The Expedition

by Chris Babu

  A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

  The Expedition

  © 2018 by Chris Babu

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-68261-835-6

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-836-3

  Cover art by Cody Corcoran

  Interior design and composition, 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

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  For Michelle

  I’m eternally grateful for your unshakable belief in my writing,

  and for enduring the sacrifices that came along with it,

  including my sudden constant presence in the living room.

  Also by Chris Babu

  The Initiation

  CHAPTER 1

  They say you don’t shoot to kill; you shoot to stay alive.

  Drayden peered through the sight of the M16A4 rifle and tried to control his breathing. He pulled the trigger at the top of his exhale.

  The gun fired with a loud, metallic bang, recoiling hard into his shoulder.

  “Hold your fire!” Sergeant Holcomb yelled. “Bring ‘em in!”

  Unfortunately for Drayden, the safest spot in the practice range was on his target, still pristine after twenty minutes of shooting. He removed his earmuffs.

  I’m a flunk.

  Catrice remained on her stomach to his left, propped up on her elbows, her skinny legs splayed out behind. She glimpsed through the rifle’s sight, her golden hair in a ponytail.

  Charlie and Sidney stood to Drayden’s right. They clutched their weapons, beaming with pride. When the white paper targets arrived, theirs showed only bullseyes.

  Drayden thought Charlie looked like Rambo from the old movie—a soldier capable of single-handedly defeating an entire nation. They all wore their gray camouflage Guardian uniforms, but Drayden didn’t get why. It was just target practice. And did Charlie really need the war paint under his eyes?

  “Private Arnold,” Sergeant Holcomb said to Charlie. “You were born to be a Guardian, son. You’re a natural.”

  Charlie stood at attention. “Sir, yes sir!” he barked.

  Oh, for crying out loud.

  They weren’t training to become Guardians. Since Guardians would escort them on the expedition, the probability of needing a gun was almost zero.

  “I’d say you were the best young shooter I’ve seen if Private Fowler weren’t here,” the sergeant said, hooking his thumb at Sidney. “She’s destined to be a sniper. Where’d you learn to shoot a gun like that, young lady?”

  “I’ve never shot one before this week, sir.” Sidney blushed. “Am I actually good?”

  “Remarkable.”

  Sergeant Holcomb stared at Drayden’s target, his expression like he was reading something written in Swahili. The sergeant spent so much time yelling you rarely got a clear picture of his face. He removed his drill sergeant hat, which resembled a cowboy hat, and scratched his head. Though a grizzled old man, he still seemed like he could whoop your butt in a fight. As always, he chewed on the end of an unlit cigar.

  “Private Coulson, if you need to use your weapon, you might be better off throwing a rock.”

  Drayden lumbered to his feet. “We’re not privates, sir, and this isn’t Guardian school.”

  Catrice got up and joined him.

  “You’re privates-in-training when you’re with me. Your target’s cleaner than when we started, son. How can you explain this? Where in God’s name are your bullets going?”

  Drayden shook his rifle. “I don’t know, sir, I think there might be something wrong with my gun.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your gun!” He threw his hands in the air. “It’s your trigger mechanics. Private Zevery here hit the target twice. Nicely done, Private,” the sergeant said to Catrice, giving her a thumbs-up.

  She fumbled with a button on her shirt, displaying her usual discomfort with compliments. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  Drayden patted her on the arm. “Well done, Catrice.”

  She rubbed the spot on her shoulder where the gun recoiled, grimacing.

  “Private Coulson, it’s a good thing you’re skilled at hand-to-hand combat with that jiu-jitsu of yours. You’re crafty with a knife too. You’ll have to hope the enemy is right in front of you. If you have your gun drawn, maybe just hit him with it.”

  Drayden internally rolled his eyes. “Sergeant, I don’t anticipate many enemies.”

  “Son, you hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Let’s switch to pistols. I want you standing.” Sergeant Holcomb leaned his head back to the group of young Guardians behind them. “Let’s get some fresh targets in here! Except for Private Coulson, that is, his can’t get any fresher. Move it!”

  Drayden scowled at the sergeant. He had a point, though. Drayden sucked at shooting, plain and simple. They’d worked on it every day for most of the week as part of their training. They would spend time with the scientists in the morning, and the Guardians in the afternoon. He switched his rifle into safe mode and laid it on the grass.

  The May afternoon was gorgeous, sunny and warm, with a cool breeze coming off the Hudson River. The firing range was in Battery Park, at the southern tip of New America, where the Palace Guardians maintained several training facilities. In the past week, Drayden and the others had also used the explosives depot, the fighting gym, and the fitness center.

  He drew his pistol, a Glock 22, and inserted the magazine loaded with ten rounds. After handling the heavy rifle, the Glock felt like a toy gun. “Hey, nice shooting, you guys,” he said to Charlie and Sidney.

  “Don’t look at me.” Charlie waved his Glock around a little too casually. “Sid’s cocked, locked, and ready to rock.”

  “Thanks,” Sidney said. “Your form is solid, Dray; stick with it. You’ll get it.”

  Charlie holstered his pistol. “Dray, given how crummy your aim is, I’m glad we don’t share a bathroom.” He howled. “I’m just teasing, bro. I’d trade my accuracy for your brain in a heartbeat.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Drayden said.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “Gimme rap
id fire this time, all ten rounds in less than six seconds. And Private Coulson, if you don’t shoot any people, that’s good enough.” He sneered.

  Drayden pressed his lips together to keep from saying something he’d regret. He snapped his earmuffs on and cocked his gun. With his feet shoulder-width apart and knees slightly bent, he raised his pistol with his right hand, cupping it underneath with his left. He lined up the rear sight and the front sight with the target and placed the top pad of his index finger on the trigger. After concluding his routine, he waited for the sergeant.

  “Fire!” Sergeant Holcomb yelled.

  The firing range erupted with violence.

  Drayden squeezed the trigger over and over, the gun popping with each round. He battled to stabilize the gun against its powerful recoil.

  Seven seconds later, the range fell silent.

  Please, one hit.

  “Bring ‘em in!” the sergeant shouted.

  Drayden holstered his gun and pulled his earmuffs down so they hung around his neck. His pulse quickened as the targets zipped down wires toward them. Despite his argument for not needing a gun on the impending journey, he’d feel a heck of a lot better if he could shoot one.

  The targets arrived. Zero hits.

  Drayden released an exasperated sigh. He had a bad feeling about the expedition.

  Drayden sat at the round table in his kitchen, still in his gray fatigues, debating whether to eat a banana or a pear. They’d been in the Palace only a week, and already he’d become accustomed to the superior food. He couldn’t help but feel guilty, though, thinking of the crummy and limited food his father and brother were eating back in the Dorms. In fairness, he needed the better food to recover from all his injuries sustained in the Initiation.

  He opted for one of the sugar cookies Catrice had baked for him. It was chewy, sweet, and scrumptious. The two of them had been taking advantage of the incredible food variety by trading baked goods. Hopefully she liked the apple pie he’d made for her.

  As usual when Drayden found himself alone, his thoughts returned to his mother. Investigating her exile had proved challenging, to say the least. The few people he could find to ask about it had no clue what happened. She was probably an unlucky victim of the Bureau, which was exiling random people in the Dorms to shrink the population. They couldn’t produce enough food to feed everyone because the special batteries that stored power from the windmills and solar panels were failing.

  Drayden needed to know for sure she wasn’t singled out, which was another possibility. Her exile was wrong either way. Nevertheless, for him it made a huge difference whether she was one of many banished to cull the population, or if a specific person targeted her. Had it been the latter, he would find a way to avenge her. Nobody knew what became of exiles, since none were ever seen again. It was highly probable they died, so getting her back wasn’t an option. His only recourse now was revenge.

  He’d exhausted every avenue except one. Nathan Locke. The head of the Food Distribution Centers, and Mom’s boss, he’d carried on an affair with her. If she’d broken it off, he could have ordered her exile as retribution as a jilted lover might.

  As much as Drayden ached to burst into Locke’s office and attack him, he needed to be cautious. It was merely a theory and visiting Locke in person would be aggressive. Locke would feel threatened. However, with the expedition a week away, he was nearly out of time and might need to confront the philanderer. Assuming Drayden’s father and brother moved to the Palace on the day he departed, as the Bureau had promised, he had to possess some information to pass along to Wesley. Otherwise, he could die on the expedition and his mother’s murderer would get away with it. As non-Bureau members, Dad and Wes wouldn’t have the same access to people he did. There was a nuclear option too: Get the expedition delayed to buy more time to figure it out.

  A knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts.

  Drayden limped through the kitchen and opened it.

  “How’s my favorite patient today?” Shahnee asked, beaming in a white lab coat over pink scrubs.

  “Come on in. I’m all right.” He closed the door after she entered and followed her into the living room.

  Afternoon light flooded the space. Immediately after the Initiation, the Bureau had placed Drayden in an apartment on a high floor at Seventy-Five Wall Street, adjacent to the other pledges. Two floors up, on seventeen, was the rooftop deck.

  Shahnee plopped her black duffel bag on the coffee table and removed various objects: a thermometer, massage oil, a blue stretchy band, and an ultrasound machine. Drayden joined her on the couch.

  Shahnee was cute. She was African American, late twenties, and always upbeat. Her mother worked as a surgeon at the hospital that treated the pledges after the Initiation.

  “So, tell me how you’re feeling,” she said.

  Before he could answer, she jammed the thermometer in his mouth, under his tongue.

  He gave her a look.

  She made a silly face.

  During the Initiation, the pledges were savagely wounded. While most of their injuries resulted from the bomb that killed his best friend Tim, the riskiest ones were from rat and cockroach bites. Drayden would never shed the mental scars of crawling through millions of the little monsters. On top of that, a bite from a diseased critter was like an injection of infection straight into an open wound. Aeru was the specific super bacteria that had wiped out most of the world’s population, either through direct infection or by destroying the food supply. But all bacteria became antibiotic-resistant, rendering any cut a potential death sentence.

  The thermometer beeped and she pulled it out. “Perfect, no fever. I think you’re in the clear on any infection, my friend. Were you saying something?”

  “Ha ha. I’m feeling fine, thank you very much. Everything’s basically healed except my ankle.” He hoisted his leg up and plopped his left ankle between them. “It’s only gotten a little better.”

  “You know the deal; there’s a lot of soft-tissue damage in there.” She poked and prodded it. “Ligaments stretched or torn. You can’t expect to fall off a rock wall and snap your fingers and be cured. We’re talking a minimum of eight weeks to heal, if not sixteen.”

  Drayden cocked his head. “Shahnee, I leave New America in a week. We’re going to have to speed this up a tad.”

  “You’re not ready. You won’t be ready. You should see if they can push it back.” She pulled a syringe and a vial of opaque white liquid out of her bag. “Speaking of being ready, you need your Aeru booster.”

  Drayden’s heart rate accelerated every time he received the Aeru vaccine. The Bureau was injecting him with the very bacteria that had killed most life on Earth. It seemed insane. “You sure that bacteria’s dead?”

  Shahnee pretended to be deep in thought. “We’ll find out, won’t we? If you develop a nasty cough, and then a fever, we’ll know it backfired.” She pulled his sleeve up to his shoulder and rubbed alcohol on the back of his arm.

  Drayden turned away, focusing on the wall.

  The needle pinched his arm and the familiar burning sensation spread through his triceps. Shahnee wiped his arm with a tissue.

  “Now lie on your stomach,” she said. “Let’s start by massaging your ankle, and then do the ultrasonic treatment.”

  Drayden flipped onto his belly and rested his cheek on the brown sofa cushion.

  Shahnee touched his foot to roll up his pant leg.

  He erupted in laughter.

  “Sorry!” She snatched her hands away. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  He was ridiculously ticklish, and not proud of it.

  Shahnee shook her head. “First kid to pass the Initiation in eight years. If the Bureau only knew. All they had to do was tickle your feet and you’d be vanquished.” She paused, tilting her head. “How are you really doing?”

  Dra
yden hesitated and released a long, slow breath. “I’m a flunk.”

  “Say what? You’re a hero! It’s all anyone can talk about in the Palace. You’re famous.”

  “I can’t shoot a gun for shkat. Can someone be allergic to guns? Everyone else can do it. Even Catrice can hit the target. Charlie and Sidney are both sharpshooters after four days.”

  “Who cares? Tons of people can shoot guns. You don’t have to. There’re very few people that can do what you can. Let them have their little guns.”

  Drayden stared into the interwoven fibers of the couch, wishing he could curl up on it forever and forget about this expedition stuff. The Initiation high had worn off. Right after it, he’d been cautiously optimistic about the adventure of exploring the world outside the walls. Now that it was imminent, he was more anxious than anything. His ankle hadn’t healed. They were a week into the two weeks the Premier had given them to recuperate. It wasn’t enough time. Of course, the others had made full recoveries. The problem wasn’t exactly that he couldn’t shoot. Between the Guardians, Charlie, and Sidney, the team was flush with assassins. The issue was broader than that. He was the weak link.

  The Initiation had been a mix of brainteasers and bravery challenges. Though he ultimately found it within himself to conquer his fear of the bravery ones, they remained his weakness. Not fearing them didn’t make him good at them, as Sidney and Charlie were. Yes, he’d summoned the courage to swim through the frigid underwater maze in the Initiation, but he almost drowned. The intelligence challenges were his thing. However, the expedition would effectively be all bravery challenges, or one prolonged bravery challenge. Even healthy he’d struggle. With a bum ankle it could be a serious problem. As with probing his mother’s exile, he needed more time.

  He’d love to blame his jitters on the ankle. If he was being honest, it was more than that. Whether it was witnessing how strong and skilled Charlie was or being around so many Guardians the past week, this much was clear: Drayden wasn’t as strong as they were. All the bravery in the world would be worthless if he lacked the physical strength and skill to overcome the expedition’s challenges. Like someone with the knowledge and courage to scale a mountain, but no legs.