The Only Way (15 page)

The papers found other scandals to cover, and eventually the day came when she found a front page that didn't have her name on it. Quickly her story fell out of the news altogether, and Hart found she could breathe a little easier.

If only they had enough to eat.

She looked at the meager offerings on the table and blanched. It wasn't enough for five people, especially three growing children. Finn took the smallest portions, leaving more for his little sisters, even though Hart remembered what it was like to be twelve, growing and always hungry. She knew it must be worse for Finn. He was shooting up, maturing out of his childish body, and they didn't have nearly enough food to fuel the growth.

Hart's savings had burned out fast with no extra income. Now that she was back on the heap, there was a bit more money coming in, but not enough. Never enough.

She thought of the bounty they had while she was fighting, the full, rich meals they ate. She thought of her mother's face when she said Roe could go to school—the dream that had driven Hart back into the ring.

Hart knew she had to do something. Vivien tried to find work every day, lingering by the fence in the hopes of being chosen. But in a crowd of young, able-bodied people, Vivien didn't stand a chance. She was only forty, but her stooped back made her look years older. She wasn't strong, and the only work that was going was tortuous physical labor:  scrubbing floors for thirteen hours a day, or bending over sewing machines, wearing her fingers down to try and make a hundred garments a day.

The final straw came late one evening. Her family was already in for the night when Finn slipped through the front door, nervousness scrawled over his face. His eyes widened when he saw Hart, and then his expression closed off, slipping back into the hardness he tried to project to the outside world.

"You're late," Hart said, glancing through the cracks in the shutters at the dark of night. 

Vivien looked up from where she was playing with the girls. Finn had dropped them off before heading out to the fence, to sell his goods, hours before.

"Took a walk," Finn told her, shrugging his shoulders in a display of casualness.

Hart narrowed her eyes. "Okay," she agreed. She knew what it was like to want to get out of the house, to get away from their problems. She also knew Finn hadn't just been taking a walk.

It was only when he passed close by her chair and the acrid scent of chemicals hit her nose that she knew for sure what he'd been doing. She stood abruptly, the chair rattling behind her. "You've been burning," she accused.

He stilled, refusing to turn and look at her. "No I haven't."

Hart strode closer, dipping her head to smell his clothes. The scent of acid and melted plastic seemed to cling to the very air around Finn.

"Finn," she grabbed her brother, spinning him to face her. His expression was hard. "I can
smell
it on you."

"So?"

"So?" Hart parroted, astonished. She shot her mother an incredulous look over Finn's shoulder. The girls were curled together, upset at the raised voices. Vivien looked hesitant, unsure of what to say. "I told you we weren't doing that ever again," Hart snapped. "It's
bad
for you."

"Well, someone has to make some money around here," Finn said, voice rising.

Hart faltered. "I was—"

Finn pushed her away from him. "Well, you're not now. I made fifteen dollars at the fence tonight."

From behind them, Vivien let out a soft noise at the number. It was more than they had earned in a single day in quite some time.

"I don't care how much you made," Hart snarled, matching Finn's defiant expression. "I'm not going to sit around here and watch you get sick, or
worse
, just for a few scraps of silver. We're not going to die to make someone else rich, got it?"

She stepped closer, getting in to Finn's face, and he wilted slightly under her gaze.

"What am I supposed to do?" he said, quieter. "We have to eat."

"You aren't supposed to do anything," Hart said, gentler now. "You're a kid. You're supposed to
be
a kid. I'm going to take care of us."

"How?"

"I'll find work. I'll go with mom to the fence tomorrow."

Finn cast a glance back at their mother who was watching the exchange with tired eyes. "Mom never gets anything," he said, voice low.

"I've got a better chance. You know that. I'm going to take care of us, okay?"

Finn nodded stiffly. Hart bent down to his eye level. He was getting big so fast. Soon, she wouldn't even have to stoop. "Promise me. No burning. No matter what."

"What if we're starving?"

"I won't ever let it get that bad," Hart said. "I'll promise you that, if you make your own promise."

"Okay," Finn said, shoulders slumping. "No more burning."

Hart drew him close, squeezing, even as the harsh chemical smell tickled at her nose and throat, making her cough.  She couldn't hide out any longer.

The next day, Hart joined her mother at the fence, vying with the other wretched unemployed for the scraps the Alley decided to throw them.

She thought of her Alley pass, tucked away safely at home. It was still good, and if she used it, she could go to the plants and factories themselves. Outside of this teeming, desperate crowd, she might have a chance. Her name was on the pass, though, and the guards would surely notice. As it was, she had a fake name at the ready in case she was chosen.

The crowd pressed in around her, and she clung to her mother's arm, turning her body to shield Vivien from the crush. Men sauntered up to the checkpoint, their eyes sweeping proprietarily over the crowd. Hart felt her stomach turn at their gazes but still pressed forward, hoping to be spotted. She was strong, stronger than most of the people around her. Strong enough for the ring. More than strong enough to scrub floors.

The checkpoint guard opened the gate, allowing the Alley men to step through and address the crowd.

"You, you and you," one of the men called, gesturing to the biggest men thronging for work. They stepped forward triumphantly, and Hart pressed a little closer. The factory men kept calling out, choosing the meat that would keep their plants running another day.

Finally, one man pointed a meaty finger at Hart. "You," he said imperiously, and she slunk forward even as her mind rebelled. She squeezed her mother's hand and set off to follow her new employer.

The checkpoint guard accepted her fake name without blinking an eye, and Hart kept her head down as she followed the man through familiar streets.

The plants occupied a district not far from many of the arenas, and Hart wasn't able to relax until they were at the plant door. The manager led them inside a dark and dismal room, overflowing with machinery and people. The only windows were small squares two stories up, sunlight weakly filtering in through the dirt accumulated on their panes. It didn't quite reach down to the plant floor where people moved along assembly lines, bending and stooping, sweating in the heat of the machinery.

Two of the men in their small group were sent onto the line, filling in for someone sick or injured. Hart was taken to the end of the line, where the product was funneled into boxes for shipment. She listened carefully as the man stationed there explained how to pack the material and seal the boxes, placing them on nearby carts for transport to the loading bay. Hart grinned as he spoke. It was easy work.

By the end of the day, she had rethought that statement. There was nothing difficult about packing a box, but packing thousands of boxes was slightly different:  keeping up with the flow of product endlessly rushing towards her down the assembly line, lifting the heavy boxes onto the carts. Her arms ached, her knees ached, and her back screamed as she tried to straighten at the sound of the final whistle. Her hands were cut and bruised; her skin had constantly caught on the rough edges of the product—she didn't even know what it was, didn't know what it did—as she packed them into the box. She felt as rough as she ever had after a fight, the deep ache in her muscles even worse than the pounding that came from just a short match.

The sun had long set, not that Hart could tell the difference in the poorly-lit factory. But it was late, she could tell that much. She joined the rest of the temporary workers outside the manager's office door, waiting to be paid. The permanent employees sneered at them as they punched out, pressing a hand to the pad at the door, registering their fingerprints. Some of them were from the Gutter too, but they thought having a job made them better than Hart.

Hart agreed.

The manager made them wait for long minutes outside his door. They were sweaty and dirty and their feet ached, but he left them there as he phoned his wife, shuffled through his papers, and slipped into his jacket. Finally he came out, a wad of bills in his hand.

"Come on now," he sneered. "Line up in an orderly fashion. You'd think none of you had worked a day in your lives before. Oh, wait." He chortled at his own joke as the crowd shuffled into a line. No one looked at him.

Hart knew they all worked as much as they could, taking what came along without complaint. She knew the manager knew it too.

He handed out cash as they each stepped forward. When it was Hart's turn, she looked down at the bill in her hand, uncomprehending.

She was exhausted, her whole body hurt, and she had five dollars.

Barely enough to feed her family for the day, let alone lay anything away for savings.

"Problem?" The manager asked nastily.

Hart shook her head and shuffled away, stuffing the money deep into her pocket. She could make five times that in the ring.

She understood, suddenly, what had driven her father to the fights in the first place. Long days breaking his back for someone else's sake and getting practically nothing in return or facing life for what it really was:  a violent fight for survival.

She had just sold her flesh, same as the fighters and the girls who hung around the arenas afterwards. It just had a different name in the factory:  'good, honest work.'

The amount she was paid was no more honest than the whole concept of fighting.

Hart knew that the permanent workers made more and that the plants could easily hire permanent workers to do the job she had just done. Full-time work was regulated, however. There had been unions that fought to keep the workplace safe. Permanent workers were worked to the bone, but someone looked out for them, making sure no one got hurt too badly or fainted from going twelve hours without eating.

The temps they pulled in from the Gutter had no such protection. The managers could pay what they liked and make the temps work as long as they liked; no one was looking out for the Gutter trash, not even themselves. They took what work they could get, knowing how unfair it was.

Hart straggled home. It was late enough that the fights were in full swing. She could hear the roars from the arenas as she passed by. Men and women spilled out of their doors, drunk and flushed and giddy, clutching their winnings, or drunk and angry, cursing the fighter who had lost.

She skirted them as best she could.

The noise died down as she neared the gate, the streets darkening and emptying out. There were corners of the Gutter that were in full swing at this time of the night—bars packed to bursting with people trying to drink their woes away. But most people were just getting home, curling up under worn blankets and hoping the pain in their bodies would abate long enough for them to get some sleep before they got up and did it all again.

Hart's own house was dark by the time she arrived home. It was no different than the nights she'd come home after a fight, except that the money she brought with her was so much less. Still, she tucked the five dollars into their secret hiding place and slid beneath the covers, letting Penny snuffle into her neck as she scooted close.

*~*~*

Hart queued at the fence again the next day, but her exhaustion must have shown on her face because no one picked her. The crowd thinned around her as people were chosen, but Hart waited until the bitter end, sure someone would eventually want her.

Finally, the last of the Alley men turned and left, and the few remaining stragglers went home.

"Come on," Hart's mother tugged her arm.

"But we need the money," Hart insisted weakly.

"You'll help your siblings on the heap. It'll be fine."

"We don't make enough on the heap, and you know it," Hart snapped. "I have to find real work." She looked back at the gate, the guard lounging carelessly beside it. "I'm going back for my pass."

Vivien shook her head. "That's too risky."

Hart shook her head fiercely. "I'm old news. No one's going to care. I'll go to Clark. He's got to have some work I could do. He'll want to help." The friendly plant manager had helped in the past. Hart was sure he would help her again.

Her mother looked doubtful, but released Hart's arm. "I can never stop you once you've decided to do something," she sighed. "Just be careful."

"I will. Everything will be fine." Hart jogged off towards their house. Her Alley Pass was tucked away under the floorboards with their scant savings, a pathetic little pile of coins rattling beneath their feet. Hart had dreamed of filling that space up with bills until their savings were so big they'd have to find another place to keep them—maybe even a bank in the Alley. Along with a new house and school for the kids, and proper clothes and good food. She dreamed big; she just couldn't seem to make those dreams come true.

"Sitting around here isn't going to do anything," she muttered, grasping the pass in sweaty fingers. She marched back to the checkpoint, flashing the pass at the guard with as much ease as she could muster.

He narrowed his eyes, examining the paper, and she felt her heart stutter. After a moment he stamped his book and pressed the gate release, letting it swing open on creaking hinges. Hart slipped the pass into her pocket and strode through.

She made her way out to the plants where all the other workers had already been toiling for over an hour. Each plant was alive with sounds, the clacking and whirring of machinery, the grunts of men, the yells of foremen. Factories belched smoke into the sky, obscuring any traces of blue.