Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Silence greeted her tale. Evie was the first to break it.

  “Red Bay,” she repeated under her breath, shaking her head. She blew a soft whistle through the gap in her front teeth. “Skitz.”

  “Skitz is right,” Iris said blackly. “Roark, what were you thinking?”

  Ronja blanched. Roark rounded on the redhead.

  “How many times have we gone down that hatch together, even when Wilcox ordered us to stay put?” he asked. “This isn’t the first time we’ve gone rogue.”

  “No,” Iris replied, advancing on him. She planted her feet firmly and lifted her chin to hold his gaze. “But it is the first time we’ve shot at him and run away with a mutt.”

  “I’m not—” Ronja spoke up tentatively.

  “It doesn’t matter what you are,” Iris waved her off without taking her eyes off Roark. “Wilcox thinks you’re a mutt, and that’s all that counts.”

  Ronja paused her lips. She dropped her gaze to her boots. Henry gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “This is suicide,” Iris went on, her voice abruptly hushed. “You knew we would follow you anywhere, Trip. You took advantage of that.”

  “Aren’t you always saying we need to do what’s right, no matter what?”

  “Not when it’ll get everyone I love killed!”

  “Do you really think I would ask you to come with me if I didn’t have a plan?” Roark reached out and clapped his hands to her slender shoulders. Iris buckled beneath the weight, but maintained her snarl. “Have I ever let you down?”

  Iris looked away, her teeth gritted.

  “ ’ris?” Roark probed, trying to catch her gaze.

  “We’ll explain everything to Wilcox when we get back,” Evie reassured her levelly. “He’ll understand, and if he doesn’t, Ito will.”

  The surgeon peered over her shoulder at her girlfriend, who leaned against the front door with her arms folded stoically. Iris opened her mouth, a retort prepared, but someone beat her to it.

  “Listen for the deaf, sing for the mute, fight for the powerless.”

  All eyes turned to Henry, who had spoken so quietly they thought they might have imagined it.

  “Our mantra,” he went on more audibly, fixating on Iris. His gaze was firm, but not angry. “We have the duty to defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Iris snapped.

  Henry shook his head. “You know it better than most,” he replied. “But neither of us has ever experienced The Music, and none of us knows what it’s like to be a mutt . . . except Ronja.”

  Their collective gaze shifted to Ronja, who felt the rest of the blood leave her face. “I—I don’t think I have the words for it,” she admitted gruffly, her eyes trained on the scuffed floor. “All I know is, I’ve watched my mother waste away for nineteen years, and if my cousins—if they—”

  Ronja broke off. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

  “I barely know you, Iris,” she said softly. “But I am begging you. Please, help me save my family. I’ll do anything. I’ll—”

  Iris marched forward and drew her into a fierce embrace. Ronja was so shocked that she was paralyzed for a moment. Then she wrapped her arms around the petite surgeon. She was so slight, so frail. For a split second Ronja was transported back to her kitchen, back to the morning not so long ago that she had held Georgie in her arms . . .

  Iris pulled away abruptly. She shouldered her bag, not looking at Ronja, and made for the back door without another word. Evie followed swiftly, her rifle thudding against her back.

  “Wait,” Henry called, reaching a hand out as if to grab the retreating girls.

  “What?” Iris snapped. She scraped to a halt, but did not turn back. Her slight form was rigid. Evie looked at Henry over her shoulder, a brow arched in warning.

  Henry smiled, his dark eyes flicking between Evie and Iris. “You two might want to consider washing off your war paint, or you’ll have a lot of explaining to do at the checkpoint.”

  Evie snorted, reaching up to touch the remains of the crusted paint on her cheeks. She had evidently forgotten it was there. Though Iris still did not turn around, Ronja thought she saw her shoulders relax slightly.

  Without a word the fiery girl made a left into the back hall, her boots clacking against the hardwood. Evie trailed her. A moment later the squeak of a rusted tap and the hum of running water filled the air.

  “Do you have the auto?” Roark asked, turning to Henry.

  Henry dipped his chin.

  “In the garage, a few blocks down.”

  32: Through

  The auto was tucked away in a storage locker beneath a massive swath of brown canvas. It was the newest model on the market, Roark informed them, and the fastest. Fresh from the Westervelt Industries Auto Factory. It was as dark as oil, and roofless, with a thick glass windshield. Golden switches and levers adorned the polished oak dashboard.

  “How was this not stolen?” Ronja asked dubiously as she climbed into the leather passenger seat. She ran her calloused hand along the sleek doorframe, then drew her fingers back gingerly, worried she might tarnish the beautiful machine.

  “Luck and brainwashing?” Henry guessed as he opened the driver’s door.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Roark said, raising his hand. “I’m driving.”

  “Hey, you entrusted this baby to me,” Henry rebuffed him, leaning across the windshield toward Roark.

  “To babysit, not to drive.”

  “I know how to drive!”

  “Subtrains don’t count.”

  “Don’t you have a chauffeur, Roark?” Evie asked dryly from the backseat. She was reclining against the headrest with her fingers laced behind her head. An unlit cigarette was pinched between her teeth.

  Roark jabbed an accusatory finger in her face, which she swatted away like a gnat. “No smoking in my car,” he growled.

  Evie clicked her lighter in response, cupping the shivering flame to the cigarette. She inhaled unhurriedly, then hissed out a lungful of smoke. Ronja’s nostrils stung, but she had to fight a smile.

  “I’m risking my life to help you and your girlfriend,” Evie said, tapping the ashes over the side of the car. “I’ll smoke if I like.”

  Ronja was suddenly glad it was dim inside the storage locker.

  “Are Ronja and I the only ones who are serious around here?” Iris asked loudly, dropping her duffle into the backseat with a reverberating clang.

  “It’s called deflection, and it’s a highly successful coping mechanism,” Roark replied stoutly. “Right, love?” Ronja shot him a scathing look, but it was lost in the dimness of the garage. “Anyway,” the boy went on. “If you would just step aside, H—”

  “Ugh, move over,” Iris ordered.

  She stalked forward and wrenched open the door, then yanked Henry out of the front seat by the back of his jacket. The boy stumbled into Roark, who shoved him off with an exasperated grunt. Iris slid behind the wheel gracefully. She twisted the key in the ignition and revved the engine. Iris looked out at the two boys expectantly, a pristine brow arched.

  “Get in, pitchers,” she commanded.

  Henry and Roark shared a look, then climbed into the back compartment without further argument. Evie continued to smoke in silence. Ronja appraised Iris in vague awe. The pixieish girl ignored her, but a faint smile dusted her lips.

  The driver cracked her knuckles, then placed her hands on the leather steering wheel.

  “Where are we going?” she called back to Roark.

  “Out of the city, north gate,” he replied.

  Iris nodded, then moved to put the auto in gear.

  “Wait,” Roark said.

  Ronja and Iris twisted in their seats. Roark was digging through his pocket. After a moment, he withdrew a handful of glinting silver devices.

  False Singers.

  Roark held them out for everyone to take. Ronja reached to grab hers, then retracted her hand, embar
rassed.

  “Actually, I have something else for you,” Roark said.

  The boy thrust his hand into his coat again, and withdrew something white and red. He tossed it at Ronja. She caught it gingerly. It was a blood-drenched cloth.

  “Why . . . ?” Ronja trailed off, letting it dangle by a red tip.

  “It’s not real blood,” Roark assured her. “It’s tomato paste and glue.”

  Ronja wrinkled her nose dubiously.

  “You’re my girlfriend,” Roark said, poking a finger at Ronja, who tensed. “You were riding on the back of my motorbike and we got in an accident, which explains my face, and your ear. You wanted to go to the hospital, but I knew that Red Bay was the best place for you.”

  Ronja bobbed her head in understanding, breathing an internal sigh of relief.

  “Who are we?” Henry asked.

  “Friends. We’re dropping you off at my country home.”

  “There’s just a slight problem with all of this,” Henry cut in reluctantly. Roark glowered at him sidelong, daring him to put a kink in his plan. “I didn’t have time to finish her papers.”

  Roark groaned loudly and looked to the ceiling for answers.

  “It’s not my fault you came back three hours early,” Henry said defensively.

  “Okay,” Roark said with exaggerated exhaustion, kneading his temples. “I’ll think of something—just follow my lead.”

  “Are we done here?” Iris asked impatiently. She was staring out the windshield, her knuckles whitening around the steering wheel.

  “Yes,” Ronja said.

  Iris wrenched back a lever and slammed down the accelerator. Tires squealed against the concrete, and Ronja was pinned to her leather seat. She clawed for her safety belt and did not breathe until it was clicked into place across her lap.

  The wind whipped her face and stung her wound as they tore out of the storage compound and onto the motorway. Pedestrians gawked as the glossy black car wove through the maze of rust-eaten junkers and livestock trucks.

  Iris was a fantastic driver, smooth and self-assured, but Ronja could not help but feel queasy with each hairpin turn she made. Even Roark’s motorbike was better than this powerhouse. She missed the steady hum of the subtrain.

  As they zoomed toward the edge of the outer ring, the brick buildings gave way to shantytowns, the cobblestones to mud and sewage. The murky brown sludge sprayed behind them as they roared forward. Ronja pressed herself toward Iris, hoping to avoid the wayward flecks of crud that leapt up from the wheels.

  The great wall of Revinia expanded before them, four stories high and crowned with obsidian watchtowers. The gray stones between the towers blurred with the smog-choked skies, making the barrier appear without end.

  A sense of foreboding built in Ronja’s gut as they approached the north gate. She had only read about the outside world, and the information she had been fed was doubtlessly flawed. Every book she had ever read told her the world beyond Revinia was a terrible place brimming with sporadic warfare. That much of the land was arid due to the ravages of battle. That civilization had never reemerged in the once-powerful Arutia.

  Ronja did not know what to believe anymore, but realized with a jolt that she soon would. There was nothing for her in Revinia any longer. She and her family would have to leave the city-state and commence a new life in Arutia, or beyond. The possibilities were as endless as they were terrifying.

  The girl peered back over her shoulder at the drab slum, at the slick road growing thinner in their wake, at the golden clock tower glittering in the distance. The city had brought her nothing but suffering for nineteen years.

  So why did her throat constrict at the thought of leaving?

  An image of the Belly flashed in her mind, and at once she understood her hesitation.

  “Okay love, get ready to act,” Roark called over the gale.

  Ronja turned back toward the windscreen. The enormous northern gate loomed before them like a mouth with its teeth slammed shut. Two trucks headed to the fields idled before the sealed exit.

  “It wouldn’t hurt if you screamed a bit and thrashed about. It’ll make them gloriously uncomfortable,” Roark went on from behind her.

  Ronja grimaced, but nodded.

  Iris eased her foot off the gas as they came up on the gate. Half a dozen Offs paced around the truck nearest the exit. As they rolled to a stop, one of the sentinels shouted and waved at the nearest tower. There was a bang like a gunshot followed by the steady crank of gears. Ronja craned her neck around the second truck as the gate was retracted like paper sliding into a scroll. She fidgeted in her seat. Her view of the open land was choked by the black smog from the tailpipe of the second truck.

  Another earsplitting crack, and the whir of machinery. The iron door eased back into the ground. The remaining truck inched forward, then came to a shuddering halt. Ronja hunched over and clutched the rag to her ear as the Offs wrapped around the hood of their car to access the canvas covered truck bed. She watched through her eyelashes as two of them jumped into the hooded compartment, searching for a whiff of illegality. The remaining Offs interrogated the driver. Ronja could hear their stingers crackling even over the hum of the engines.

  “Clear! Let him through!”

  Ronja squeezed her eyes shut. They were next.

  Bang.

  Ch . . . ch . . . ch . . .

  The truck coughed into motion. Smog prickled in her nostrils as it chugged forward.

  Bang.

  Ch . . . ch . . . ch . . .

  “Next!”

  “Keep it up, Ronja,” Iris whispered as she eased the auto toward the exit.

  Ronja pressed her chest to her knees. She hardly had to fake a pained countenance. Though the medication muted the sting, her injury still throbbed, not to mention her persistent motion sickness and her jarred nerves.

  “Here we go,” Iris muttered.

  Heavy boots sang across the bricks. The crunch of leather as an Off came to a halt beside Iris. Ronja could not see him through her tangled curls, but judging by his breathing he was nearly as fat as Wasserman. Slow, but powerful.

  Kneecaps, eyes, throat. Kneecaps, eyes, throat, Ronja reminded herself frantically.

  “Papers,” the Off demanded in a guttural voice.

  A collective rustle as the occupants of the auto handed over their documents. The Off took them and began to leaf through them lazily. Ronja breathed shallowly, as if it would somehow diminish her presence. She clenched both of her hands to the discolored cloth.

  Ronja flinched when the sentry smacked the wad of papers against his leg.

  “I count four,” he growled.

  Ronja felt her stomach plummet, but she said nothing.

  Kneecaps, eyes, throat.

  “My girlfriend lost her papers earlier this morning,” Roark intoned from the backseat. “We were in a motorbike accident, as you can see.”

  “Hospital’s the other way.”

  “Red Bay is this way.”

  The Off was momentarily stunned into silence, then he barked an echoing laugh. Ronja counted her heartbeats.

  “Red Bay?” he rumbled. “The prison? Why the hell would you punkass kids want to go there?”

  “It is also the most advanced hospital in a thousand miles. My personal physician resides there, and I want nothing but the best for my girl.”

  Ronja twitched uncomfortably. She hoped to pass it off as a spasm of pain.

  “Only way you’re getting into Red Bay is in chains, which may just happen if you don’t turn around now.”

  “You may want to check my papers more carefully, sir,” Roark said, executing the final word like a jab to the gut.

  The man snorted.

  A rustle of paper. The hum of the engine. The babel of the slums. Ronja’s own heart like the propellers of an airship.

  The Off cleared his throat.

  “My . . . my sincerest apologies, Mr. Westervelt. I wish your . . . friend a full recovery.”


  Rubber scraped against stone as the man turned on his heel and waved the gate open.

  Bang.

  Ch . . . ch . . . ch . . .

  “Drive,” Roark ordered tightly.

  Ronja heard Iris snatch the papers from the guard. Then she was thrown back into her seat as the auto roared forward, its wheels screeching like a startled bird. She brought her head up as they shot through the yawning portal.

  Ronja opened her eyes.

  33: Crickets

  It was better than the books.

  The colored photographs in Flora and Fauna. The hoarded magazines she had poured over, searching for snippets of information on the outside world. All paled in comparison to the real thing.

  The first thing Ronja noticed was the air. Her lungs could not get enough of the crisp, sharp wind. It was so light, so rich with oxygen, unburdened by smoke and smog.

  The sky roiled with bruised thunderheads. A vast prairie wandered below them, stretching as far as the eye could see. The grass was tinged silver and an eerie shade of green beneath the gray sunlight. Flowers peppered the grassland like vibrant birthmarks on the skin of the earth. Irises, poppies, ragweed, daisies. Violet, red, yellow, white.

  Ronja whipped around, swiping her hair from her face to reveal a massive grin. The walls were already growing smaller in their wake. The way back was already shut, its black teeth clenched. From far away, Revinia seemed nothing more than a toy, a model. Benign.

  Just like that, Ronja was out.

  Her smile faded as quickly as a cloudburst. Her family’s faces were reflected in the landscape. They were here, she realized, her gut oscillating with something other than motion sickness. They were unconscious. They wouldn’t have seen this. What if they never see it?

  Ronja turned back around to face the windshield, her mouth a grim line.

  Roark directed Iris down the meandering dirt road. Evie pitched her cigarette over the edge of the car with a dejected sigh. It was impossible to smoke in the howling wind.

  They drove for thirty minutes in silence. Ronja stared through the glass, oblivious to her numb cheeks and watering eyes. Her awe and pain wrestled ceaselessly.

  “Here come the fields,” Evie finally called from the back seat, breaking the hum of the engine and the gusting of the wind.