Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Guidance,” Roark snorted disdainfully, keeping his eyes fixed on the glass.

  “How many of my own Officers are traitors?” Victor asked, changing the subject.

  “More than you’ll ever be able to weed out,” Roark taunted through gritted teeth.

  That was a lie. 52 Anthemites were situated in various Off stations throughout the city, but Revinia employed over ten thousand.

  “I want names,” Victor said, a twinge of vexation coloring his tone.

  Roark clenched his jaw, switched his gaze back to Ronja. He could see her eyes roving behind her papery lids. He wondered if she was dreaming and hoped she was somewhere far away.

  “Bayard and Havarland did not go far,” Victor reminded him softly.

  “Smith,” Roark said through his clenched jaw. “Joshua Smith.”

  “Smith was killed in an auto accident half a year ago,” Victor said sweetly. Roark could not see his face, but could hear the vindictive smile on his mouth. “I can smell the lie on you, Roark Westervelt, that is what you call yourself now, is it not? Tell another falsehood and she will pay dearly for it.”

  “Harriet Fairbanks,” Roark said after a moment.

  Harriet was currently on leave from her post in the core with her new infant daughter. She would be safe in the Belly.

  “If that is the extent of the Anthem’s infiltration, I am far from impressed.”

  “Agatha Morrison. Brendan Tan. Cynthia Link.”

  Morrison and Link were currently suffering from influenza in the quarantine ward. Cynthia had broken her leg the week before on a mission. All three were protected underground.

  For now.

  “Is that all?” Victor asked.

  “All I can recall,” Roark replied levelly.

  “You are lying.”

  It was not a question.

  “Believe whatever you like,” Roark retorted vehemently. “I’m in the inner circle of the Anthem, far more valuable than any of my comrades. Let them go. You only need me.”

  Roark felt his father’s eyes drilling into the back of his head. He heard his fingers slide together like cogs meshing. His footsteps commenced, and Roark heard the door open. Stark white light flooded the room. Ronja was obscured in the violent glare.

  Victor paused. Roark held his breath.

  “I believe I heard one of our guests calling out for Ronja during an experiment. I am certain, however, that this was merely a coincidence.”

  Roark closed his eyes as his father shut the door with a polite click and the muted rattle of a knob.

  42: The Impossible

  Ronja awoke with a hoarse cry, her cheek raw against damp concrete. She struggled to her feet, which were bare and filthy. Her fine clothes had been stripped and replaced with a flimsy hospital gown. She crossed her arms over her chest, peering around self- consciously.

  Her breath caught in her lungs.

  Two walls of her suffocating cell were stone, crusted with mold and dried blood. One was mirrored. The other, glass.

  Ronja could not take her eyes off the girl that had hijacked her reflection.

  Angry burns peeked out from the collar of her gown. Her wild curls had been shaved, leaving behind a sparse stubble. Without her hair to cover it, her scar was even more grotesque, and looked infected.

  Her face was a patchwork of purple and black. Had she been in a fight? Hazy memories laced with her screams hovered on the outskirts of her mind.

  Two men. Their hands. She could not move. Could not fight. Could not run or scream or cry. Could not . . .

  Ronja shook her head viciously. She massaged her temples as if she could smooth the disjointed memories away, but they were wedged firmly in place.

  She refocused on her reflection.

  Lopsided. Monstrous. Disgusting.

  Mutt.

  The word lanced through her, followed by a familiar sting. Movement through the window caught her eye. She switched her gaze to the side. A scream built in her throat, but died on her tongue.

  Beyond the glass wall was a room identical to her own. On the floor, crumpled like an old newspaper, was a boy. His back was turned to her, his head was shaved, but there was no mistaking him.

  Ronja flew at the window. She pounded on the glass with her fists. It shuddered and stilled maddeningly. She backed up and threw her weight at the barrier. She was deflected like a fly against a windshield.

  The noise stirred Cosmin, and he rolled over sluggishly. His eyes blinked slowly.

  Once.

  Twice.

  This time, Ronja’s scream managed to break through her lips.

  Cosmin’s eyes had sunken deep into their sockets. Bruises faded to the color of rotting bananas peppered his face, but they seemed several days old. Why? What had changed? Had he stopped struggling? Had he given up?

  Ronja pressed her palms to the cool glass.

  “Cos?” she whispered, as if his name could shatter the window.

  The boy stared at her blankly, his eyes dull and flat. Blood had crusted in and around both his ears. Ronja leaned her forehead on the glass. Her breath fogged, temporarily veiling her cousin’s—her brother’s— frail form.

  “Cos?”

  The boy blinked mutely. Could he even see her? If he could, did he even recognize her?

  Ronja felt faint. Her knees buckled, but she refused to fall again. She did not want them to see her broken. She knew they were watching her. She had read about one-way glass in the library. She wanted nothing more than to run at the mirror and hurl her rage at it, but knew it would do no good.

  She inhaled.

  Exhaled.

  Inhaled.

  Cosmin was alive. He was right next to her. He was broken, but his heart still beat. If he was alive, that meant Georgie and Layla might be too.

  Ronja pressed her sweat-drenched back against the transparent wall.

  Roark. He had to be alive. Red Bay belonged to his father. Westervelt would not murder his own son, would he?

  Iris and Henry. If she had been spared, had they also been? Would they all be turned into mutts? Tortured for information? Or would they be forced to undergo whatever hellish experiments the scientists had concocted? What about . . . ?

  Ronja froze, her finger hovering over the bridge of her nose.

  Evie.

  Red Bay might not know about Evie. She might have gotten away, gone back to the Anthem and explained the situation. She could have gone on foot, or gone back for the auto. No, she would not have taken the risk. Not when the Offs were on such high alert. She would have run.

  Ronja’s ascending heart plummeted.

  The Anthem would not come for her, a mutt. Even if Evie could convince them she was human, Terra would be there to extinguish any budding doubts Wilcox had. For some unknowable reason, she wanted Ronja gone. Perhaps even dead.

  The Anthemites will come for their own though, right?

  Even as Ronja weighed the question, she knew the answer.

  Iris had said it herself. No one who entered Red Bay ever came out human, if they came out at all. Wilcox would not, could not, risk any more lives. They would not come.

  Iris.

  Ronja closed her eyes. She had begged the surgeon to help her save her family. Now, everything Iris had said was coming true. Their mission had failed. They would be killed because of her inability to protect her own family.

  Ronja opened her eyes and looked back into the mirror. Her own ghastly reflection stared her down like a starved wolf.

  If the Anthem would not come for them, she would get them out herself. There had to be a way. Over the past week, the impossible had been proven to her time and time again.

  An entire culture free of The Music thriving beneath the streets of Revinia. Her Singer, ripped from her head to make way for a barrage of emotions and memories. Men, women, and children who looked at her and did not assume the worst. Black disks that weaved stories by spinning around a silver finger. Voices that could call up the best and worst o
f times. Real music. Something to live for. Something worth fighting for. A chance at freedom and grace.

  There had to be a way out.

  She would find a way. She owed it to the Anthem. She owed it to Iris and Evie, to Roark and Henry. Most of all, to her family.

  Ronja paced the perimeter of her cell, trying not to look at Cosmin’s crumpled form. He had closed his eyes again. His mouth sagged and drool pooled beneath his cheek.

  She searched methodically for something to use as a weapon, but found nothing. She attempted to break the mirror with her bare heel, and was not surprised to find it impossible. The walls were pure concrete, so there were no loose bricks or stones she could tear out to use as blunt weapons. Her stingring had been stripped of course, but her nails were still long and sharp.

  They would come for her soon, and she would be ready when they did.

  43: Rush

  Evie

  The radio went dead at 1:03 A.M. in a rush of static.

  Evie had wanted nothing more than to scream. Instead, she crushed her own radio with the heel of her boot and buried it beneath the dank foliage.

  She waited on her belly among the trees until dawn broke like a yolk in the sky. Roark had warned her that if they were not out after an hour, they were dead or worse.

  Still, Evie could not bring herself to leave.

  Lying flat on her stomach, she concocted a series of fantastical explanations for their tardiness.

  They had decided to free the entire compound. They had discovered a portal to an alternate universe. They had met The Conductor, and it turned out he wasn’t such a bad guy, and they were sharing tea and crumpets.

  Each successive theory was more outlandish than the last, but they kept her distracted from what was really happening in the basin of the valley.

  Evie got to her feet when the sun was hovering just above the horizon. The grass had carved pressure patterns in her elbows and stomach. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and stared down at the white compound, which glowed red in the swelling light, almost as if it was bleeding.

  Before her brain could halt her legs, Evie took off down the slope, her rifle thumping painfully against her back. She caught it in her hand and poured on more speed.

  Movement in the nearest guard tower caused her to throw herself onto the dew-crowned hill. She tumbled several yards before catching herself on a deep-rooted thistle. She held her breath while the Off paced behind the window, as if he could hear her from two hundred yards away.

  The movement subsided.

  Evie curled her thistle-stung palm into a fist. She sucked in a deep breath, then scrambled back up the hill. She did not exhale until she plunged into the tree line, safe among the shadows and pines.

  She sat heavily on the forest floor, trying to control her breathing.

  Evie had watched through her scope as her friends made their way through each successive gate. It felt as if she were watching them march into hell. She kept her eyes trained on Iris’s brilliant curls, and breathed when she touched the wall of the compound. Then, the group disappeared around the corner.

  Three minutes later, the radio sputtered and died.

  It was then that all but Evie’s last shred of hope faded.

  They had been betrayed. Discovered. Captured. Whatever the case, Iris, Roark, Henry, and Ronja were in the hands of Red Bay. Maybe in the hands of The Conductor himself. The capture of four members of the Anthem was a goldmine, especially when one of them was a high profile figure like Roark. Would that be enough to draw The Conductor to the compound?

  Evie could not sneak into Red Bay herself. She could not retrieve the auto. If they had found her friends, they had certainly discovered their vehicle. She could go back to the Anthem, but would they help? Possibly, if she could explain the situation without getting shot. She was a loyal member, had grown up in the arms of the resistance. Her parents had been valued fighters before their deaths. Did that not earn her some credit?

  Yes, but Wilcox won’t risk lives for a lost cause.

  Her desperate hopes withered before they matured.

  The Anthem would not come for them. She could not go in alone—she would never find them in time. There were only two ways out of Red Bay: as a mutt or as fertilizer. Evie slammed her fist against the ground in a sudden fit of rage.

  How could she have been so stupid? She could have stopped Roark. He would have listened to her. He only listened to her. Without Roark, Ronja would not have dreamed of getting into Red Bay. She would have been devastated for a time, but she would have recovered. They had all lost people, it was an occupational hazard. Ronja would have joined the Anthem, gotten her tattoo, and become a part of their family.

  Everyone would have been safe.

  Iris. Roark. Henry. Ronja. Iris.

  Where were they now?

  Dead?

  Tortured?

  Strapped down, needles pumping the mutt virus into their veins?

  No.

  Evie gritted her teeth and rose on one knee, glaring down at Red Bay through salt-stained eyes.

  She would find a way. She always did. She was Evie Wick. Trusted member of the Anthem, unparalleled marksman, techi, child of Ella and Norman Wick. She was . . .

  “Don’t tell me. You’re going to storm the gates with a rifle and a stinger.”

  Evie shot to her feet and cocked her weapon, aiming the heavy muzzle at the owner of the disdainful voice. She squinted into the dull dawn. Her jaw dropped, and her rifle fell with it.

  “Terra?”

  44: Lost

  Ronja tried to count the seconds as they passed, but lost track somewhere in the mid-thousands. She switched to staring down whoever might be observing her beyond the mirror, but grew unnerved by her reflection and had to look away. She tried to wake Cosmin by pounding on the glass and shouting, but he did not stir again. He only moved to breathe, a pained, ragged motion that clawed at her heart.

  It was too bright and cold to sleep, so Ronja began to pace. Four steps across her cell, four steps back. She wondered how much time had passed since her incarceration. Her memories were still hazy. She tried to sort through them, but something was blocking the events. Her own psyche, perhaps.

  She had almost given up pacing when her cell door flew open.

  Ronja leapt into a fighting stance, her fists raised to protect her middle, her back foot pivoted to steady her.

  The Offs who had dragged her to this cell stood in the entryway, a door in themselves.

  Ronja felt her throat constrict.

  Her gaze flickered to their hands, which still burned against her waist and thighs. She still heard the clink of the sentry’s belt buckle, felt the weight of what had almost happened pressing on her skull, making her dizzy.

  The black-haired Off reached to his hip and unclipped a pair of handcuffs. He held them out for her to see, then tossed them to the ground. They landed with a rattling clang several feet from Ronja.

  “What, you expect me to cuff myself?” she asked, her voice pitching up an octave.

  The men did not reply, nor did any emotion crack their apathetic masks. They simply waited, their dead eyes fixed on her.

  Ronja regarded the handcuffs glinting on the damp floor.

  Every fiber in her body was begging her to run, but she knew she could not fight them both. If she refused to restrain herself, they would doubtless do it for her.

  She did not want to be touched by them again.

  Ronja bent down reluctantly and slapped the cuffs onto her wrists, tightening them with a dramatic flourish of her fingers.

  Her guards stepped off to either side of the doorway, unmoved by her silent sarcasm. The bald one motioned for her to step forward. Ronja did as she was bid, slowly. Her bare arms tingled when she brushed between their twin barrel chests. She breathed a sigh of relief when she emerged in the spacious corridor.

  “Wait.”

  Ronja halted, partially due to shock. “It speaks,” she gasped wonderingly, spinni
ng on her heel.

  The vocal guard, the bald one, did not reply. Instead, he moved to stand in front of her. She felt the other Off breathing down the back of her neck. The fine hairs there prickled, and a shiver rippled down her spine.

  “Walk,” the anterior guard commanded, his wide back to her.

  Ronja sighed to mask her fear and started forward. Both Offs followed suit, their footsteps beating in time across the tiles.

  It was almost like a drumbeat.

  The thought knocked a shocked grin onto her mouth, reopening the cut in her lip that had just started to close. It seemed that music was infectious, found even in those vaccinated with Singers.

  Without thinking, Ronja began to hum. No one had to teach her how. It was as natural as breathing.

  “Shut up!”

  Her posterior guard shoved her forward by her sheered head. Ronja faltered. Her voice hitched, but she continued to hum along with the booted footfalls.

  The record spun in her mind. She could see its obsidian face speckled with shards of firelight, could hear the pop and hiss of the needle. She could feel the song on her skin. It was as if it had never stopped playing.

  Sing my friend

  There and back

  The guards halted in unison. In one rapid motion Ronja was pinned to the wall. The black haired Off tried to stuff a rag into her mouth. The girl swallowed her music and bit down on his fingers. He swore profusely as blood gushed from his digits. Ronja gagged, but refused to let go until he cuffed her across the cheek.

  They dragged her the rest of the way, each of them gripping one of her bony arms. She screamed through the putrid cloth the entire length of the corridor, the song lost to her rage. When they finally reached the end of the hall after what felt like miles, the Offs forced her through a nondescript doorway. Ronja crashed to the floor, catching herself with her palms.

  She spat the disgusting cloth out, along with a watery glob of blood, then scrambled to her feet.

  The Offs stepped in after her and closed the door behind them. They watched her mutely, arms stiff at their sides and mouths rigid. The guard with the ponytail still bled profusely, Ronja noticed with a rush of sick satisfaction.