Chapter Text
When the men take me to the devil’s tree
I will be free and shining like before
Papa, don’t tell me what I should’ve done
She’s the one, she’s the one who begged me
Take me, take me home
Night time’s when the jackals come.
They swarm the edges of district 9 like hungry flies, pupils retracting and contracting as they take in the world around them. They’re both animals and sentinels, alive and immortal and dead, and I hear their eyelids clicking as I walk out the front door, saving the image of my face into the manicured trenches of their minds.
They’re the real Peacekeepers, I think. They’re the only ones who see me, anyway, as I slink into the alley behind my home and disappear from the avenue’s prying eyes.
The jackals always see me, no matter where I go, and it’s a fact that I’ve taken as given.
* * *
The streets are quiet tonight.
Every skitter in an alley makes me jump, and every hoot of an owl sounds like a faraway Peacekeeper whistle. Shadows crease the walls, taking on new forms with every step I take, following my jittery line of sight. I know I should relax, I’ve done this dozens of times, but it feels wrong. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the cold.
I shut my eyes as I pause for a breath behind a dark corner. Or maybe it’s the Reaping tomorrow.
I knew I shouldn’t have come tonight. Reapings always make me tense. Not to mention the mandatory increase in security that occurs throughout July. There are Peacekeepers everywhere now—strangers whose faces I’ve never seen in the black market—Capitol forces. And they’ll arrest anyone who looks at them the wrong way.
My palms are sweating.
You can do it, Matton said. And Madeleine was watching. And I didn’t want to say no.
But now, facing the erratic shine of the District Prison’s searchlights in the distance and the noise of hammers beating the Reaping Stage into position nearby, stealing grain on Reaping Eve doesn’t seem like the best idea.
I dig my fingernails into my palm, sharpening my thoughts. I may as well get this over with—it’s not like I can back out now.
I cross the corner with my head bent low. I’m approaching the district square, where construction workers are making their last adjustments to the Reaping Stage and drunkards sit on benches, stuffing the air with hysterical laughter. I’m sure I know many of them, at least by name, and I don’t want them to recognize me and call out.
After a few more minutes of tense silence and hasty footsteps, I’m far enough from the square to breathe again.
And what would happen if they did call out to you? It’s not like the Peacekeepers would care.
Shut up, I snap at myself. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
I’m scared.
I’m really scared.
I don’t want to be out here, not tonight.
I hate myself, and I hate Matton, and most of all, I hate that goddamn Madeleine Elwood.
The spotlight strung to the District Prison tower briefly illuminates the street I’m crossing, and I flinch. Calm down. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Another five minutes and I’ve reached the far side of town. The buildings here are taller, grayer, more industrial. It’s where most of the factories are, and it’s rare to spot people strolling through this area so late into the night. I make sure to glue myself to the wall, walking briskly and scanning my surroundings.
There are the jackals again, loitering by the district gates, though I know they never truly left my side. There’s three of them, all huddled by the railing. Their wide, silver eyes gaze at me innocently, and I know they’ve already recorded my location, every detail of my face. I glare at them defiantly, hoping they save that look into their cranial storage bank and leave me alone.
In front of me is also the Processing Plant, my target.
Matton told me there’s two Peacekeeper guards doing rounds by the fence, and a couple more inside the factory. I shouldn't run into them if I’m careful.
I edge closer to the fence, keeping to the shadows cast by the immense building. This will be my first time going inside. I usually hit the trucks parked out in the empty lot, but new security measures have moved them, and the cargo, inside the Processing Plant.
It’s fine, Matton said. I’ve got a guard I can trust to leave a window open.
Now, the question is which window.
I cautiously circle the perimeter of the fence, scanning for any open slits in the building. Once or twice I cross a Peacekeeper, but they have better things to do than guard the bushes.
Finally, I spot it—a crack in one of the first-storey windows, letting out a dim stream of white light.
So the lights are on inside.
That makes my job more difficult.
I have my way in though, so that’s a plus.
After scouting ahead for more potential Peacekeeper appearances, I decide the coast is clear enough. I squirm my way under the fence clearly built to hold back adults, and make a dash for the window. Nobody stops me—I calculated when the next Peacekeeper would cross, but relief still floods through my body, easing my stiff muscles. I climb a protruding sewage pipe and dangle from the window sill for a few dangerous moments, till I gather my strength and manage to pull myself up and through.
The fall is hard.
I cradle my arm.
The inside of the Processing Plant isn’t lit up like I thought. Matton’s guard seems to have placed a lamp beside the window to signal my entrance. I mentally thank him and switch off the light, scampering to the nearest vehicle I can find.
The trucks are parked in rows, stretched out before me, rolling on for a seeming infinity.
They’ve had to reserve this whole floor of the Plant to host all the vehicles we’ve been systematically stealing from.
I crouch behind the back tires of the truck and feel around for the trunk lock, finally locating it somewhere above my fingers. The light is dim and I left my flashlight at home. For a moment, I weigh the benefits and consequences of switching the lamp by the window back on, but that would attract the immediate attention of any Peacekeeper making rounds nearby.
Finally, I resolve to shift my body so the pale moonlight sifts through the open window, vaguely illuminating the patch of metal I need to see. I scavenge my lockpicks out of the larger pocket in my coat, and get to work.
My hands move quickly, frantically, impaired by the dim lighting. I don’t hear any sounds around me. I don’t know if there are any Peacekeepers on this floor. All I can see, hear, feel, is the panicked breath in my ears, the sticky surface of the metal, the oily lock. Once or twice I hear a door slamming shut, but that may just be my imagination.
Vix, hurry up. I can hear Matton’s voice, I can see his look of disapproval.
Wow, Vix, way to fumble another job. And now Madeleine’s speaking and I can feel my breath going short and I can’t mess up again, not again… I knew we shouldn’t have sent her. Her smile fades into a sneer, cold and searing.
Ryle has thrown me into the fountain. My clothes are wet and my head is sticky and it’s not from the water. The stone spirals etched into the fountain’s surface are digging into my arms—they’re beautiful, really, and the stone fish are, too… There are no fish in district 9. These are the only fish I’ll get, I think, as my vision goes red, and the panic gives in to a resigned calm.
Come back when you have something to offer, Ryle jeers through red lashes. My eyes close.
Here you go, Ryle, I spit out. Choke on stolen grain.
Ryle is dead now.
If he were alive, I would give him a good beating.
My finger slips and catches on the trunk door, slicing it open. I utter a gasp and place the wound in my mouth, relishing the short-lived relief, regretting the act once my throat tastes like iron and Ryle’s face flashes before my eyes again, smattered with the blood hanging from my shutting eyes.
Shut up, Ryle. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
You don’t belong here anymore.
I’m not Vixen anymore, I’m Vix. And I’m not an urchin anymore, I’m a thief—there’s a difference. And Ryle isn’t here, so there’s no use in thinking of him now. I’m doing fine. I’m not lagging behind. Matton and Madeleine can go to hell.
I wipe my finger on my coat and get back to work, letting the meticulous movements drown distraction away.
After a harrowing twenty minutes, I hear the glorious click of the lock. My hands fumble for the trunk’s door handle and I lift it soundlessly, cushioning the hinges with my coat. This floor is probably empty, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Inside the trunk are ten to fifteen bulging sacks of grain. I mutter my relief—I’ve opened dozens of empty trunks before, and it is not a pleasant feeling.
Gritting my teeth, I lift two of the heavier sacks out of the trunk, arms sagging with the weight. My limbs are sore from the running and climbing, but I’ll have to manage. I succeed in slinging them over my shoulder, casting one final glance at the room, and then turn my attention to the window. I don’t see any Peacekeepers, but I’ve lost track of time and I don’t know when they might return. My safest bet is to jump now and make this quick.
I open the window and drop the first sack out. A loud thud greets me, and I wince. I really hope there are no Peacakeepers around.
After dropping the other one, I repeat my previous operation, dangling from the window sill and sliding down a rugged pipe. Panting, I reach the floor and pick up the fallen sacks, glad the fall didn’t tear any holes into the burlap.
The dry summer grass cradles my feet. I crouch down to recover the lockpicks I dropped during the fall, then freeze.
The ground has lit up.
The grass is shining and my fingers are as well, and for a few timeless instants, I am trapped on an island of sickly whiteness, exposed to the world. My eyes dart to the window I jumped out of, hoping that by some miracle the lamp turned back on—but no, that is not the source of the light.
I hear the tramping feet behind me when it is far too late.
“Hey, you!”
I don’t have time to turn around. The voice is six feet, maybe five feet away? I abandon my lockpicks and break out into a sprint, carrying the bulging sacks over my shoulder.
Logic begs me to drop them, but I can’t come back to Matton empty-handed, I can’t come back to Madeleine with nothing to show for my reckless endeavor.
Come on, just a few more steps.
My shoulder sag from the weight of the grain, and I can hear voices thundering in my ear.
“Come back here!”
“Don’t think we won’t catch you!”
“Looks like the Grain Ghost isn’t so fast after all!”
There appears to be two of them, and they’re slow. To turn and try to reason with them would be idiotic—the District 9 Peacekeeping Force has been trying to capture the elusive Grain Ghost for years, and they would never let me go. They’ve locked up others for lesser offenses.
“That grain is slowing you down, moron!” a Peacekeeper shouts behind him.
I acknowledge his point. The grain is slowing me down.
I hurl one of the sacks behind me, hoping it will slow their pursuit. I don’t have the luxury to see if it does.
I only have one sack now, and I feel much lighter. My pace quickens, and for the first time I can look up and see where I am.
I’ve been circling the Processing Plant throughout this whole chase, and I’m lucky not to have crossed any more Peacekeepers. The gate is only a few feet away, and if I wanted to, I could slip under it and take cover in the streets. Unfortunately, that would mean having to pause for at least a minute, and my pursuers could probably catch up to me during that time.
Whatever I do, it’ll have to be quick.
I’m tempted to drop my remaining sack and make a run for the gate, when I suddenly spot a small hole in the wiry metal up ahead. It’s large enough for me to easily slip through, but it would probably slow the Peacekeepers for a little while.
I don’t think it through any longer—I’ve made my choice.
I sprint to the gate and hurl the sack through the hole. Then I dive through it myself, scraping my arms in the process, and lie on the floor for a split second longer than necessary. I manage to force myself to my feet and retrieve the sack, running to the cover of the shadows up ahead. Behind me, the Peacekeepers have reached the gate and are clumsily making their way through the hole as well.
I have to get to the cover of the streets, that’s my only hope. It’s the only place where I could lose them.
I keep running.
My eyes widen when I hear steps pounding behind me.
How have they reached me already?
I feel my breath convulsing in my throat, blocking out all thought or sense—and then I feel myself flying, floating, falling, knees hitting the ground and face pressing into the dirt.
It’s over, I think.
I can’t move, can’t feel where I am.
I’m done for.
My mind is flooded with pictures—sorrows, regrets, Matton, Madeleine, Mother… a man in a white suit, Ryle standing over me with a brick in his hands and a twisted smile on his tormented face, District 12, a distant, magical place, a guitar, stringy music and a crackling voice.
I hear a growl.
Then a scream.
It’s not mine.
Come on.
Blearily, I push myself up to my knees, and freeze at the sight. A jackal, wiry fur standing on end, has bitten a Peacekeeper’s leg. The man is crying—his calf is torn and bloodied and the other Peacekeeper is sprinting towards him, shooting at the jackal with pathetic aim.
Come on.
I hear a voice, and it’s not my voice, or maybe it is my voice—it doesn’t matter, because I am on my feet and the sack of grain is over my shoulder.
Don’t look back.
I run.
I don’t stop running—not even once I’ve left the outskirts and the Peacekeepers are out of sight and the night sweeps over me like a protective embrace. Every now and then I hear a whistle or an urgent shout, but they are far behind me now. I have outrun them.
I’m back in the district center but I steer clear of the town square—there are bound to be Peacekeepers there, and I don’t know how efficient their radio transmissions are. For all I know, the whole Force could be after me at this point.
I skid to a pause and run into a deserted alley, the familiar scent of rotting cardboard greeting me home. I scan both ends of the street to make sure no one has followed me, and then I get to work, uncovering piles of old cardboard boxes to reveal a half-screwed entrance to the sewers.
I left my lockpicks at the Processing Plant along with my screwdriver, so I have to pick at the metal with my hands, opening new wounds and probably infecting my old one.
It doesn’t matter. I escaped.
After ten agonizing minutes, I manage to lift the iron sewer panel and drop my sack of grain through the hole. I cover up the entrance as much as I can with nearby cardboard boxes, then jump through the hole myself. I’ll screw the panel back in tomorrow—Matton doesn’t need to know my mistake.
And for the few blissful moments after, I’m falling in the dark.
An old mattress cushions my fall.
I allow myself to breathe—quickly at first, then slowly, then deeply. I made it. I laugh, cough. I made it. My eyes shut, and for a minute or two, I am frozen to the spot. All I see is the dirt-gray sewer ceiling above me, and all I hear is faraway, stringy music, lulling me to a dazed half-dream.
When the wind wraps me like the reaper’s hand
I will swing free until they cut me down
Papa, don’t tell me what I could’ve done
She’s the one, she’s the one who begged me
Take me, take me home