Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  25: Spilled Milk

  Ronja’s mind was numb.

  A moment ago her thoughts had been on fire. Thoughts of Georgie, of Cosmin. Thoughts of them strapped down, tortured, twisted into mutts. Of their insides being scooped out and flooded with mangled DNA and the endless wrath of The Music. Thoughts of Layla, even. She was already a mutt. Would she simply be killed?

  Then, when Roark told her there might be hope, there was nothing.

  Her mind was void. Her muscles were wracked with adrenaline.

  She ran.

  The huts blurred past. Snatches of quiet conversations studded her hammering footfalls. She knew where she was going. No matter how foreign it looked, the blueprint of the Belly was identical to all the rest of the stations. The elevator crouched on the left hand side of the atrium toward the edge of the platform.

  Ronja skidded around the corner of a canvas tent and barreled blindly forward, Roark on her heels.

  She almost missed the sliding iron door. It was painted with a sprawling geometric design of green and white that made her eyes swim. She blinked, then jammed her finger into the button to call the lift.

  There was a distant shriek of gears, followed by a familiar, steady thrum. Neither Roark nor Ronja spoke; both breathed heavily as their exit ambled toward them.

  There was a final, muffled thud followed by the polite tinkling of a bell, and the elevator door slid into the wall. The inside of the compartment was unaltered. When she crossed the threshold into the nauseous green light, it was like stepping into her past. She slammed the only button on the panel and the metal door rolled shut on the Belly.

  There was a shudder as the elevator prepared to ascend. Then, with a lurch, they began to move.

  Ronja kept her eyes on the reflective face of the door. She was twisted, blurred by the scratches and dents in the steel. She was still covered in war paint, which was smeared by her cold sweat. Her hair was wild, her stitches protruding like brambles from behind her exposed temple.

  With shaking fingers, Ronja began to unknit the plaits that drew her curls away from the raw injury. Roark looked on silently as her locks fell in quick succession, his gaze solemn.

  “Wait.”

  Ronja looked over at the boy, her eyebrows knit together and her jaw clenched. Roark shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it at her. She caught it with a snap of leather.

  “Wear this, put the hood up,” he ordered.

  Ronja complied and slipped her twig arms through the sleeves. She had to fold them back twice to free her hands. The coat stirred about her ankles—it would have brushed the floor if not for the slight heel on her boots. She tugged the deep hood over her untamed curls.

  There was another mannerly ding, muted by her fabric halo, and the elevator came to a shivering halt.

  The door slid open on a dimly-lit aboveground chamber, its numerous windows crisscrossed with boards. The floor was littered with smashed tiles. Copper wiring had been ripped from the drywall. Plain chandeliers without light bulbs dangled precariously from the waterlogged ceiling.

  Ronja shivered as she and Roark stepped from the elevator. The place made her skin crawl.

  “Evening, Samson,” Roark said, lifting his hand in greeting.

  Ronja jumped, her heart high in her throat.

  What she had thought to be a bundle of rags was in fact a man, hunched beneath one of the obstructed windows. His shoulder-length hair was matted and greasy, and a thick layer of grime caked his skin. He was wrapped in multiple layers of filthy rags, and Ronja got the sense that he was considerably smaller than he appeared. However, this did little to comfort her.

  Samson grinned. His teeth were white as fresh snow.

  “It’s actually morning, Trip,” he replied.

  Roark shook his head with a fleeting smile. “It isn’t morning until the sun comes up.”

  “Where are you two off to?” Samson asked from his place on the floor, trying to catch a glimpse of Ronja beneath the hood.

  “Oh, just a late night stroll, nothing anyone needs to know about,” Roark said with a cheeky wink.

  Samson released a barking guffaw, shaking his head. He shifted, and Ronja could have sworn she heard something metal rap against the tiles.

  “Be careful out there,” Samson warned, abruptly somber. “There was a surge in Off activity a few nights back.”

  Ronja blanched, and was glad of the shadows hugging her face.

  “We won’t be on the streets for long,” Roark said with a laugh, hooking Ronja by the elbow and tugging her close. “See you around, Sam.”

  Ronja gave the sentry a halfhearted wave as Roark led her across the eerie room to the stooped exit. He opened the door for her, flashing his teeth, and ushered her out into the steady rain. She only breathed when he had shut the creaking door on Samson, who had recommenced chuckling.

  “Are we not allowed to leave?” Ronja asked, descending a flight of sopping wooden steps into an alley.

  “We are,” Roark said, locking the door. “But this isn’t exactly a typical late-night excursion. We don’t want anyone knowing about this until we’re certain.”

  Ronja nodded absentmindedly, then peered around the dank backstreet.

  The familiar gray and brown brick buildings grew from the cobblestones. The night sky growled with thunder. The alley was lined with tin trash bins and soggy crates. It smelled of rotting fish and vegetables, far more putrid than she recalled. It was freezing, even with the protection of Roark’s overcoat.

  Ronja plodded forward and peeked around the corner into the sprawling outer-ring avenue. The army of gas lamps strained heroically to light the street for a crowd that was not there. Only a handful of insomniacs and sap addicts milled about the gaslit roadway. A solitary truck advertising a meat-packing business rumbled past, spewing foul fumes.

  The girl turned back to the side street, attempting to breathe through her mouth.

  Roark had moved to the back of the alley and was working to shift a stack of wooden crates from the back wall. Ronja approached hesitantly as a large structure cloaked in an inconspicuous tarp was revealed. The boy grasped the canvas and yanked it back sharply. Ronja raised her eyebrows.

  Gleaming dully in the dim light was a sleek black motorbike. It was by far the finest piece of machinery she had ever seen, untarnished by time and rust. Roark took it by the handlebars and began to wheel it past her toward the mouth of the alley. At the lip of the road, he popped the kickstand and spun back to her.

  “What’s your address?” he asked, drawing a cap from his pocket and shoving it over his rain darkened hair.

  “756 Turner Street.”

  Roark pulled his scarf up around his nose and mouth and slapped his brass rimmed goggles over his dark eyes.

  “Ever ridden a motorbike?” he asked, straddling the waiting vehicle, which dipped beneath his weight.

  Ronja shook her head, approaching tentatively. She did not want to tell him that she had never even ridden inside an auto.

  “Get on behind me and hold tight.”

  Ronja did as Roark told her, hoping she appeared at ease. Once she had plunked down on the leather seat, she curled her arms around his chest and tucked her head against his back to avoid the rain.

  Roark adjusted his goggles, inhaled deeply, then gunned the engine. They shot into the street, drawing a shout from a bum pawing through a trash bin. Quiet houses whizzed by. The rain pelted Ronja’s bare hands. Her hood flapped around her curls like the wings of a startled bird. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting nausea she had not experienced since she had been freed of The Music.

  “You all right?” Roark yelled over his shoulder.

  Ronja nodded against his spine, but could not bring herself to speak. They drove for some time in silence, the gale whistling in their ears, the tires screeching with each turn. Through her sealed lids, she watched the world switch between night and day as they passed between the periodic lamps.

  “What street did you say?” Roark
called back to her.

  “Turner!” Ronja cried, forcing her eyes open against the sting.

  The deli on the corner of Turner and 23rd screamed into view. She gasped and punched the motorist in the bicep.

  “Skitz! Here, here!” she bellowed into the wind.

  Roark swore and careened around the corner, narrowly missing an elderly woman who had stepped from the curb. The old woman disappeared around the deli before Ronja could see if she was all right.

  The driver eased his foot onto the brake and the world slowed. The engine slacked, grumbling quietly beneath them. Ronja turned her head sideways, watched the monotonous houses float past.

  746 . . . 748 . . . 750 . . . 752 . . .

  “Just up here,” she said softly.

  Roark angled the bike toward the curb. He flipped a switch and the engine died. The bike sagged toward the ground. The rain softened its blows.

  “We don’t want to draw more attention to your house than we have to,” he explained, swinging his leg over the side of the bike and tugging down his scarf and goggles.

  He offered Ronja his hand, but she ignored it and slipped from her seat gracelessly. Her nausea receded as soon as her soles struck the ground.

  House 756 appeared the same as ever, lethargic and devoid of color . . . but there was something off about it, something Ronja could not place. She halted before the haphazard steps leading to her doorway, too unnerved to be self-conscious about the state of her home.

  “Do you want me to go first?” Roark asked.

  “No,” she replied distantly. “But something’s . . . ” She trailed off as her eyes latched onto the clay pots lined beneath the kitchen window.

  Georgie’s vegetables were far past ripe.

  Ronja let out a sound like a wounded animal and sprinted up the steps. She rammed her shoulder into the doorway. She expected it to resist her, but the lock was broken. She tumbled through the portal and collapsed into the gloomy hallway.

  “Georgie? Cos? Layla?” she called, her voice cracking when it hit the empty air.

  Ronja clambered to her feet. The room tilted. The ceiling traded places with the floor. Roark was saying something behind her, but she could not hear him. She lurched into the kitchen.

  A fog had settled over the room, accompanied by a bone-deep hush. Time flowed sluggishly as Ronja paced around the table. Three plates picked clean waited patiently before their chairs. Two congealed glasses of milk stood guard by the dishes.

  The third was smashed on the floor, the milk a clumpy stain amid the fractured glass.

  “GEORGIE!” Ronja screamed, tugging her fingers down her face. “COS! LAYLA!”

  “Ronja,” Roark intoned from the kitchen doorway.

  The girl shoved past him and stormed up the staircase. She burst into Georgie and Cosmin’s bedroom. The tartan drapes fluttered hauntingly in the window. Their beds were made. Cosmin’s books were stacked neatly on his desk. His reading lamp was on, the bulb flickering weakly in its socket. Ronja turned tail and thundered down the steps.

  Roark was waiting for her on the landing, his expression telltale. “Ronja, I’m—”

  “Shut up!” she screamed.

  She wrenched open her bedroom door and flew down the steps blindly. Panting, she felt her way to her desk and ignited her oil lamp with a brutal twist of the knob. The flame coughed to life, and she looked around desperately.

  The basement walls stared back at her lamely.

  Ronja crouched before her bed and peeked beneath the dangling comforter. Part of her expected to see Georgie and Cosmin huddled beneath the bed, waiting for her, but she was greeted only by a bulbous spider.

  Ronja let the blanket fall. Her whole body ached, but she barely registered the pain. Her mind had been severed from its anchor and was floating somewhere far above.

  “Ronja . . . ?”

  The uncertain voice sent her crashing back into her body. Her head snapped over to where Roark stood, his arms outstretched in consolation.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked.

  She flew at the boy and tackled him around his torso, sending them both crashing to the ground in a plume of dust. She was punching him, slapping him. All she wanted was to feel his bones break. He did not fight back or move to restrain her, but crossed his forearms over his face protectively.

  Ronja wrenched her arm back abruptly. Her war paint had been washed away, but her knuckles were black and blue. Roark cracked an eyelid. They locked gazes for half a moment, one livid and one dejected.

  Ink bled into the corners of Ronja’s vision. Her muscles gave way beneath her. She crumbled to Roark’s chest, her forehead pressed against his sternum. Her eyes stared blindly into the knit fabric of his sweater. She wanted so badly to cry, as if it could drain the blackness away, but her ducts were dry.

  Roark made no move to console her, nor did he try to shift her away. He did not even try to wipe the blood from his eyes or to access his cracked nose.

  His wounds had started to crust over by the time Ronja could move. She peeled herself from his chest and rose unsteadily, not daring to look at his face. Roark followed her tentatively, as if she were a skittish animal he did not wish to frighten.

  “Where will they be taken?” Ronja asked hoarsely, her eyes trained carefully on her desk.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Roark touch his broken nose and wince.

  “My best guess? A facility outside the wall called Red Bay Rehabilitation Clinic. They call it a clinic, but it’s more of a prison. The same place your mother was turned into a mutt.”

  The oil was evaporating from the scorched glass chamber of her lamp. The slit of a window she had worked so hard to keep clear was polluted with sludge.

  “How do I get there?” Ronja asked.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.” Ronja turned and looked Roark directly in the face, forcing herself to view her work. Upon seeing his battered features, a morsel of guilt grew in her chest. She crumpled it. “I am going to save my family, and you’re going to help me do it.”

  “Red Bay is one of the most heavily guarded facilities in Revinia. You can’t just waltz in.”

  “I can’t, but I bet you can, Victor Westervelt III.”

  The boy stiffened. Ronja nodded brusquely, her suspicions confirmed.

  “I thought so,” she murmured under her breath. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere. You used to appear in The Bard all the time when you were a kid, then you dropped off the face of the planet. I hear you spend half your time on Adagio with shiny heiresses from the core . . . ” Ronja broke off, shaking her head at the dirt floor. Then, she lifted her chin, directing her words at Roark again. “Your father runs WI. Your grandfather was the creator of The Music. You’re first in line to take over the company.”

  Roark seemed incapable of speech for a moment, but eventually he mustered a reply. “I’m a double agent for the Anthem,” he said, raking a hand through his thick hair. “I bring them intel on my father, on the company, even scraps of information about The Conductor. Roark really is my middle name, though.”

  “Oh,” Ronja gave a bitter laugh. “Glad you were honest about something.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “That is not the same thing.”

  “How?” Roark asked, spreading his hands pleadingly. “You wanted to be judged on your character, not a stereotype. I wanted the same.”

  “You know, there were portraits of your father and grandfather hanging below The Conductor’s in my school. I kept wondering when yours would join them.”

  “I remember when they sat for those.”

  Ronja pushed on, ignoring him. “I used to look at them and think about my mother, how it was their fault she was turned into a . . . a monster.” Ronja spat at his glossy boots. “You’re just as bad as them.”

  Roark flinched.

  “This is your fault,” she continued unrelentingly. “You took me without thinking, and before you say you were
just protecting your people, I already know and I don’t give a damn. Now, you’re going to help me get my family back, even my mutt mother, if she’s still alive.”

  Roark observed her stoically. A patchwork of bruises had begun to form on his face, and his left eye was swelling shut. “I swear on the Anthem I will do everything in my power to return your family to you and to protect you.

  “I don’t need your protection,” Ronja snarled, turning her back on the heir. “I need your name.”

  26: Snapshot

  Roark waited in the kitchen while Ronja collected her belongings. She had little to gather. She had left her bag on the train the night Roark abducted her, and her cap and coat were still in the Belly.

  Ronja shed her damp, flimsy dress and wiped the remaining paint from her arms and face with a cloth. Shivering, she redressed in a thick gray jumper that fell past her knees and her warmest boots and stockings. She found a faded scarf in the bowels of her drawer and tied it around her head, wincing as the fabric chaffed her wound. She hoped her stitches would hold; the last thing she wanted was to attract attention to her ear, or lack thereof.

  She borrowed Cosmin’s knapsack and tossed in her pocketknife, lighter, and various other objects that seemed worthy of bringing on a rescue mission.

  Ronja stood in the nucleus of her room for a moment, her bag slung over her shoulder. Something was tugging at her consciousness, something she was forgetting.

  The epiphany struck her like a bottle smashed over her head, and she nearly yelped. She bounded back to her bed and lifted the thin mattress. It flopped against the wall, freeing a lifetime of dust from the stuffing. Coughing, she bent down and retrieved the photograph of her mother and father from its hiding place. She folded it in half and crammed it into her bag, as if to prove to herself that it was not a treasure.

  Roark was at the kitchen table when she reemerged from her bedroom. He had borrowed a rag to wipe the blood from his face and looked marginally better. His left eye was sealed shut, however.