See what love the Composer has poured out on us.
As we hurtle out of the VIP compound, startled Squad officers dive for the edge of the road. Hodge makes the most of our surprise appearance. He stomps on the accelerator, and the truck roars through the boom gates at the first checkpoint, splintering the aluminum barrier and sending more guards rushing for safety. But the second checkpoint isn’t quite as easy. Guards swarm forward into a line across the road. They aim their dissuasion cannons at us, and a hail of smoke clouds billows in front of the windscreen, temporarily blinding us.
“We’re not going to make it,” I yell through clamped teeth.
Hodge’s jaw sets firmly, and he leans forward, aiming the truck at the place where the boom gates were last in view. Then he yanks the radio handset off the ceiling of the truck and puts in a call to the box.
“Checkpoint Sigma, this is Squad officer #452/08418. We have an incendiary device onboard. Attempting to remove it to a safe location. Enact bomb safety protocol Echo Bravo Delta. Over.”
The radio crackles back. “Copy that, Squad officer #452/08418. We need you to stop for inspection at the checkpoint. Over.”
“Negative, Checkpoint Sigma,” Hodge says. “Incendiary device is timed to go off in 030 minutes. We need to remove the vehicle to a safe perimeter before it explodes. Over.”
“Thirty minutes?” I yelp. “That’s not enough time!”
Hodge leans sideways, his eyes still fixed on the cloud of smoke obscuring our view. “I just made that up. If we stop, the traitors on the inside will get to us.”
“Oh.” I reply, feeling a sick, nervous fluttering in my chest. An hour ago I was a Watcher. Now I’m . . . well, out of all of the ways I can imagine this playing out, I can’t imagine a single one that keeps me safe. Or not dead.
“Squad officer #452/08418,” the radio voice sounds firm. “Negative on the drive-through. Stop at checkpoint for investigation. Over.”
“Roger that, Checkpoint Sigma,” Hodge replies. “Over.” He replaces the handset and grips the steering wheel with whitened knuckles.
“They’re going to arrest us.” I fail to keep a note of panic out of my voice. “What are we going to do?”
Hodge grimaces. “Pray for a miracle.” He shifts down a gear, and the truck engine whines and slows.
Doubt floods my thoughts. How could this be happening? This was supposed to be easy. But right now, we’re hurtling toward a hostile Squad, which makes perfect sense when you think about it. A rogue truck, breaking down barriers and screaming through the middle of Triumph festival is not exactly going to get a warm welcome. As if they’re going to roll out the VIP carpet and say, “Of course! Run right through the middle of us!”
“You said you were going before us, Composer,” I mutter under my breath. Now would be a good time!
The truck continues to rumble on, and the cloud of smoke clears enough to reveal shadowy figures scurrying about at the next checkpoint. A line of soldiers is still stationed across the gate, but some have moved to the side of the road. Their weapons are levelled at us. I shut my eyes tightly and begin singing in my head with all my might.
The radio crackles again. “Squad officer #452/08418, we’re picking up some pretty unusual readings on that vehicle. Did you say it was an incendiary device? Over?”
We’re only a hundred yards away from the gate now. “Affirmative, Checkpoint Sigma. There are some heavy booby traps on the undercarriage, so defusing not an option. We need to get away from Triumph grounds and into a safe blast zone. Over.”
“Any signs of remote detonation? Over.”
“Negative. Best option is to remove it to a safe perimeter. Over.”
“Roger that. Clearing a path for you now. Go well. Over.”
I open one eye and squint at the checkpoint in front. The line of soldiers disintegrates as one by one they run to the sides of the road. Disbelieving, I watch the boom gate rise. Behind us is the Triumph festival. Ahead is the open highway that leads right through Love City.
Without a word, Hodge kicks the truck into gear, and we lurch forward.
“Ha!” I am disbelieving and yet gleeful at the open road before us.
“You sound surprised,” Hodge remarks.
“We already had one impossible thing happen today, and I thought maybe there was a limit. You know . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, as we speed down empty lanes, surprisingly free.
The Squad calls in an escort, and before long, a line of vehicles forms a parade heading west along the highway. It would probably draw more attention if the vast majority of the population weren’t already at the Triumph festival. Instead, we form an eerie, ghostlike procession: the doomed and those who came to witness on a last-ditch quest to remove the truck from harm’s way.
The late-afternoon sun descends slowly in the sky as we drive. Hodge’s eyes are fixed on the road, fingers clamped around the wheel. My thoughts churn. I have to keep fighting the urge to leap from the moving truck.
In the rearview mirrors beside the doors, I get a good look at the flashing lights where a wall of Love Squad vehicles fans out behind us. They’re a long way back, no doubt to keep them a safe distance from any explosions. My anxious feelings escalate, threatening to send me into full-blown panic. Then an unbidden memory blinks in my mind like a light being switched on.
Memory Location: Secret bunker
“Nothing the Collective can throw at us will separate us from the Composer, Cadence,” Akela says softly. “Not even death.”
Not even death . . . A strange, unnatural peace settles over me. Akela’s words scatter my anxious flutterings the way a gust of wind scatters fallen leaves from the path. Our situation is complicated, but we’re not hopeless.
We’re on the outskirts of the city when Wil moans. His wrists are tied, and the seatbelt is across his chest as an added restraint, but I still freak out when he begins to stir.
“Hodge,” I whisper urgently.
Hodge just makes a grunting noise and continues to keep focused on the broad line of concrete that stretches out before us.
“Hodge.” I lean closer to his ear this time. “What are we going to do?”
Hodge’s voice is a low rumble over the truck’s high-pitched whine. “It’ll be okay,” is all he says. “The Composer is orchestrating.”
So I keep my anxious thoughts to myself and start casting side-eye glances at Wil. After another groan, his head begins move from side to side. He raises his head, and his eyelids slowly open. He stares around for a second, squinting. Then his eyes suddenly widen in panic.
“What the—?” His whole body jolts upright. “You put me in here? What in Love’s name were you thinking?”
He writhes around, scratching at the passenger door with his bound hands. For a split second I just watch him. This could solve our problem. Speeding along the highway, the truck’s cab is so high up that Wil could easily . . .
Save him.
The words aren’t mine, and I immediately react with anger. Why should I? Wil wants to kill us all. His continued existence is a constant burden on the safety of Sirens.
I haven’t finished with him yet.
The Muse’s soft music washes away the rough edges of my fury.
I am the Healer of songs, it sings. Trust in me.
I pull Wil away from the door. He elbows me in the face. It is only by the Composer’s strength that I don’t shove him out of the cab then and there. The two of us become a struggling, scrambling mass as Wil tries to get rid of me and I try to prevent him from throwing himself to his death. My selfishness keeps telling me to let him go, but I can’t ignore the Muse.
“Stop it!” I grab at Wil’s wrists.
Wil keeps on trying to get his hands around the door handle. “Better than being here. You guys are insane.”
“What are you going to do? Did you sprout wings?”
Wil hesitates and looks at the rectangular mirror beside the window—and gets a glimpse of the entourage following us. His whole body goes still, then he slumps back into his seat with a sullen sigh.
“You’re ruining everything,” he mutters.
“Well, while you’re here, you can tell us how much time we have before it blows up.” Hodge has kept on calmly staring at the road during all this. I don’t know how he does it.
Wil, on the other hand, looks more than agitated. “What does it matter?” He fidgets, his fingers trying in vain to get to the cable tie holding his wrists together. “It’s not like any of us are going to survive anyway.”
Silence settles over the cabin. The sun is continuing its descent toward the horizon, and it peeks below the sun shades on the windscreen, causing bright light to burn into my eyes. Hodge is taller, so it’s not yet affecting him, but on this straight line westwards, it’s only a matter of time.
I raise a hand above my face to shield the light. “We can’t have much time, Hodge. They set fire to the Haterman at dusk.”
Wil snorts in derision. “If you guys hadn’t turned up, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“The Composer knew what you were planning,” I say boldly. “He wasn’t going to let you ruin your life.”
Wil scoffs. “The Collective is evil, and you know it. How can you just sit there and do nothing?”
“Lyric’s way isn’t violence.”
Wil bangs his fists in frustration. “Right. They abduct us. They kill us. They imprison us and turn our brains to mush. The only language they understand is violence. We were going to cut off the head, so the rest of the body could regenerate.”
Hodge darts a glance at him. “Not the greatest analogy,” he remarks dryly.
I sit forward, blocking the space between the two. “The problem isn’t the head, it’s the heart, Wil. You don’t change anything by becoming exactly like them.”
“But the Supreme Executive—”
“The people don’t need another Supreme Executive, Wil. They need a new song.” Wil gives an exaggerated groan and turns his face away. I figure our conversation is over.
We pass another exit ramp and a few more signs telling us about locations I don’t know: Love Meadows, Executive Heights, Lake Midgate, and others. A weird, distracting thought hits me: with time running out, I am going to die without having seen even a tenth of the nation I supposedly live in. It’s no big deal compared to singing with the Composer. But it still would have been nice to see at least some of my homeland in person. The Collective is a big place.
“Are we just going to drive until we explode?” Wil snaps, his agitation building again.
“I think I have an idea,” Hodge says, turning the truck toward the next highway exit. “Hold on.”
The truck drops back a gear and chugs up the ramp, curving away from the asphalt river into a tree-lined road. A road sign we pass says, Lake Midgate, 2 Mi. The line of flashing lights follows us up the hill.
The radio crackles. “Squad officer #452/08418, state your purpose, over.”
“Attempting a ditch maneuver,” Hodge replies evenly. “Incendiary device timed for lighting ceremony. We have to get it in place before sundown. Over.”
“Copy that. Calling in aerial support. Over.”
“Aerial support. But what about—?” I bite my lip and point at Wil.
“There’s a slow spot as we go in to the park,” Hodge explains. “I’ve seen it on a VR exercise. We make a left 100 degree turn, which gives us a quick window where the pursuit won’t be able to see the passenger side. When I slow, Wil, you need to jump into the bushes for cover. The Squad’s view will be blocked by the truck just long enough for you to get away.”
“You’re just going to let me go?” Wil asks incredulously.
“This has nothing to do with whether you deserve to be let free, because you don’t.” Hodge says crisply. “But Lyric’s love saved us when we didn’t deserve it. He wants us to love others the way he loved us. So I’m letting you go.”
“Despite this.” Wil nods over his shoulder at the trailer behind us.
Hodge casts a quick glance at him. “Wil, you haven’t killed anyone yet, and today we are going to take the consequences for you. You aren’t a murderer,” he adds.
Wil fidgets again.
“You need to get to the Exodus, though,” I tell him. “You can’t stay in the Collective.”
“Oh, I won’t. If the guys I worked with found me, I’d be dead.” The green eyes are staring down at his hands. I notice they’re trembling.
“We’re nearly here,” Hodge declares. The tree-lined road curves away to the right, slowly climbing into the mountains. On the left, a large timber sign announces in flaking paint, Lake Midgate: The Happiest Splash in the Collective. The sign is large and surrounded by hedges that obviously haven’t been trimmed for a long time.
“Looks like nobody’s been here for years,” I say.
“Nature can’t compete with app goggles,” Wil replies bitterly.
“Okay. Get ready to drop,” Hodge says, slowing the truck down at the turnoff. “Your target is that sign. Lay low until we’re gone, then make a run for the border.”
Wil nods wordlessly. He gestures at the clock. “You’ve got eight minutes,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”
“What?!” I yelp, jumping in my seat.
Hodge, ever the cool-headed soldier, just utters something that sounds like, “Huh.”
“Sorry.” Wil looks genuinely apologetic. Not that it does anything for our situation.
My hands are clammy, and it takes precious seconds to unlatch Wil’s seatbelt. He makes a grab for the door.
“Are you going to get me out of this?” he asks, holding up his cable-tied hands.
“No time.” I give him a little shove. I confess that I might have put more force into it than necessary. But with seven minutes left before an enormous bomb goes off, who can blame me for being a little tense?
The truck chugs around the corner, and the sign rolls into view beside the passenger door. Tall hedges form a high screen around the edge of the sandstone face. In the stone, weathered and stained lettering announces the Lake Midgate Picnic Grounds. Hodge was right. It’s a perfect hiding place, as long as Wil can reach it.
Wil tenses, then releases the door handle. The truck slows while Hodge makes a pretense of accidentally grinding the gears. Suddenly, Wil leaps from the cab and disappears. As I slide into the passenger seat, I can spot his brown-shirted back duck under the bushes surrounding the sign. Then Hodge accelerates, and we are heading down the road deeper into the park.