another year, when The Republic was feeling particularly blood thirsty, the arena was nothing more than desert mounds with few shrubs, and one body of water. The camera angles they were able to achieve gave the most gruesome accounts of each Offering’s slaughter.
Now I stand in my Pod, staring directly at the Center Square twenty feet away. I can see the glint off of a short knife at the nearest corner of the Center Square. Beside it lay a backpack bulging with supplies. If I run fast enough, skirt the corner, grab the knife and swing the backpack on, I could grab them both before anyone else decides to fight me for it. I’d be in and out of the Center Square before anyone else could have a weapon in their hand. They’ll all be fighting in the middle of the Center Square anyway, where the better tools and supplies are. Swords, spears, bow and arrows, traps, meat, water, medicine, shelter are all piled high in the middle taunting each Offering to try their luck. One could get sick on the awesome power they would have if they could control the area. Many try and few succeed. The ones who live to see another day are like me; they grab and go. Pick up the nearest tool and run as fast as you can into the cover of the woods. What obstacles I’ll find in there, I don’t know, but it’s better than certain death if I fight in the Center Square.
“Ten seconds.”
My thoughts of strategy are interrupted by Lucinda Walsh’s voice cackling through a speaker placed in the tube. “Ladies and Gentleman!” she greets the crowds of people, invisible to me, who sit in the stadium and look through the arena barrier at us, and also those watching at home. I can picture my mother, father, Faith, Natalie, Ethan, and Casey huddled together in front of the small TV screen watching me. I press a smile on my face, urging my eyes to soften and sparkle sweetly, as they remember me. “Welcome to the seventieth annual Reaping!” She pauses for what I must assume is a large roar of excitement from the live audience. I can feel their thirst for blood roll down my back. “We have re-viewed all the contestants and I am positive that we are going to have a wonderfully exciting year!” Even in my glass tube I can feel the invisible barriers between us and the live crowd rumble with cheers. Amazingly, as the time towards the whistle and the start of The Reaping draws near, my body calms. There is nothing left I can do. I am stuck here until another glass tube sucks me back up after my death - or I win and the invisible barriers drop away revealing the hysterical crowds.
“And now let The Reaping begin!”