The Initiation

by Chris Babu

  THE

  INITIATION

  CHRIS BABU

  A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

  The Initiation

  © 2018 by Chris Babu

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-68261-593-5

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-594-2

  Cover art by Ryan Truso

  Interior Design and Composition by Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Permuted Press, LLC

  New York • Nashville

  permutedpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  For Lily

  I hope this book always reminds you

  it’s never too late to follow your dreams.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  Drayden was lounging in bed, his physics textbook balanced on his gangly leg, when the front door exploded with a splintering crash.

  He sat bolt upright.

  Footsteps thundered through the apartment. Boots, by the sound of it, stomped past his closed bedroom door. Voices boomed through the walls.

  Drayden leapt off the bed and tiptoed in bare feet across the cold hardwood floor. He pressed his ear against the door.

  A high-pitched scream ripped through the air.

  Mom?

  Hands trembling, Drayden swung the door open to the dim living room, and froze.

  The same room he’d always known stood before him: the floors dull, hardly a trace of the shine they once had; the shkatty burnt-orange couch, now too short for him to lie on without curling up his legs; the mahogany coffee table, missing one leg, with an old bottle of ack doing the job instead.

  Guardians occupied the cramped space now, decked out in their black, military-like uniforms. With bulging eyes and clenched jaws, they brandished semi-automatic rifles. The typical Guardians patrolled the streets half asleep, but these guys were muscular and heavily armed. Special Forces. Two Guardians gripped his petite Korean mother, one on each arm. She struggled against their grasp, her eyes wide and wild. She was breathing heavily, on the verge of tears. Her normally straight black hair was tangled into a wispy mess.

  “Mom!” Drayden screamed.

  His father cowered in the corner, his gaze fixed to a spot on the floor, his hands clasped in front of him.

  Drayden’s brother Wesley emerged from his bedroom, mouth open and brow furrowed. A Guardian faced him with his weapon drawn.

  “Freeze, chotch.”

  Wesley obeyed, for the moment. His eyes met Drayden’s. They showed fear and confusion, but something else too. Anger. No, rage.

  Drayden turned left, only to find a gun in his own face.

  The Guardian had menacing black eyes and wore his long black hair in a ponytail. “Same deal, string bean,” he snarled. “Stay put, right there.”

  Drayden couldn’t move even if he wished. Adrenaline coursed through his body, like when those flunks at school tried to pick a fight with him. His legs turned to rubber. He’d trained in jiu-jitsu a bit, but he’d never had a gun pointed at him before.

  “Mom? Dad?” he pleaded.

  His mother sniffled. “It’s all right, Dray. I don’t know why they’re here. Everything’s going to be fine, honey. Just do what they say.”

  “This isn’t what I think it is. Is it?”

  “Quiet!” a Guardian barked.

  A Chancellor strode through the front door, now permanently open, thanks to the battering ram lying on the floor. She was an elderly woman with short gray hair, cut like a boy’s. Her pale cheeks were reddened from the chilly April night, and her piercing blue eyes bore holes in them. She wore Guardian black as well, in the form of a baggy suit—standard issue for Chancellors—rather than tight military fatigues. A red pin identifying her as a Bureau member stood out on her chest. Chancellors worked closely with the Guardians, acting as society’s judges.

  She faced Drayden’s mother with her nose in the air. “Maya Coulson, you have been found guilty of conspiring against the Bureau of New America. You are hereby sentenced to exile. You have ten minutes to gather a few things and say goodbye to your family.”

  No, no, no!

  This couldn’t be happening. The room spun and spots clouded Drayden’s field of vision. When tears welled up, he tried to blink them away.

  Conspiring against the Bureau? Exiled?

  His enraged mother battled to free herself from the Guardians’ grip, but they were too strong. “How dare you!” she roared. “I haven’t conspired against anyone! Where’s the proof?” She was animalistic, seething. “This is my family. You can’t take me away from them!”

  The Chancellor sneered at his mother. “Mrs. Coulson,” she said in a most patronizing tone, “as you well know, we have no mandate to show proof or provide an explanation. The Bureau handles these decisions with the utmost consideration and care. Once made, our decision is final. You have nine minutes left, so I suggest you use them wisely.”

  The Guardians lowered their weapons and released his mother. Drayden’s father slouched, his eyes locked on the floor.

  Say something! Drayden willed, his disgust welling up. What kind of man would let his wife be hauled away like this? He glanced at his brother.

  At eighteen, Wesley was two years older than Drayden. While Drayden was taller at six feet, Wesley was a much bulkier kid, built up by lifting heavy crates of food all day. He even dwarfed some Guardians in the room. Wesley’s eyes focused on the nearest Guardian’s rifle, which hung down on his left side.

  Uh-oh.

  “Wes, no!” Drayden yelled at the exact moment his brother dove for the rifle.

  Wesley punched the gun out of the Guardian’s hand, jettisoning the weapon toward the center of the room. When he lunged for the fallen gun, another Guardian cracked him on the skull with the butt of his rifle. Wesley crumpled to the floor, a huge gash near his temple oozing blood down his face. He moaned in pain, his hand clasped over the cut.

  What a flunk, Drayden thought. What did Wes think would happen? Still, part of him admired Wesley’s fearlessness. Drayden could never do something like that.

  Their father rushed to Wesley’s aid and applied pressure to the wound with his shirt sleeve. “Hold still, Wes,” he whispered.

  The Guardians retreated to the edges of the living room.

  Drayden tugged on his left earlobe, debating the few options. Taking on a room full of armed soldiers was dumb. There had to be another way. He shook out his hands and approached the Chancell
or.

  Two Guardians stormed over and blocked him.

  With as firm a voice as he could muster, he addressed her from behind the men. “Chancellor, clearly there’s been some sort of a mistake. My mother isn’t part of any conspiracy.” He racked his brain for anything left from mock debating at school last year. Use logic, not personal attacks. “I’m assuming you didn’t do the investigating yourself. Someone else did it for you.” No expression on the woman’s face at all. An alternative solution. Maybe that. “What harm would it do to detain her overnight in a cell while you verify it? I’m confident you’ll find out this is all a mix-up. If you force her outside the walls right now and discover later you were wrong, she can’t return.”

  The Chancellor cocked her head, a scornful expression flitted across her face. “Young man, there has been no mistake. The information has already been verified.” She checked her watch. “Now, in eight minutes, you will never see your mother again. I recommend you make the most of it.” She glared at him with those deadly

  blue eyes.

  Drayden shrunk away from her, wishing he had Wesley’s guts. How could someone be so unreasonable? This woman knew battering rams and power, not compassion.

  The moment was surreal. His mom, the most important person in his life, would be unceremoniously cast off in minutes and he was powerless to stop it. He ran to his mother and clung to her. “Mom, no.”

  She hugged him back.

  Drayden yearned to hold her forever. So many memories flooded his mind. At eleven, when he’d battled an infection from that damn rusty slide, she’d stayed by his side for weeks and they’d played cards nonstop. All he’d wanted for his eighth birthday was to climb the Empire State Building. They’d snuck in, and it took all day, but they did it together. Mom pointed out Brooklyn and Queens, and she brought an avocado to share, which was heaven.

  Of course, nobody could forget the time she marched down to school when Wesley got in trouble. She caught him hanging out with the winoozes around the corner, drinking ack from a flask. Although he’d dwarfed her even at fourteen, that didn’t stop her from yanking him up by his shirt and physically dragging him home, humiliating him in front of all his flunk friends. No, Drayden was going to stay right here, clutching her tight.

  She eased back and wiped away her tears one eye at a time. “I need you to listen to me. You’re going to be fine. The three of you have each other. Your father and Wesley need you now. You’re so smart, baby, you’ll always be fine.” She smiled the unhappiest smile Drayden could imagine. “I’m not worried about you at all. You’re a strong, strong boy.”

  No, I’m not, he thought.

  Across the living room, Dad helped Wesley to his feet. Wesley’s knees wobbled as he stood. The Guardians spoke in hushed tones around the edges of the living room. The stoic Chancellor hovered by the splintered door, observing the family.

  “I’m sure you know this already,” Mom said, “but this conspiracy stuff is complete hogwash. I have no clue why this happened.”

  Drayden hesitated. “Maybe I can figure out who did this,” he said under his breath.

  “No,” she snapped, her whisper forceful. “I don’t want you getting in trouble. Besides, you could never find that out, the Bureau would never reveal it.”

  “Not from here in the Dorms, but I could from the Palace.”

  “No!”

  She knew exactly what he was thinking. He’d never been able to fool her, ever. Oh, how he’d tried! It had seemed like a game until now.

  “I can enter the Initiation. Then I could get into the Palace.”

  “Absolutely not,” his mother fired back. “Finding out won’t matter anyway, I can’t ever return. Do you understand me? Promise me you won’t do that.”

  Drayden jutted his jaw and clenched his fists. “It’s not right. They can’t exile people for no reason.”

  She glanced around the room. “Dray, honey, I’m almost out of time. I have to say goodbye to your dad and brother now. Promise.”

  His mind raced. These might be his last words to his mother. The thought made him sick to his stomach. He lowered his eyes. “Okay.”

  “Good.” She placed her hands on his cheeks. “Baby, I love you more than you’ll ever know. You be strong for me.”

  His tears flowed. “What about you? You’ll be outside. Nobody ever comes back from outside the walls. What’s going to happen to you? Who’s going to take care of you if you get sick?”

  “Dray, you know me better than that.” She forced that unhappy smile again.

  Acid crept up the back of Drayden’s throat.

  “Your mother is strong, baby. I’ll find a way to stay safe. Trust me. I bet others have survived. There’s probably a community of people out there somewhere.”

  He looked at her hopefully through blurry eyes.

  She nodded with authority. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s been ages, hasn’t it? The superbug might be ancient history.”

  Drayden was bawling now, barely able to hear her.

  “Don’t worry about me. Just take care of your father and brother.” She kissed his forehead. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Mom.” He wasn’t sure the words made any sense through his sobs.

  His mother pulled away and crossed the room. His strong, brave mother. She hugged his dad, and stood on her tippy-toes to whisper in his ear. He towered over her, his baggy pajamas sagging on his lanky frame, yet he seemed small next to her. And wooden, in shock. He wouldn’t look at her. She moved to Wesley and spent a few minutes with him as he struggled to fight back tears himself. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

  Wesley finally said, “I will, Mama, I promise,” and opened his eyes to look straight at Drayden.

  The few feet between Drayden and his brother felt like a thousand miles. A whole country. A whole planet. His mom was his life. He hadn’t realized it till that moment but now he knew it with every cell in his body. With her gone, he was alone.

  While she left to change into warmer clothes, his father came to life once again. He stuffed a few essentials in a backpack for her: an extra set of clothes, a pair of shoes, two bottles of drinkable water, a box of matches, a knife, a banana, a cantaloupe, and three uncooked potatoes.

  Drayden watched, uselessly cataloging each item, registering the futility of it. Because none of it mattered for shkat. No one lived outside the walls. Outside was death.

  Dad stopped when nothing else fit. Mom returned in tan wool pants. Ironically, they’d been a rare gift from the Bureau for all her backbreaking work managing their local Food Distribution Center. She’d been with the FDC all Drayden’s life. Exile was her reward.

  Drayden’s tears dried. Coldness settled into his gut.

  Mom was also wearing her favorite sweatshirt, likely one of the last remaining pieces of cotton clothing in the entire city. The ripped blue New York Knicks hoodie now only read “N— Y—r— —cks.” She flopped on the backpack and tugged the straps tight, as if she were going on a hike.

  They all stood in silence. Time seemed to stop for the briefest of moments.

  It was too much. Drayden broke the spell, ran up, and hugged his mother one last time. He kissed her cheek, and told her he loved her over and over.

  She smiled, but her eyes radiated heartbreak. And for the first time, fear. The Guardians began stirring again, and without a word, the Chancellor marched out the door. As swiftly as the whole ordeal began, it ended. The Guardians escorted his mom out of their apartment, and out of their lives forever.

  Drayden stared at the crack in the ceiling above his bed. Curved, shaped like an elephant, the paint hung down in a strip where the trunk would be. Sleep was out of the question. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and tore off the elephant’s trunk. The paint scrap lay limp in his hand, weightless. His anger felt just as hot, his sorrow just as wrenching.

&nbs
p; He flopped down onto his back.

  Was his mother still inside the city walls? Besides the Guardians and Chancellors, nobody had ever witnessed the conclusion of an exile, whatever happened after the Bureau snatched people from their homes. The Guardians weren’t exactly a quiet bunch, particularly when drunk, and over the years the process became common knowledge. Exiles usually occurred at night. The Guardians drove the exiled in an electric bus to the top of the city in what used to be called Inwood. A Chancellor escorted them to guarantee the person wasn’t abused.

  So considerate. The Bureau ensured his mother’s protection right before they pushed her to her probable death.

  When they reached the old Henry Hudson Bridge and removed the exiled from the bus, the begging, pleading, and crying usually began. The Guardians opened a gate, and basically shoved the person out onto the bridge.

  There were stories of people lingering so long the Guardians would threaten to shoot them if they didn’t cross the bridge into the Bronx. Guardians manned the few gates in the walls surrounding New America around the clock. Supposedly some of the exiled would return and try to negotiate their re-entry, which of course never worked. For one thing, the law said that once you were out, you were out. Plus, letting people back in would expose everyone to deadly bacteria. No exiled person had ever been seen again. Everyone assumed they died, most likely from sickness or starvation.

  Unfortunately, the exiles happened up in the Bronx instead of toward Queens. His mother was tough, Drayden knew that, but she didn’t know the Bronx. If they used the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge on the east side of New America, at least she might know her way around. She grew up in Queens, Pre-Confluence—PreCon, people called it—before the Bureau erected walls around the city. Back when New America was still called Manhattan. Her family lived in a community of other Koreans in the Flushing neighborhood. Though Drayden wished he could have seen it, nobody born inside New America had ever been outside its walls. Hell, pretty much nobody had left their own zone.