Wizard of the Wasteland: a post-apocalyptic adventure

by Jon Cronshaw

  “That wizard?”

  “No, not him.” He pauses, frowning. “I think he might be dead.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I found his cart on the roads. It had been raided.”

  She shakes her head. “That's terrible.”

  “Yep.” He tears off some more bread and drops it into his mouth.

  “So, who was it?”

  “Who was what?”

  “The friend.”

  “Big Ned. He’s the leader at Town. Ended up that a few of the kids we freed were from there. He threw me a party, so I gave him the bird.”

  “That's very thoughtful of you. Did you find anything else?”

  He reaches into his jacket and takes out the sealed packet of cigarettes. He places it on the table and watches Sal's expression turn to amazement. “How?” she whispers, looking up.

  “I told you. It’s all there, waiting for me.” He points at the cigarette packet. “This is just the beginning.”

  25. Cutting

  Abel scrambles from his bed, slamming the door behind him. He runs across Trinity, almost knocking down a woman and her three children as he races to Jacob's surgery. He hammers at the door with both fists. “Jacob?”

  The door opens a crack and Abel bolts inside. “She's on the bed,” Jacob says, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  “How you doing, girl?” She’s curled into a tight ball, sleeping on the bed. He turns to Jacob. “How is she?”

  Jacob walks over to the bed and looks down at Pip. “It's too soon to say. I've sewn her up and cleaned her the best I can. The infection looks like it’s clearing up, but it could come back.” He points to the stitched wound on the back of Pip's leg. “She’s still in a bad way though. I can’t get her temperature down. The infection may have spread inside. I’ll pray for her, but you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Abel scratches the back of his neck. “It won’t come to that. You’ll fix her.”

  Jacob makes a grim smile and nods. “I’ll try my best.”

  “Any chance you’d be able to check my ribs?”

  “Sure. Take a seat next to the dog.”

  Abel climbs onto the bed and strokes Pip's side, her body hot to his touch.

  “You might want to undress.”

  “Right.” Abel takes off his sweaters and T-shirt and piles them next to him on the bed. He looks down at the purple and yellow bruises scattered like Dalmatian spots along his stomach and ribcage. He scratches around the scabs along his side and rolls his shoulder, flinching as the bones crunch.

  “You're looking pretty beat-up.” Jacob prods a forefinger against each of Abel's ribs.

  “Ouch!”

  “You’ve got a cracked rib, but the rest of it’s just bruising. Take it easy and you'll be fine.”

  Abel slides off the bed and scoops up his clothes. “What should I do until she’s better?”

  “I don’t know.” Jacob turns to his desk. “Get some food inside you, for a start. You look half-famished.”

  After breakfast, Abel waits for Sal in an unfamiliar hut. The ceiling hangs a few inches above his head. A steel sink, along the rear wall, takes up most of the room. A plastic jug leans against one of the rusty taps.

  Sal enters and tips a bucket of steaming hot water into the sink and hands him a bar of soap and a woollen cloth.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks.

  She looks at him and frowns. “It’s soap. Get yourself wet, put the soap on your skin, rub it off with the cloth, and rinse it with the water. That will get rid of the dirt.”

  He sniffs at the soap and grimaces at the taste when he licks it. “You sure this stuff’s safe?”

  Sal shakes her head and smiles, placing a fresh towel on the sink's edge. “Of course, it's safe.”

  He looks at the steaming water and then back towards Sal. “I'll take your word for it.”

  “Wash your hair first,” she says, nodding towards the jug. “Wet it, rub in the soap, then wet it again until the soap's gone.”

  She leaves the shack and closes the door behind her.

  He looks at the soap and the cloth and then places them on the side of the sink. He gets out of his clothes and kicks them into the corner behind him.

  Leaning over the sink, he fills the jug with water and pours it over his hair. He rubs in the soap, moving his hands in circles and untangling knots. After a minute or so, he rinses the soap away and pushes his hair back out of his eyes.

  He grits his teeth when the hot water sends flashes of pain through his cuts and open sores. Working the soap into a thick lather, he rubs it over his body, smiling as bubbles form and drip to the floor. He cleans the soap away, scrubbing at the dirt with the cloth until the flesh beneath becomes clean. The water in the sink turns from grey to black by the time he’s done. He takes the plug out of the sink and watches as the water disappears, leaving behind a spiral of grime.

  The skin along his fingers throbs, pink and raw. Taking the towel, he dries himself, all the while being careful not to aggravate his injuries.

  When he pulls on his clothes, they feel filthy against his skin. There's a knock at the door. “Yep?”

  “It's just me,” says Sal. “You decent?”

  “I'm dressed.”

  She stands in the doorway and beams. “Well, look at you. Can hardly recognise you.”

  “I'm sure it won't last for long. A couple of days on the roads should see to that.” He looks down and sees Sal has got a chair with her. “What's that for?”

  “Take a seat,” she says, patting the backrest.

  He tosses the towel around his neck and lets it hang over his shoulders. “What have you got in mind?” he asks, lowering himself onto the chair.

  She gently lifts his fringe away from his forehead, trimming the hair with a pair of scissors. “We’re going to give you a haircut.”

  She works around his head, snipping away for several minutes. She moves around to his front and cuts a fist-sized chunk from his beard. “You’re actually quite handsome when you can see your face.”

  He pats his head and reaches for his beard. “My head feels lighter,” he says, brushing the loose hair from his thighs. He pushes himself up and shakes more loose hairs from his arms and body. “Thanks, Sal.”

  “My pleasure. Things are looking up for you. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come since you first came here.”

  Abel nods. “It’s been a long journey, but things are looking up. I’ve got the new place, a new boat—” A knock at the door interrupts Abel’s words.

  “Come in,” says Sal.

  Jacob leans inside and shakes his head at Abel.

  “How's Pip?” Abel whispers.

  “She’s gone.”

  Abel takes in a deep breath. “Gone? Gone, where?”

  Jacob lowers his gaze and shakes his head. “She’s dead, Abel. I’m very sorry.”

  26. Disposal

  Abel stands over Pip’s body and stares at her through tear-filled eyes, his breath short between sobs. He rests a hand on her side and strokes her fur, her body cold and still and dead. “Can’t you do anything?” he whispers desperately, turning to Jacob.

  “She’s with God now.”

  “Why didn’t you help her? Why didn’t you save her?” Abel jerks back when Jacob tries to place a hand on his shoulder.

  Jacob lets out a sigh and stands over Pip, gesturing to the stitching along her wound. “The infection must have been worse than I thought. I really am truly sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”

  “You’ve no idea what she meant to me.”

  “I’ll give you some time with her if you’d like, and then we can talk about how we’re going to dispose of the body.”

  “Dispose of her body? You’re not doing anything with her.”

  Jacob nods and paces over to the door. “Take as long as you need.”

  Abel wipes his nose with a sleeve and looks down at Pip. He leans over her, scooping her up in
his arms and turning to the door. Leaving the surgery, he ambles in a daze, carrying Pip’s body back to his room.

  Closing the door behind him, he places it on the floor at the end of the bed and crawls onto the sheets, wrapping them around him as he sobs and flails, banging his fists against the mattress.

  A light knocking sound brings Abel from his sleep. “Yep,” he manages, squinting towards the door.

  “It’s just me,” comes Sal’s voice. “Can I come in?”

  “Yep.”

  The door creaks open, letting in the night. “I thought you might be hungry. You missed the evening meal.” Sal steps around Pip’s body and sits at the end of the bed. She places a tray of bread on the bedside table next to him.

  “I’m not hungry.” Abel tugs at the blanket, dragging it from underneath Sal and pulling it around his shoulder, facing the wall as he curls into a ball.

  “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “For what?” Abel turns, glowering. “I’ve lost everything. Pip’s gone. The wizard’s dead. I failed those kids. What have I got? What’s the damn point?”

  “You’ve got people who care about you. Nothing changes that.”

  “Everything changes that.”

  Sal reaches down to Abel’s jacket, rummages through the pockets, and takes out his hunting knife and pistol.

  “What are you doing? They’re mine.”

  “You can have them back when you leave. I’m not having you doing anything stupid in our community.”

  He sits up and stares at her, incredulous. “You can’t do that.”

  “You won’t miss them,” Sal says, getting up.

  “Wait...”

  “You can have them back in the morning. Goodnight. And do eat.” She closes the door behind her and Abel sighs.

  The next morning, Abel takes his seat next to Sal and Jacob in the communal hall, poking absently at his porridge with a spoon. “I’m going back to the Grid,” he says, putting his spoon down.

  Sal shakes her head. “Abel, no. You’ve come too far.”

  “I’ve got nothing left, Sal. The least I can do is make one last try for those kids.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” she says, pouring water from a jug into Abel’s cup. “You’re feeling low because of Pip. This isn’t the time to make rash decisions.”

  Jacob leans forward, resting on his elbows and steepling his fingers. “Sal’s right. You’re in no state of mind to do something like this.”

  Abel leans back, gazing up at the wood beams stretching across the ceiling.

  “You can stay here as long as you need to. We’ll help you get through this.”

  He feels Sal’s hand on his, looks down, and forces a half-smile. “And do what? Every minute longer I wait here is another minute those kids are suffering. I’m going to get them.”

  Silence hangs between them for several seconds and then Sal sighs. “We’re not going to talk you out of this, are we?”

  Abel shakes his head. “Nope. I’m going to finish up here, and then I’d like to trade those cigarettes.”

  “I suggest getting some new clothes,” Jacob says. “I hardly recognised you with your beard and hair trimmed short. New clothes might keep you from being noticed.”

  “Jacob’s right. I’m sure the Family are aware of your description.”

  “So you with me on this?” Abel asks.

  She shrugs. “I know I won’t be able to talk you out of it.”

  He washes the last spoonful of porridge down with a swig of water and brushes his mouth with his sleeve. “Thanks, Sal.”

  Abel wrinkles his nose at the smell of damp and engine oil. He swings his backpack onto a table and reaches into his jacket pocket, taking out the cigarettes.

  “May I?” Sal asks.

  “Go for it.”

  She takes the packet, grasping it gently between her fingers.

  Light plays across the cellophane wrapping, shimmering against the beeswax candles. Sal nods, handing the packet back.

  “Now I know you’re going to give me a good deal on these,” he says, placing the cigarettes on the table.

  “You always drive a hard bargain. First things first, we need to sort you some new clothes.” She lifts a box of men's clothing onto the table and drags out T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, and jackets. Muttering to herself, she tosses him a pair of olive green combat trousers. “Try these.”

  He catches the trousers in mid-air and holds them up to his waist, comparing their length against his legs. “They look fine.”

  “Just try them on. I won’t look.”

  He gives a shrug, undresses, and pulls on the trousers. “Hey, these fit great.”

  “These should fit you as well.” Sal holds up a couple of faded T-shirts and a woollen sweater.

  He tries them on over his clothes, takes them off and puts them in his backpack. “Perfect.” He looks around. “Any socks?”

  She slides the box of clothes back under the table and pulls out a sack. She rummages inside for a few moments and then tosses him a pair of knitted socks. “Here. These should fit.”

  Removing his boots, he tries on the socks, wiggling his toes against the warmth. “These are great.”

  “What about a hat? Yours has seen better days.”

  He removes his hat, looks at it for a moment, and then puts it back on his head. “I’m keeping the hat.”

  Scanning the room, he stops when he spots a steel spoon. “I’ll have that. Have you got a fork, and a bowl, and a plate, maybe some blankets?”

  “This is a lot of stuff,” she says, passing him a tin plate.

  “You don't have to trade,” he says, grinning. “You and I both know you’ll get good trade for this.” He gestures to the cigarettes.

  Sal makes a dismissive wave and smiles before rolling up a blanket and stuffing it into his backpack.

  He steps over to the clothes and rifles through a pile of coats. He yanks out a long leather trench coat and smiles. “Swap you.”

  Before Sal can protest, he takes off his battered jacket and empties the pockets, transferring its contents to the new coat before adding his old jacket to the pile.

  Sal shakes her head. “Fine, fine. But that’s everything.”

  “Chuck us in a few tins,” he says. “Maybe a bit of that salt beef and we’ve got a deal.”

  “Done,” she says, raising a finger. “But that's your lot.”

  “Excellent.” He rubs his hands together. “How do I look?”

  “Like a different person.”

  He gives a slow nod and chews his bottom lip. “Thanks, Sal. I’m going to need my weapons back before I go.”

  27. No Life

  Abel keeps heading south when he reaches the end of the trail leading from Trinity. He crosses the highway, vaulting a rusted barrier before making his way down the slope at the other side. Struggling to keep his balance, his boots slip against loose soil, the bottom of his coat snagging on exposed roots as he scrambles down to a clearing at the bottom.

  He clambers over low walls, their perpendicular angles tracing the outlines of ancient buildings. He drags a forearm-length of rusted metal from the ground and drops it into his backpack.

  The faint trace of a trail emerges to the right, almost undetectable through the layers of dust and trailing roots. He glances around cautiously, scanning for signs of an ambush, for feral dogs, or for any movement that might suggest the Family is nearby.

  Nettles and thistles whip behind him as he makes his way along the track. Twisted apple and pear trees line the route, shrouding the path in a shadowy archway, their fruits rotting on the ground. Tiny insects flood the air around him. He brushes them from his face with irritation, cursing as they tickle his nostrils and land on his eyes.

  After a few hours, the trail opens out, the path cut abruptly by the dust bowl of a huge blast crater. He skirts around the edge, re-joining the path after about a mile.

  The muscles along the back of his legs ache as he climbs the hill ove
rlooking the Grid. When he reaches the top, he sits on a rock and watches. Addicts stagger between cars and trucks like injured flies. He eats blackberries from his hand, picked from a nearby bramble bush.

  Looking down to his right, he traces the line of the highway as it winds east towards Trinity and beyond to the city. He swallows the last berry, gets to his feet, and takes off his backpack. With trembling fingers, he takes out the petrol can, the saucepans, and the length of rusty metal and lays them on the ground. He pours an inch or so of diesel into the bottom of each pan.

  Returning to his backpack, he takes the packing foam and breaks it up into small pieces, dropping them into the pans. A dense chemical smell fills the air around him as the diesel reacts with the polystyrene, transforming it from a dirty white to a gooey brown. He stirs the mixture, adding more fuel and packing foam.

  When he fills the pans, he packs his backpack and heaves it onto his shoulders. He takes another look at the Grid and can just make out the campervan and trucks at the far end.

  He makes his way back down the hill and stops next to the bramble bush. He picks another handful of berries, eating them one by one as the juices fill his mouth with sugary-bitterness, his hands stained purple.

  Nodding to himself, he picks two more berries and closes his eyes. He rubs the berries against his eyelids and around his eye sockets, feeling the stickiness as it stains his flesh.

  Abel reaches the Grid at dusk. He sweeps his gaze across the hundreds of cars, sagging trucks, and wandering people. The heavy black smoke brings with it the odour of burnt plastic and collides with the acrid, almost overpowering stench coming from the open sewerage ditch, the filth running in a slow brown trickle to his right.

  Hunching over, he folds his arms and edges forward with shambling steps, echoing the demeanour of the other addicts. Making furtive glances towards the dealers at the far end of the Grid, he takes an indirect meandering route through the cars, stepping over junk and rotten filth while the other addicts ignore him.

  Ahead, a bony man throws branches onto a roaring bonfire. The man looks around and stares at Abel for a few seconds, tilting his head and squinting. “Abe, bro?”