Wizard of the Wasteland: a post-apocalyptic adventure

by Jon Cronshaw

  “Thanks, Sal.” He pulls out a long bench from beneath the nearest table and sits. He rests his elbows on the table and smiles when Pip turns in a circle and lies down at his feet, her body resting against the tops of his boots, warm and comforting.

  Sal returns a few minutes later and places a tin plate and clay cup in front of him, the plate filled with half a loaf of bread, a couple of cold potatoes, and slivers of chicken. The cup brims with fresh water.

  “Sorry, this is all we had left,” she says, taking a seat opposite.

  “This is great.” He offers a sliver to Pip, her nose wet against his hand when she takes it.

  “How's life?” Sal asks. “Have you been back to the Grid?”

  “Not since I got clean. Life's hard, but I’ve got this one with me.” He reaches down and rubs Pip’s head, his smile broad.

  “I'm glad. That place is no good.”

  “I ran into one of the Family on the way here.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “She was giving the usual shtick, offering me plez.” He shakes his head, giving a half-shrug.

  She leans forward. “And?”

  “And, what? I told her I wasn't interested.”

  She sits back, nodding. “Good. That's good.”

  “Yep,” he says, taking a sip of water.

  “Resisting temptation can be hard.”

  “Yep.” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and leans forward. “It's always there, you know?”

  She offers a grim smile and reaches for his right hand. “I'm really proud of how you've changed.”

  He shakes his head. “I've not changed. Plez changed me. Without it, I'm just back to being me.”

  “That's not true. God helped you become a better person.”

  He pulls his hand back and looks away. “Come on, Sal. You know how I feel about this God stuff.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “Doesn't stop it from being true.”

  The foul hum of sweat seeps through the hard mattress when Abel puts his head down to sleep. Pip lies curled into a ball on the floorboards to his left. He moves his feet over the edge of the bed, picks up the candle and gets to his feet. He opens the door to let in some fresh air, leans outside and breathes.

  Only a couple of torches still burn as the moonlight glimmers silver across the rooftops. A faint rustle comes from the chicken coops. One of the pigs snores.

  He goes back inside, puts the candle on the side table, steps over Pip, and lifts the chair from the corner. He drags the chair outside and pushes its back against the shack wall, the air around him dry and still. Exhausted, he takes a seat and stares up at the stars, tears welling in his eyes. He takes the plez crystal from his jacket, turning it in his hand, watching as moonlight catches it with a purple glow. He sighs and sucks in his bottom lip. He pockets the crystal and takes out his pistol, feeling its weight. Removing the bullet, he blows down the barrel and holds it up to the light. He replaces it, grips the pistol’s handle and drifts to sleep.

  “Abel?” The voice comes muffled, distant. “Abel?”

  Abel opens his eyes, blinking at the rising sun. Sal leans over him, concern etched across her brow.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “I could ask you the same question.” She gestures to his pistol, frowning.

  He looks down at his hands, the pistol hanging limp from his right forefinger. “Damn it,” he says. “I was cleaning it. I must have drifted off.”

  She folds her arms, looking down at him. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You were calling out.”

  Rolling his shoulders, he sits up and meets her gaze. He follows the line of one of her dreadlocks past her waist then stares at the ground. “It’s just getting to me,” he says. “This stuff with the wizard, failing those kids.”

  “You didn’t fail anybody,” she whispers, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  He looks up. “We tried to free them, but we failed.” He drops his head and stares down at the pistol.

  “You can replace your stuff.”

  “It’s not that.” He looks back up at her. “I can’t be out there alone. I know I’m clean, but the nights are hard out there. It drags you in.”

  “But you’re not alone. You’ve got friends here, you’ve got Pip.”

  “I know,” he sighs. “I thought the wizard was my friend. We worked well together, you know?”

  “Put that away before anyone else sees.” She nods to his pistol. “We’ll get some breakfast and talk some more.”

  He slides the pistol inside his jacket. “You’re right,” he says, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his matted hair. “I’ve got to look out for Pip.” He turns, looking at the door to his room. A scratching comes from inside. He gets up and opens the door, and Pip bolts outside, relieving herself on the bare earth. She kicks chunks of soil behind her with her back legs and then trots over to Abel.

  “Hey, girl,” he says, stroking behind her ears. “It’s you and me, girl. It’s you and me.”

  The communal hall buzzes with the sounds of clattering plates, cutlery, and laughter. Aromas from freshly-baked bread and simmering porridge drift by. Pip tugs at a strip of salted beef and leans against Abel’s legs. He smiles.

  “Abel,” a male voice says.

  Abel looks up. Jacob hands him a tin plate. “Thanks.”

  “Sal tells me you’ve been on the roads with that wizard,” Jacob says, steepling his fingers as a tightness pulls at the corner of his lips.

  Abel takes a bread roll from a tray being passed along the table. He drops it onto his plate, meets Jacob’s gaze, and gives a half-shrug. “He ran off on me, took my stuff.”

  Jacob leans back, looking down his nose, his fingers pushing together.

  Abel meets Jacob’s look with a glare and takes a bite from the bread. “What?”

  Taking a deep breath through his nose, Jacob drops his hands and leans forward. He drinks from a clay cup and smiles at Sal’s approach. “I seem to recall telling you that man couldn’t be trusted.”

  Abel drags his sleeve across his lips. “What of it?”

  “Just an observation.”

  Sal reaches the end of the table, looking between Abel and Jacob. “Is everything okay?”

  “I was just telling our friend he was wrong to travel with that ridiculous showman.” He takes another sip from his cup.

  Abel scoffs. “You were being smug, you mean?”

  “Now, you two,” Sal says, chiding. “Let’s try and keep things nice.”

  Wooden bowls make their way down the table. Abel takes one and passes one to Sal. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he says, turning his attention back to Pip, now lying quietly under the table.

  “Don’t let Jacob get to you,” says Sal. “You know how he can get.”

  Abel makes no response. Instead, he looks to his right and watches the pot of porridge, salivating as it advances towards him. He turns back to Sal. “Are we okay to trade after this?”

  Sal nods. “Where are you going? You haven’t found somewhere permanent, have you?”

  He sighs. “Nope. I’m not going back to the Grid if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “It’s not that. I just think you need to find a purpose, find a place to live that you can call your own.”

  Slumping down in his seat, Abel stares at his hands. “I thought I was getting there.”

  “You seem so close to going backwards.”

  There’s a long silence. He shakes his head. “I won’t let that happen,” he says, finally.

  Sal weaves her way between tables, lighting candles as she goes. The piles of junk and clothing cast rippling shadows along the wood-panelled walls when the candles take. Abel curls his lip at the sharp acidic stench pushing through the usual smells of damp and oil.

  He drops the boots onto a table, reaches into his coat and retrieves the copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. He gazes for a long moment at the faded
cover, its spine cracked and edges curled. “This is all I’ve got. I wanted to give it a read before trading, but needs must...”

  Sal extinguishes the flaming torch and drops it into a metal bucket in the corner. “I’ve not heard of this one,” she says, reaching out and taking the book. She walks over to a table and opens the book near a candle.

  Pip sniffs around a few crates and boxes, her mouth slopping as she sits with her tail wagging in front of a table with tins of food, bread loaves, and salt beef laid out on display. “Go lie down,” Abel says. Pip makes a thin whine, then walks to a corner, turns three circles, and drops down on her side with a sigh.

  He turns to Sal and watches as she leans over the book, pushing her dreadlocks aside. She mouths a few words under her breath, then nods to herself, and turns to Abel. “It seems...” she hesitates and makes a circling gesture with her right hand.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Well...it’s a bit odd.”

  “It says it’s a classic.”

  Sal nods. “What do you need?”

  “A pack. A water bottle. Blankets. Clothes.” Abel sighs. “He took everything. He took my Moby Dick.”

  Sal picks up the book again and reads the back cover. She frowns and shakes her head. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “So what do you say? The book and the boots. Is it a deal?”

  The silence hangs between them for several seconds before Sal shakes her head. “I’m sorry. The best I can offer is a pack or a water bottle. I’m sure I can throw in a few tins, some salt beef, perhaps.”

  “Come on, Sal. Help me out here.”

  Sal makes an almost imperceptible nod and looks around. She digs around in a pile of coats, pulls out a child’s rucksack, and hands it to Abel. “This and a water bottle is the best we can do.”

  He takes the rucksack and looks at the faded image of a grinning cartoon mouse. “What is this?”

  Sal shrugs. “It’s a pack.”

  “But it’s too small.”

  “It will keep you going until you get something you can trade for a bigger one.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Better than nothing, I suppose. What about the bottle?”

  She goes to a table in the corner and leans down to a crate on the floor. “Here we go,” she says, getting to her feet. She brushes dust from her knees with her free hand and holds up a black bottle.

  Taking it, he turns it in his hand, feeling the chips in the smooth black enamel, candlelight catching the exposed metal beneath. The cap unscrews with ease. “It needs a clean,” he says, sniffing inside.

  “You can fill it outside,” she says. “Here.” She grabs a couple of tins and drops them in the rucksack. “This should keep you going.”

  “Thanks, Sal.”

  She looks over to Pip and smiles. “Here girl,” she says, taking a thin strip of salt beef. Pip races over to her, skidding to a halt at Sal’s feet. She sits expectantly, her tail wagging as a string of thick drool dangles from her jowls.

  Sal drops the meat and Pip catches it in mid-air, swallowing the meat with frantic urgency.

  “It’s a good dog you’ve got here,” Sal says, leaning down and rubbing Pip’s neck.

  Abel nods. “Yep.”

  “Make sure you look after her.”

  “She’s all I’ve got.”

  17. The Grid

  The autumn sun looms bright through twisted brown clouds. Pip sniffs along the trail's right side as Trinity shrinks behind them. Abel shifts his shoulders, pulling at the rucksack straps in an effort to adjust them as the water bottle knocks against the small of his back. A woman harvesting wheat in the field to his right offers a friendly wave which he returns.

  Reaching the highway, he stops abruptly, his heart racing as three bedraggled kids amble into view, pulling the Family’s campervan with pained groans. The same man and woman stand guard, both wary, sweeping the embankment to the south with their rifles.

  Abel ducks behind a thorn bush and signals for Pip. She looks up at him then pads over and sits next to him. He pats her side and holds his breath. “Shh,” he says, putting his arm around her back. “Quiet now.” Pip licks his hand.

  A skinny teenage girl with matted long hair catches his eye as the van passes. He places a finger on his lips and shakes his head. Wide-eyed, the girl nods.

  “Eyes on the road,” the woman grunts from the other side of the van. The girl faces forward with a jerk.

  Abel waits, watching as the van slowly ascends towards the hills to the west.

  “The Grid,” he mutters, getting to his feet.

  A ditch, brimming with raw sewerage, runs along the right side of the highway. Cracks and scattered pieces of discarded junk and abandoned clothing stretch along the road. Plumes of black smoke billow into the sky ahead, obscuring the scab-like sunset with twists of undulating darkness. Approaching in a crouch, Abel zigzags between dead pines and the shells of burnt-out cars. The campervan disappears around a bend in the road, obscured by a rocky outcrop to his left.

  “Keep close, girl,” he whispers to Pip. She brings her nose up from a jagged tear in the asphalt and turns back to look at him. She sits on her haunches when he approaches and puts an arm around her side. “We need to be careful. Can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  He takes a deep breath and coughs at the burnt plastic smell as the smoke catches in his throat. Turning his head to one side, he spits on the ground, the glob of phlegm quickly drawing in brownish-grey dust, giving the appearance of a ghostly eye. Pain burns his fingers when he flexes them. He gets up and moves forward.

  The Grid spreads out before him when he reaches the rocky outcrop. Men and women shamble between rows upon rows of ancient cars, their clothes and bodies ragged, torn, misshapen, and dishevelled. He catches the eye of a teenager, her eye sockets purple and puffy from plez. Fires burn in steel drums, their black smoke filling the air.

  He stops dead when plez’s chemical odour, just faint on the wind, registers for a brief moment. He shudders. Looking behind him, he sees Pip waiting, not daring to come closer. He looks over the roofs of cars until stopping at the north end, where the dealers ply their trade.

  A bony man with ashen skin and purple-rimmed eyes staggers over to Abel, his mouth fixed in a rotten strychnine smile, a garish caricature of a nightmare clown. “Abe? That you, bro?”

  Abel freezes. “Yep.”

  “You look different.” The man stares at him for several seconds, his head drifting from side-to-side. “You clean?”

  Abel nods. “Yep.”

  “Damn, bro.” The man scratches the back of his neck, picks at something, and then tosses it to the ground.

  “Anything new around here?” Abel asks, his eyes resting upon the van as it reaches the dealers.

  The man shakes his head. “Same old, same old. You know how it is, bro. Family’s getting worse. Cooks ain’t what they used to be.”

  “That’s just your body building up resistance.”

  The man crouches and rests his elbows on his knees, his head bent forward. “How’d you get clean, bro?”

  Abel goes down on one knee next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It was hard. You’ve got to want to do it.”

  “The Family always says you can’t get off it, bro. But you did.”

  “It’s still hard. It never really leaves you. I’ve got a life now. I’m doing alright.” He gets up, the side of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You take care of yourself.”

  The man looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Got any plez?”

  Abel reaches into his jacket pocket and lets out a long sigh. “You haven’t seen a wizard around, have you? He has a cart, wears blue robes, has a pointy hat.”

  The man gives a confused look. “Maybe.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Don’t be going dark on me, bro.”

  “Here.” He tosses the plez to the man. The crystal lands on the ground. The man looks at it, grabs it, jumps to his fe
et, and runs between the cars and out of sight.

  “Damn it,” Abel grunts, starting to follow the path towards the dealers.

  A fight breaks out between a man and a woman a few cars over to his left. He steps over a bloated corpse, half-rotten and stripped naked. Tiny sparks burn iridescent from the inside of cars — the firing-up of plez.

  Reaching the scorched husk of a pickup truck, he leans against the twisted black metal frame and watches the dealers as they unload the van in the dying light. The enslaved kids carry crates to a heavily guarded truck, stumbling as dealers prod them with rifle-butts.

  “What the hell do you want?” a voice asks.

  Abel snaps to his left to be greeted by a rifle and a dealer wearing patched leather and a wolfish grin.

  “Just looking to get some plez.” He raises his hands.

  The dealer squints and tilts his head. “You don’t look like a plez-head,” he says, raising his rifle. “You trying to move in? I saw you dealing.”

  Abel opens his mouth and closes it again.

  “Give me the rest of your stash.”

  “Don’t have any. I gave it away. It was an old friend.”

  “Hand over your stash,” the man says firmly, clicking the safety of his rifle.

  Abel spreads his hands wide. “I got nothing. Honest.”

  “Don’t move.” The dealer pulls Abel’s jacket open and rummages through the pockets. “Open your bag.”

  Abel crouches slowly, sliding the rucksack off his shoulders. He unfastens the zip, takes out the bottle and shows him the bag is empty.

  The dealer looks Abel up and down for several seconds. “You want plez?”

  Abel nods.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  A throaty laugh erupts from the dealer. “You come here unarmed, you got nothing to trade, you give away your last plez, and then you expect me to believe that you’re here to score?”

  Abel’s eyes widen as he bites down on his bottom lip.

  “Wait here.”

  The dealer swaggers away with the rifle slung over a shoulder. Abel watches the dealer approaching the slavers from the campervan, gesturing over to him. The dealers talk for several seconds. The male and female slavers take up their rifles and make their way briskly towards Abel.