Wizard of the Wasteland: a post-apocalyptic adventure

by Jon Cronshaw

  “I don’t like the look of this place,” the wizard says, looking around from the cart’s seat.

  Abel takes his hunting knife from his jacket and checks the grip of his pistol. He looks up to his left, his footsteps echoing between the shells of buildings. “It’s quiet,” he whispers. “I can’t see any smoke around.”

  “Don’t be so quick to assume we’re alone,” the wizard says, his eyes scanning the chunks of fallen and cracked concrete ahead.

  Abel crosses in front of the mule and across what would have once been an intersection. He approaches a three-storey building with brown brick walls, rendered smooth through years of storms and neglect. He kicks aside a tangle of twisting thorn bushes and rests his hands on a sodden window frame. He leans inside and looks around, shattered glass strewn across the mouldy carpet. A faded painting hangs crooked on the far wall. Through a doorway, he makes out the frame of a collapsed staircase. The stench of damp and rats hangs thick in the air. He shields his nose with his forearm and looks over his shoulder to the wizard, now climbing down from his cart.

  “Anything good?”

  Abel gives a grim smile and shakes his head. Taking a few steps back, he looks up at the building then shrugs. “Nope.”

  The chill wind whistles along the rooftops as bits of debris roll along the asphalt and shutters rattle against buildings. He pulls up his collar and hunches against the cold. “Anything take your fancy?”

  The wizard walks over to him. The mule just stands there, tethered to a drooping lamp post. “People would have picked this place clean decades ago.”

  “Maybe. People look for different things, though. I still go into buildings and find stuff I can trade.” He looks in the window of a dented estate car, its suspension shot and its roof warped and housing a pool of stagnant water.

  The passenger door screeches open with a stiff jerk. He checks under the seat, flips open the glovebox and checks the pocket in the door beside him. “Nothing,” he mutters. He looks round to see the wizard crouching next to the fuel tank. Satisfied the back seat is empty, he steps outside. “Any good?” he asks.

  The wizard doesn’t answer but instead strains as he tries to wrestle the fuel cap open. After a few moments, he releases his grip, his hands dropping to his sides as he lets out a deep sigh.

  Abel stands over him, looking down at the fuel tank. “Do you think there’s anything in there?”

  The wizard shrugs, gets to his feet and wipes his brow with a sleeve. “Let’s keep looking.”

  Knotted tree roots zigzag along the broken asphalt and snap beneath Abel’s boots as he walks over to a squat grey building. The road extends to the right. To the left, the twisted steel framework of a building stands hollow.

  The squat building’s brickwork stands weathered and stained with streaks of blacks, browns and greens, its central double-door flanked by two windows, as wide as the door is tall. Rolling security shutters obscure the glass. Abel tries the shutters, rattling them as dust falls like snow from the horizontal cracks.

  He stands back, his eyes wandering over the front of the building. He walks around the left-side and frowns at the featureless wall. “Damn it,” he mutters. Returning to the building’s front, he finds the wizard on one knee, his eyes fixed on the left window shutter. “What is it?”

  “This padlock,” the wizard says, not looking up. “I reckon we can break this.”

  The wizard returns a few minutes later brandishing his steel rod. He drives the spike into the lock's arch. Abel takes the end of the rod and rocks back and forth until the padlock finally snaps. He pushes his shoulder against the shutter, trembling as he strains against the stiffness. With a scraping, screeching noise, the shutters eventually give, rolling into themselves as they reveal a grimy window.

  “Damn it,” Abel says, wiping the dust from the window with his sleeve. “Look.” He traces the shape of wire mesh within the glazing. “No way we’re breaking through that.”

  The wizard shoulders him aside and leans in close to examine the window. “Sure we can.”

  Abel shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve come across these windows before. You can’t break them.”

  With a grin, the wizard looks up at Abel and prods the window frame with a grubby finger. “We don’t need to break the glass,” he says. “We just need to take out this frame.”

  Abel pokes the window frame with a forefinger, feeling the softness of rot beneath the flaking blue gloss. “Good thinking.”

  With a grunt, the wizard drives the spike into the bottom-left corner of the window frame, pushing it deep with a rocking motion. There’s a dull cracking sound as Abel yanks at a piece of frame, pulling it free and dropping it to the ground. He steps to the side, allowing the wizard to separate the frame around the window’s right side. The glass shifts, sliding a few inches down and creating a gap along the top of the frame. More wood cracks. The window slides towards them and cuts a slice through the air in a fluid arc before dropping to the ground with a crunch as the glass shatters, its form still intact.

  “We’re in,” the wizard says, brushing the bottom of the frame with his rod.

  Abel reaches into his jacket and takes out his torch. He winds the handle until the bulb glows in a dull yellow. Taking the torch between his teeth, he climbs into the building, his eyes adjusting to the gloom as the wizard clambers in behind him.

  He coughs and winces at the oily smell and the cloud of dust. “What is this place?”

  The wizard’s eyes widen. “They’re machines,” he says, crouching.

  Abel shines his torch over the nearest machine. “This one looks pretty dangerous,” he says, highlighting a two-feet-wide corkscrew of blades.

  “Some of these have got fuel tanks,” the wizard says.

  “What do you think they are?” Abel grips the handles of one of the machines, pulling it backwards and forwards, its roller rumbling along the grass-green floor.

  The wizard gets to his feet and strokes his chin. “Obviously, we’ve stumbled upon an armoury.”

  Abel frowns. “Why would they have fake grass in an armoury?”

  The wizard shrugs and pulls a polythene sheet from one of the smaller machines. “You can sit on this one,” he says. “Look, there’s a seat and the wheels are still intact.”

  Abel regards the machine, rubbing at his beard. “It's a bit small.”

  “You can read. What's this?”

  Abel steps over to the machine and squints at a laminated card tag hanging from a handle. “Children's quad bike.”

  “Man, this isn't a bike.”

  “There’s no rust,” says Abel, crouching next to the quad bike. “Think we could get it working?”

  The wizard folds his arms and considers the machine. “Anything’s possible,” he says. His expression drops. “No way we’re getting it out of that window, though.”

  Abel rises and goes over to the double doors. He unfastens the latch and swings the doors inwards, revealing the exterior shutters. “Whoever brought it in here must have got it through this door.”

  “Right,” says the wizard, still examining the quad bike.

  Abel walks over to a workbench along the right-hand wall and picks up a pair of plastic safety goggles. A scuff-mark clouds the left lens, the right arm brittle and stiff. He folds them, taking care not to snap the plastic, and drops them into a side-pocket of his backpack, smiling.

  “What you find?” the wizard asks.

  “Eye goggles,” says Abel. “I think they’ll come in useful for dust storms.”

  “What’s in those bottles?” The wizard gestures farther along the bench.

  Abel squints and examines the row of plastic containers. “Two-stroke oil, apparently.”

  “Oil?”

  Abel nods and takes a bottle in his hand, feeling its weight and listening as its contents slosh around inside. “Yep. And they’re still sealed.”

  A thunderous snarl emanates from the quad bike's engine. Abel pivots with an urgent jerk
and pulls his knife, his awareness suddenly heightened.

  The wizard grins. “It works,” he says, turning the ignition key and bringing the engine to a stop. “It works.”

  When Abel forces up the main shutters, the wizard pushes the quad bike outside. They both circle the machine, examining its firm rubbery seat, handlebars, and gleaming engine. The wizard slaps Abel’s hand away from its flawless red paint, the deep gloss sending ripples of light across its curved surface.

  “This is great,” says the wizard, shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe it’s still working.” Abel rocks on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a vehicle with a working engine. I’ve seen people riding past on pedal bikes occasionally, but nothing like this.”

  “We’ll keep it turned off until we need it,” the wizard says. “Never know what kind of people its noise will attract.”

  Abel nods and joins the wizard to push. Within a few steps, the wizard walks along the quad bike's right, one hand guiding the steering wheel as Abel pushes.

  “Keep coming,” the wizard says. “Trying to avoid these roots.”

  Abel flinches at a popping sound to his right and a tiny explosion of shattered brick bursts from the wall. “What the hell?”

  “Get down,” growls the wizard, yanking Abel by the sleeve, pulling him back towards the building.

  Air rushes out of his lungs as the wizard slams him back against the wall. “What the hell?” he gasps.

  “Shut up,” the wizard says, starting as a second bullet whizzes by, ricocheting off the wall, lodging into the asphalt.

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Damn it. We’re going to get picked off if we move out.”

  “I need to get back inside,” says the wizard, breathing heavily, his back flush against the wall.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know yet. I figured you could create a diversion.”

  “Then what?”

  “I said I didn’t know, didn’t I?” the wizard snaps.

  Abel raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Just asking, is all.” He rubs his neck as nervous sweat seeps from his back and armpits. His eyes linger on the bullet lodged in the ground a few feet to his right. Swallowing, he turns to the wizard. “I’ll distract whoever it is enough to let out a shot,” he says. “As soon as you hear it, you need to get yourself inside.”

  “Okay.” The wizard takes in a deep breath.

  “What if the shooter comes after us?”

  The wizard shrugs and shakes his head. “You got your pistol, right?”

  He places a hand on the wizard’s shoulder, the faint trace of a worried smile twitching around the edge of his lips. “Good luck.”

  The wizard gives a quick nod and pats him on the back with a firm hand. “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  The wizard edges along the wall as the knuckles of his clenched fists turn an almost iridescent white through his dark skin.

  Abel moves to the other corner and removes his tattered baseball cap, gripping the peak with a trembling hand. He takes a deep breath and holds it for several seconds, his chest tightening. The cap quivers in his hand, its faded red material rippling like a dull flame. For a brief second, he glances back at the wizard, raises his arm, and flaps the cap around the corner of the building, bracing himself for the gunshot. After several seconds, he turns to the wizard and shrugs. “Now what?” he mouths.

  Without speaking, the wizard returns the shrug and signals for him to try again. He reaches past the corner, waving the cap again with one eye on the wizard. He shakes his head and lunges forward onto the asphalt, throwing his body in jerked fits and starts as he charges across the street to the doorway of an opposite building.

  Looking around, he frowns at the stillness and silence, his heart racing as he catches his breath.

  Going down on one knee, he scans the ragged brickwork, collapsed roofs, and shattered windows of the ruined buildings stretching along the road, their walls warped and stained with mould and dried streaks of filth. He looks for movement but sees nothing.

  Frustrated and trembling as the adrenaline subsides from his dash between the buildings, he watches the wizard move out of sight.

  His mouth grows dry. Dark clouds tumble in the sky above, moving in an opposite direction to the building wind. He looks down at his cap, still clasped in his hands, and waves it with frantic urgency.

  No gunshots come.

  He takes a deep breath and runs back across the street, heading towards the wizard. The first drops of brown rain drip onto the top of his head. He brushes the rain from his scalp with concern and wipes his hands on his trousers when he reaches the open double-doors.

  The wizard drops a length of metal with a start and jerks his hand to his chest. “Geez, man, you scared me.”

  “We’ve got rain.”

  The wizard’s lips curl. “Rain? What about whoever's shooting at us?”

  “It's brown rain.”

  There's a long silence before the wizard clears his throat. “That's our cover.”

  “We can't go out in that. You ever get one the rashes?”

  “Yeah,” the wizard says. “Rather rashes than bullet wounds.”

  Abel looks over his shoulder as the rain collects in potholes and oozes down walls like brown tears. He takes his backpack from his shoulders, puts it on the ground and pulls out the tattered material from an old umbrella, long separated from its handle, pole, and spiderlike frame. Then from a side-pocket, he takes out a kerchief and safety goggles.

  “What you doing?” asks the wizard.

  “Protecting myself.” Abel unfolds the material and drapes it over his head. He replaces his baseball cap, adjusting the material beneath so it covers his neck. “Anything we can use in here?”

  The wizard shakes his head. “These machines are duds.”

  “Right,” says Abel. Taking the kerchief in both hands, he raises it to his face, covers his nose and mouth, and ties it in a knot at the base of his neck with awkward, fumbling fingers. He gets to his feet and swings the backpack onto his shoulders. “You ready?”

  “You sure?” asks the wizard.

  “If whoever is shooting at us has got any sense, they'll be out of this rain.”

  The wizard offers a grim smile. “Let's hope so.”

  Abel pushes the goggles onto his nose, hooking the arms over his ears. Scratches cloud both lenses. A cataract smear obscures his vision through the left lens.

  The wizard pushes past several machines, stepping over them with bended legs until he reaches the sheet of polythene. He pulls the plastic over his head, wearing it as a hooded robe. “Let's go,” he says, a tremble in his voice.

  Abel steps outside. The rain bounces off his leather jacket in a relentless torrent. Dipping his head, he staggers forward, the kerchief already beginning to soak through. The wizard groans behind him and passes to take the quad bike's frontend. Abel dips his head lower and pushes the vehicle forward.

  After a few minutes, the wizard puts his free hand around the back of the seat, and Abel feels him take on some of the work. “You just figured out you can push?” he mutters.

  The wizard makes no sign that he hears through the storm.

  When they reach the wizard’s cart, the mule lies with her head flat against the ground, groaning as the rain pummels against her back. Pip emerges from underneath the cart, jumps up at Abel, and licks his right hand. “Hey, girl,” he says. “How did you know it was me?”

  Pip looks up at him and then shakes away the foul water. Abel strokes her head. She turns in a small circle and crawls back under the cart, her nose twitching as she rests her chin beneath the nearest wheel.

  The wizard joins Abel at his side and looks down at the quad bike. The wizard’s polythene robe flaps against the wind. “I bet we can get it in the back of the cart,” he says, his voice raised.
>
  Abel looks at the cart. He reaches for his beard but drops his hand when he touches the kerchief. “You sure it will fit?”

  “What?”

  “I said you sure it will fit?”

  “No, but we need to give it a try.”

  Abel looks back over his shoulder, scanning the buildings for signs of the gunman. He shakes his head and turns his attention to the wizard, now unfastening the cart’s rear doors. The wizard opens them wide, revealing a gloomy box stuffed with odds and ends strewn haphazardly around a bedroll. The wizard places a foot on the cart floor, cursing as the door swings against his shoulder with the wind's force. He pushes his bedroll and a few items of junk towards the far end.

  The wizard gives Abel a nod, and they both approach the quad bike. “Grab the front wheels,” he says.

  Abel gets down on one knee, gripping beneath the front-right tyre. He nods at the wizard, and they both lift the quad bike, muscles aching in his back. With strained groans and clenched teeth, they place the front wheels onto the back of the cart. He lets out a relieved sigh and moves around the machine's rear to lift it inside. “It’s heavier than it looks,” he says.

  When the back wheels land inside the cart, the wizard pushes it in as far as it will go. He tries to close the doors without success, adjusting the quad bike's position to no avail. “It's not going to work,” he says.

  Abel leans into the cart and examines the space. “I'll climb in. I can keep it from rolling out.”

  A hesitant twitch wrinkles at the corner of the wizard's mouth. “Okay.”

  Abel pats his thigh and gives a click with the side of his mouth. “Here, girl,” he says. Pip pushes out from under the cart, gets to her feet, and shakes. He pats inside the cart, gesturing for her to hop in. She looks inside, sniffs around for a few moments, pulls her head away, and steps back. “It's okay, girl.” Pip stares at him for a few seconds and walks away. “Your loss.”

  He lifts himself into the back of the cart, shuffling his back against the quad bike to try to get comfortable. He lets his legs hang outside and stops the door from swinging shut with his left forearm as the cart moves forward. He watches the road, still scanning for the gunman.