The Wasteland Series: Books 1-3 of the post-apocalyptic survival series

by Jon Cronshaw

  Abel takes a boiled egg from a tray and watches with anticipation as fresh slices of bread make their way towards him. “Where are you from?” he asks, smiling at the wizard.

  The wizard gives a half-shrug. “My travels take me far and wide.”

  “You ever been by the Grid?”

  “The Grid?” The wizard pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I went there once, had half my stuff stolen.”

  “Yep. That’s about right.” Abel takes two slices of bread when the tray reaches him, drops them on his plate, and cracks open the boiled egg, its orange yolk soft and steaming.

  “Where do you get the items for your show?” Sal asks.

  The wizard shuffles in his seat, raising his chin. “Many years of exploration, painstaking research, and alchemical experimentation.” He makes a wide gesture with his hands. “Understanding the ways of the ancients, understanding the inner workings of magic is something I've made my life's work.”

  Jacob gives an incredulous smirk. “You may have most people believing what you do is magic. That's fine. You're a showman. I get it.” He raises a silencing hand when the wizard poises to speak. “You've obviously found a haul of technology from before the end days and worked out how to use it for your little show.”

  The wizard gets to his feet. “I have never...”

  “Sit down,” Jacob snaps. “You can eat with us and trade, or you can leave now. Either works for me.”

  The wizard hesitates, drops to his seat, picks up a slice of bread, and pouts.

  “Jacob, please,” says Sal. “That's no way to speak to our guest.”

  Jacob nods and raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You're right.” He turns to the wizard, offering a handshake. “Great Alfonso, if that is your real name, please accept my apologies.”

  “Of course. I understand that my work can sometimes leave some people feeling...” the wizard hesitates, reaching for the word. “Uncomfortable.”

  “My issue is that you've found this important technology, the ability to generate electricity, but instead of doing something for the betterment of everyone, you waste your time on a frivolous magic show.”

  The wizard gets to his feet again, grabs another slice of bread, stuffs it into his mouth, and storms out, his dusty blue robe flapping behind him as he leaves.

  “What did you do that for?” asks Sal, her lips pursed.

  “He is only walking away because I told him the harsh truth.”

  Abel turns, leans away from Jacob, and rests on his left elbow. “I've got a lot of respect for you, Jacob, but Sal's right. You say what that wizard guy does is frivolous, that it's not for the betterment of others, yet I saw the faces of the people watching. There's not much in this damn world to smile about. You've got your God, but a flesh and blood man showed these people something real, something miraculous.”

  Jacob sniffs. “It's just old technology. There's nothing magical about it.”

  “It doesn't need to be magical. It's still something marvellous. I feel sad for you that you can't see that.” Abel stands and turns to Sal. “Are we okay to go to the trading house? I need to get on the road.” Pip jumps to her feet, her tail wagging.

  “You ready, girl?” He leans down and pats Pip’s back.

  THE TRADING HOUSE STANDS dark and musty. A cocktail of smells hangs in the air: old clothes, damp leather, paraffin, and bread. Abel's eyes adjust slowly to the candlelit gloom. He walks around tables scattered with shoes and clothes, car parts and cutlery. He steps over to a sagging table piled high with books, scanning the familiar titles. “Anything new?”

  Sal shakes her head and folds her arms. Pip sniffs around the bottom of her robes. Sal looks down, smiling.

  Abel leaves his backpack on a table, reaches inside, and takes out a few office supplies: a pencil and a ruler. He reaches farther and pulls out a copy of the New Testament. “I remember you saying you'd offer me top trade if I ever found any Bibles,” he says, handing her the book.

  “This is in wonderful condition,” she says, turning the leather-bound volume in her hands, its embossed gold title flashing against the candlelight.

  “Yep.” He walks around the tables, examining the goods. He picks up a child’s doll, pink and naked and grimy around the fingers and toes, its hair a tangle of matted blonde. He shakes his head and puts the doll back. “I've not seen anything great around here to trade though. I don't think I'd be able to carry the amount of tins I could get for this.”

  Sal nods. “There is something that came in. A piece of old technology, something electrical.”

  “What am I going to do with something electrical?”

  “This is different,” she says. “You'll see.” She opens the door at the far end of the room, hidden by shadows, and emerges a few seconds later holding a black cylindrical object, a little longer than the length of her palm.

  Abel takes it, feeling its coldness and weight. There's a glass lens at one end, and a handle at the other. “What does it do?”

  Sal takes the object and winds the handle. A broad grin passes over her face, illuminated by yellow torchlight.

  Abel's jaw drops. “How?”

  “You think this will be enough for the Bible?”

  “Yep. Throw in a few tins, and you've got yourself a deal.”

  Sal flicks through the Bible's pages again, smiles, and shakes her head. “Fine, fine. You win.” She walks over to a pile of unlabelled food cans. Taking four tins, she drops them into Abel's backpack. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “Get back on the road, I guess. Head back east.” He swings the backpack onto his shoulders and adjusts the straps. “Hopefully, I won't bump into anyone from the Family again.”

  “You’re past that part of your life.” She places a hand on his shoulder.

  “It's still hard though. It never leaves you.”

  Sal offers a gloomy smile as she leans forward for a hug. “You look after yourself, and look after this one.” She gestures to Pip.

  “Thanks, Sal.” He pats his thigh, makes a clicking sound with the side of his mouth, and heads to the door. “Come on, girl.”

  2. The Family

  ABEL HEADS EAST ALONG the highway. He pulls his cap low over his eyes, protecting them from the dazzling sunlight. There's a stillness in the air, a dryness. Pip runs on ahead, sniffing along the warped central barrier, its surface barnacled in rust and lichen. The highway slopes down for miles, swooping in gentle waves towards the distant smudge of the city.

  He passes wrecked cars and dead trees, his footsteps softened by the thick moss and gnarled green roots extending along the asphalt. Gaunt pines make way for lush oaks, poplars, and apple trees. To his right the ground slopes down to form a steep embankment. He glimpses a greyish-white flicker through the trees. He pats his thigh, calls out for Pip, and stands at the highway's edge looking down at the backend of a wrecked truck.

  He scrambles down the embankment, his balance shifting against loose stones as they tumble to the ground below. He steadies himself with his hand as his left foot slips beneath him. Pip runs down the bank with ease and sniffs along the truck's half-deflated tyres.

  Reaching the bottom, Abel wipes his brow, removes his cap, and looks around. He listens for movement. Trees cast shadows like twisted fingers. A square of flat concrete lies cracked and obscured by stains and trailing vegetation. He steps over to a pile of broken branches and bits of plastic and crouches to look. He shakes away some of the brownish-grey dust, moving the branches aside, as dried strips of grey fungus drift to the ground.

  Pip pokes her head between Abel's right arm and torso, sniffs at the wood, then turns, and licks his face. He laughs then wobbles backwards, losing his balance for a moment.

  Pip jumps back a few steps, bows, and rests her forelegs against the ground. She gives a playful growl and jerks to her feet.

  “You want to play?” Abel asks. “Do you? Do you?” He pats the ground with his right hand, then his left. Pip
runs forward and pushes her wet nose against his fingers.

  Taking a stick from the pile of wood and plastic, he gets up and holds it just out of Pip's reach. He lets her run around him in circles and moves the stick out of her way every time she leaps to grab it with her teeth.

  “Nearly,” he taunts. “So close.”

  Pip's panting. Abel's grinning. She runs in a loop, charges towards him, feints to the right, then jumps up, and grabs the stick. She twists the branch from his hands and shakes her head with a frantic, flailing movement. Pip flops to her belly and gnaws on the branch with the side of her mouth, lumps of wood and drool dropping around her.

  Abel gets to his feet, brushes his hands together and tickles Pip behind her ear. He turns his attention to the truck. He finds the cabin’s passenger door locked, so he goes around the other side and climbs onto a rusted footplate to pull the door handle. He staggers backwards when the handle snaps off.

  “Damn it,” he grunts. He steps away, scratching his head. Looking around, he drops his backpack to the ground and considers the cabin's broken windows. He pulls himself up onto the step, and makes sure there's no broken glass poking through the perished rubber seal around the window. Taking a deep breath, he pulls himself up, his feet scrambling against the door for purchase. With a sigh, he drops back to the ground. Sweat seeps from his forehead and the back of his neck. He wipes his hands, spits on them and rubs them together. Pip looks up at him for a moment then continues splitting the branch, holding it down with one paw as she tears off the bark with her long front teeth.

  Abel walks around to the other side of the cabin. Grunting, he pulls himself up, his arms trembling as they take his weight. The truck groans against its suspension when he finally heaves himself into the cabin. He coughs as a cloud of dust explodes from a bench seat, its upholstered cover damp and blackened by mould. A cluster of silverfish scatter. He flips open the glovebox, freeing it from crumbling hinges.

  Curling his lip, he looks around for somewhere to put the glovebox cover, its surface sticky against his fingertips. He places it on the seat next to him and checks inside to find it empty.

  He looks under the seat, wrinkling his nose at the death-stench of rotting silverfish. There's an ancient food wrapper and a few slivers of paper: nothing useful.

  Abel sighs, catches sight of Pip in the wing mirror, and raises an eyebrow. He leans forward, examining the mirror. He pulls the door lock, but nothing happens. Frowning, he slides back out of the window and moans as his weight crushes against his belly. He drops to the ground on his feet, staggers, brushes himself off, and looks up at the wing mirror. A thin layer of dust coats its surface. Speckles of rust creep through the glass in the top-left corner, the remaining glass clear. He reaches up and lets the mirror’s bracket take his weight until it bends and snaps free.

  Smiling, he walks over to his backpack and opens the top flap. He takes a cloth from a side-pocket, wraps it around the mirror, and drops the bundle inside the main compartment. A gust of wind scoops up a whirlwind of dust and rattles the branches around him.

  He makes his way around the truck's rear and tries the shutters. They don't budge. He shifts his weight against them, pushing upwards. “Come on,” he says through gritted teeth.

  He looks down. Pip’s tail wags. “Not now,” he says. He tries again, strains against the resistance for a long moment, and drops to his knees, exhausted. “Damn it.”

  Defeated and panting, he looks up at the shutters, and tugs at his beard. He lets out a long sigh and shoulders his backpack. “Come on, girl,” he says, patting his thigh. “Let's go.”

  PIP BOLTS UP THE EMBANKMENT then looks down at Abel from the highway, her tongue drooping from the side of her mouth. Abel grips at exposed tree roots and pulls himself up.

  At the top of the bank, he crouches on one knee to get his breath back. He pats Pip on her back and follows the line of the road, shifting his gaze towards the city.

  Wind rustles through the trees around him. He pulls up his collar.

  There’s nothing of use in the ancient car shells dotted along the road. He spots movement ahead and hides behind a twisted thorn bush. “Come in, girl,” he says in a loud whisper.

  Pip raises her head, her ears twitching. Abel watches her and then watches the dot of movement in the distance. “What is it, girl?”

  He gets up and grips his hunting knife inside his jacket. He walks towards the movement with hesitant steps. As he draws close, the shape of a person comes into focus. He scans the hillside to the left, sweeping for signs of more movement, signs of a trap. The figure spasms with agitated jerks.

  Pip moves along the road with a raised tail, her ears erect and pointed like a jackal’s. He follows her lead, making himself visible. Pip lies down ahead, watching.

  When he catches up to her, he crouches and strokes her back. “What do you think, girl? Shall we look?” He pats her side and gets to his feet on creaking knees.

  The man ahead wears blue, his clothes billowing with the wind. Abel approaches, one hand gripping his knife and the other fingering his pistol. As he moves closer, the man looks up. His skin is dark, his eyes bloodshot. “It's you.”

  Abel offers a smile and takes his hand away from his knife. “The Great Alfonso,” he says.

  “What do you want?” the wizard asks.

  Abel shakes his head and raises his hands. “Just saying hello. Nothing to worry about.”

  “What's your dog doing?”

  Abel looks around. Pip sniffs at the wizard's cart, stationary at the roadside. “She's just taking a look. She's friendly.”

  “Yeah?” The wizard moves over to his cart and crouches next to the nearest wheel with his back to Abel.

  “What's up?”

  The wizard shrugs. “Wheel's snagging. Nothing I can do about it.”

  “Your voice is different.”

  The wizard stiffens.

  “It's okay,” Abel says. “I get it.”

  The wizard turns, narrows his eyes, and makes a show of sizing Abel up. “You come to preach at me too?”

  “Nope. Is that why you left?”

  The wizard nods. “That guy was getting under my skin, man.”

  “Yep,” Abel agrees. “Jacob can be a bit prickly, but they're good people.”

  “Yeah?” The wizard pushes himself to his feet and leans with his back against the cart. “Why you sticking up for them?”

  Abel shrugs. “They were the only ones who were there for me when I was sick. It's a good place to trade, get food. They even put traders up for the night.”

  “They didn't offer to put me up for the night,” the wizard says, folding his arms.

  “I don’t think you gave them a chance.”

  “They were hostile, man.”

  “I think you scared them with your show.”

  The wizard scoffs. “Yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  The wizard’s mule takes a step backwards as Pip sniffs at its nose.

  “You just running with that dog?” the wizard asks, walking over to his mule.

  “Yep.” Abel looks at Pip and smiles.

  The wizard strokes the mule’s mane and waves Pip away. “What are you?”

  Abel gives the wizard a bemused look. “What do you mean?”

  “You a trader?” The wizard narrows his eyes. “A dealer?”

  “Definitely not a dealer,” he says, shaking his head. “I find things, trade them. Books, stuff from before.”

  The wizard nods. “You know about books and things?”

  “I know when I see a book I can trade.”

  “No, man, can you read the words?”

  Abel scratches his beard and nods. “Yep.”

  The wizard raises his eyebrows, pushes out his bottom lip, and nods to himself. “That's good, man,” he says, patting the mule’s side. “You ever teach anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  “It's a dead skill. You're lucky, man.” The wizard's eyes brighten. “You should read to
people, travel the roads. You’d get some good stuff in trade.”

  Abel shakes his head. “I've been reading again for less than a year. Not sure I could stand in front of a crowd and do it.”

  “Man, if I could read, I'd do that. I'd do my show, read stories from before. People would love that.”

  “That's not me.”

  “Man, if we worked together, we could make a great show.”

  Abel shrugs. “Not for me,” he says.

  “That's too bad.” The wizard walks back round the side of his cart. “You seem alright.”

  Abel approaches the cart and runs his fingers along the swirls of blistering paint. “Ever thought about doing more?”

  “More what?”

  Abel pats his hand against the cart's side. “You've got some great things here. I bet you could do so much with the things you know. Things with electricity. I got this.” He reaches into his jacket, takes out the wind-up torch, and turns the handle. “You've got something like this. I bet if we could find the right stuff, the right books, we could make things better.”

  The wizard lets out a bitter laugh. “Look around you,” he says, sweeping his arms in a wide gesture. “This is it, man. We just got to keep on.”

  “Just keeping on kept me an addict for years. You've got to strive for more.”

  “You're starting to sound like that guy from Trinity.”

  Silence hovers between them for several seconds. Abel frowns, pats his thigh, and calls for Pip. “It's been nice meeting you again. Take care on the roads.”

  “Wait,” the wizard says. “I...” His voice trails off.

  “We're looking for different things.”

  “You eaten?” the wizard asks.

  “Not since Trinity.”

  “I got a few tins we can share. It's not Trinity food, but it should do.”

  Abel nods. “Sounds good,” he says. Pip bounds towards him, a bloody animal gripped between her teeth. He smiles. “You like rabbit?”

  TWO TINS OF BEANS SIMMER while the rabbit drips fat over the campfire, causing it to hiss and spit.