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

by Jon Cronshaw

  The cart door creaks open, and the wizard looks around, confused. “What?”

  “It’s time.”

  The wizard rubs his eyes, yawns, and nods.

  11. The Shore

  THE CAMPERVAN GLOWS ghostlike on the shoreline. Abel watches from the side of the highway, prone against the dirt. He retches against the stagnant water, the acrid stench of concentrated death and decay.

  “You okay?” the wizard asks, crouching next to him and looking through his binoculars.

  “It’s that smell. I feel like I’m going to vomit.”

  “We’ve got worse things to worry about than some stinking water.”

  “What can you see?”

  “One of them is asleep in the front cabin. The other two are walking around. Both have rifles.”

  “We rushed in too early last time. They’re expecting us.”

  “But are they expecting Mister Fluffy?”

  Abel lets out a laugh and immediately locks his hands over his mouth. A trembling sensation passes over him as the pores along his skin prickle. He flexes his raw fingers and gets up to a crouching position. “I’ve got the spike and my pistol,” he says in a low whisper.

  “And I’ve got the napalm.”

  “We’ll try and get as close as we can with the machine and point it towards the van. I’ll head up there.” He points to the embankment along the south of the highway. “You come out after I show myself. I’ll give you a signal.”

  The wizard gets to his feet, lifts his bucket, and pockets the binoculars. He lets out a sharp breath and shudders. “You can do this,” he says to himself. “You can do this.”

  “We can do this,” Abel says, standing up and placing a hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “We can do this.”

  VEILED IN SHADOWS, Abel scrambles along the embankment, zigzagging his way towards the campervan until he’s about twenty metres away. The first rays of sunlight emerge over the city, sending ripples of orange, purple, and red over the water's slick surface. He takes the wing mirror from his jacket and wiggles it as a signal.

  He holds his breath and listens to the murmuring voices, the pained sounds coming from inside the van. “Shut up,” one of the male slavers shouts, banging on the campervan with the side of his fist.

  Abel scans the shoreline, running his gaze over the blast craters for signs of the wizard. He watches as a slaver opens the van’s side door, leans inside, and then emerges a few seconds later with a pair of pale skinny kids.

  Edging closer, he watches the slaver chiding the kids, pacing before them and making wild, angry gestures with his hands. With a tight chest and clenched fists, he moves closer.

  The burst of the quad bike's engine roars behind him. He turns quickly and watches with an open mouth as it hurtles towards the van, Mister Fluffy rocking on its seat, its blue poncho billowing like a sail.

  The kids and slavers scatter.

  Abel steels himself and drops from the embankment amid the panic as the quad bike charges past the front of the van, its wheels catching on the edge of a crater before changing direction and rushing into the water.

  “Drop your rifles,” Abel calls, his pistol drawn.

  The first slaver drops his weapon without hesitation, his face raw and blistered from burns.

  Two identical boys look up at him with strange expressions — part confusion, part fear.

  “Run,” Abel says, gesturing to the highway. The kids frown, exchange glances, then turn, and run.

  A glowing lump of napalm arcs through the air, landing at the second slaver's feet. The slaver stops dead, dropping his rifle and thrusting his hands over his head.

  Abel picks up the first slaver’s rifle and hurls it into the water. With his pistol pointed at the second slaver, he runs over to the van, its door still open.

  He looks inside at the tangle of arms and legs. The stench pours from inside, more pungent than the floodwaters. A few pairs of purple-rimmed eyes stare at him. One of the kids shakes his head with fear. “It’s okay, kid,” Abel says softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Gripping the spike with one hand, Abel drives it into a link of chain, twisting and rocking it from side-to-side.

  “We need to go,” says the wizard, pulling at Abel’s shoulder.

  “What?”

  “There’s more of them.”

  “Give me a second,” he growls, still rocking the steel spike.

  “Now,” says the wizard.

  Abel turns with rage to the wizard.

  “They’re coming.”

  Abel drops the spike and looks out from the van. The wizard holds the three slavers at bay with the threat of napalm and points across the water to a group of approaching boats.

  “Damn it,” says Abel. “We need to do this.”

  A bullet fizzes past his ear.

  “We need to go, man.”

  The burnt slaver's face bursts open as a bullet tears through his skull, his body falling limp as it crumples to the ground.

  More bullets whizz by, ricocheting off the van, sending up bursts of soil from the ground.

  The wizard cries out as a bullet hits him, his bucket of napalm dropping to the ground. “My shoulder,” he screams.

  Abel grabs the wizard and points him towards the highway. “Run.”

  “I can’t,” the wizard growls, blood seeping through his robe.

  “Come on.”

  The pair run from the van, keeping to the edge of the highway nearest the embankment. The wizard stumbles, collapsing to his knees. Abel takes his arm over his shoulders and gets the wizard to his feet.

  Looking back across the water, he sees the boats still approaching the shore. “Keep going,” he says. “You’re going to be okay.”

  They move forward, the wizard wavering with each step.

  Breathless and drenched in sweat and blood, they reach the turn-off towards their camp.

  Pip’s there to greet them. She licks the wizard and whines.

  Abel follows her towards the cart, cursing as his legs grow tired, his muscles burning. The mule looks up at them nonplussed for a second and turns its attention back to the grass.

  Abel lays the wizard next to the dying fire. Crouching, he lifts the wizard’s robe, wipes the blood from around his arm, and examines the gaping hole in the wizard’s right biceps. The wizard cries out in pain when Abel pokes at the wound.

  “It looks like it went through,” Abel says.

  The wizard makes an agonised grunt.

  Abel takes a strip of cloth from his backpack and ties it around the wound. “We need to get you to Trinity.”

  “No.”

  “Jacob can fix you up. You’ll be fine, but we need to go.”

  “What about the kids?”

  Abel shakes his head. “We failed.”

  THE WIZARD SITS SLUMPED with his back against his cart, his head bowed forward like a vulture. Muddy clouds twist above. Abel crouches before the wizard, his eyes fixed on the patch of dried blood caked on the wizard’s robe.

  “We need to get moving.”

  The wizard nods. “You think they’ll come after us?”

  Abel shifts his gaze towards the highway and sighs. “Yep. The quicker we can get you to Trinity, the quicker we can fix you up and try again to free those kids.”

  The wizard splutters an incredulous laugh. “Are you kidding me?” He pushes his jaw forward, his eyes widening. “It’s over, man.”

  Abel tugs at his beard as he gets to his feet. “We can still do this. We just need another plan.”

  With effort, the wizard pushes himself to a standing position, leaning against the side of his cart for balance. He glares at Abel for several seconds, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You any good at swimming?”

  Abel gives a blank stare.

  “Where do you think they’re taking those kids?”

  Abel’s mouth moves as if to speak. The wizard raises a hand in a silencing gesture and winces at the pain. “It’s too late for them, man.
They’ll be taking the kids into the city to work.”

  Abel gives a half-shrug, casting his eyes back towards the road. He turns back to the wizard and flexes his burnt fingers. “You think they’re just going to dump the van?”

  The wizard gives a confused look. “Van? What’s the van got to do with anything?”

  “Would you travel with your cart for days then just leave it when you reached your destination?”

  “No.”

  “This is what I’m saying.”

  The wizard shakes his head. “It’s over.”

  Abel points towards the highway as dead trees rattle around them. “I bet they’ll have made a pickup. I bet they’ll be heading back towards the Grid. We could stop them.”

  The wizard squares up to Abel with clenched fists, his sour breath brushing against Abel’s cheek. “You seen this? I nearly died. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course—”

  “Just shut up,” the wizard snaps, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Abel steps back, cringes, and wipes his face with his forearm. He raises his hands in a consolatory gesture and takes another step backwards. “Let’s try and calm down.”

  The wizard trembles, his breath whistling through his nose. “You want me to calm down? You want me to calm down? Since I’ve been running with you, it’s been nothing but trouble.”

  Abel goes to speak.

  “Don’t,” the wizard shouts. “Don’t you dare say another word, because I swear to God, I’ll take that steel spike and drive it into your skull. We clear?”

  Abel gives a single nod and takes another step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s sorry going to do? Do you know how many times someone tried to kill me before I started running with you?”

  Abel doesn’t respond.

  “Not once.”

  “I’m sorry. I just saw those kids and thought we could help them.”

  The wizard slumps his shoulders and turns to his cart. He sits on the ground, leaning his back against a wheel. Abel doesn’t shrink away from his glare. The wizard closes his eyes and lets out a long deep sigh. “You need to drop it, man. We tried and it didn’t work.”

  Abel walks over to the cart and sits to the wizard’s left, resting against a wooden panel. “I can’t,” he whispers. “Not while there is still hope.”

  The wizard turns to him, his face contorting into a garish scowl. “You know what I’ve realised? It just dawned on me.”

  Abel shakes his head.

  “You haven’t thought any of this through.”

  “We can come up with a better plan.”

  “Not talking about the plan. Say we freed those kids. Then what?”

  Abel adjusts his weight, squirming. “I’d figure something.”

  “How would you feed them? Where would they go? Are you going to help them get clean?”

  “I don’t know,” Abel says. He staggers to his feet and looks around between the trees. He pats his thigh and whistles. “Here, girl,” he calls.

  Pip emerges from the trees to the south, her tongue hanging limp from the side of her mouth and tail wagging. He crouches to one knee and strokes her, patting her side and rubbing behind her ears. “Hey, girl,” he says. “Where you been?” He turns to the wizard. “We should get on the road, get you fixed-up.”

  “Yeah,” the wizard says. “We need to get the cart sorted.”

  “I can help, if you want?”

  “Think you could drive?” the wizard asks, grimacing.

  Abel gives a thin smile and nods. “I can give it a go,” he says, looking over towards the mule. “How hard can it be?” He walks over to the mule and takes him by the reins, leading him over to the cart. He grunts and brays, frantically shifting his head from left to right. Abel staggers backwards. “What the hell?”

  The wizard lets out a pained chuckle. “He doesn’t know you. Help me up.”

  Abel heaves the wizard to his feet. The wizard grips his shoulder, wincing with each step. He watches the wizard take the reins and guide the mule to the cart. The mule stays calm and doesn’t protest. The wizard pats the mule on the side of his neck, murmuring something.

  “Talking to a mule now? That bullet must have hit your head too.”

  The wizard turns, his jaw clenched. “You talk to that dog of yours.”

  Abel raises his hands. “Just fooling with you. Trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Well, keep your thoughts to yourself, man. I don’t want to hear any more of your crap,” the wizard says, turning back to the mule.

  “What’s up with you?”

  The wizard barks out a laugh. “I’m all banged up because of you.”

  “I said I’m going to help you get fixed-up.”

  “And then you and me...we’re done.”

  12. Apples

  ABEL SQUINTS AGAINST the setting sun, his teeth grinding. Air whistles through his nostrils, knuckles white as he grips the reins. Dark clouds edged by purples and reds drift in swirls above as the mule plods west. Pip chases something along a line of nettle bushes clustered in a tangle to the left of the road.

  A loud bang comes from inside the cart. Abel looks behind him and pulls on the reins, bringing the mule to a stop. Holding his breath, he steps down from the seat and hops to the ground, stumbling as his right foot lands awkwardly on a stone.

  “There’s a place we can set up for the night, not too far from here,” the wizard says, leaning from the back of the cart.

  “Yep,” Abel says, abruptly. “Anything else?” But the wizard has already slipped back into the cart.

  Shaking his head, Abel pulls himself back into the seat and takes up the reins. The mule grunts and moves forward.

  TINY SWARMING INSECTS clutter the air when Abel signals for the mule to take a left off the highway. He flaps frantically with his left arm as he pushes bugs from his mouth and blows them out of his nostrils. The pungent stench of fermenting apples leaves a sickly taste in the back of his throat. The wheels slip and slide beneath the cart as it struggles to gain traction along the carpet of decomposing fruit.

  Fewer insects harass them when they reach a clearing. He brings the cart to a halt. “I’ll get a fire on,” Abel says. “Hopefully, we’ll smoke away some of these damn bugs.” He looks around at the fruit and sighs. “The apples are down early this year,” he mutters.

  He skirts around the edge of the clearing, searching the dried grasses for anything useful as he gathers fallen branches. He turns to see the wizard glaring back at him. Taking the branches over to the centre of the clearing, he drops them between a pair of tree trunks, arranging the trunks in a V-shape and placing the smaller branches at the base.

  Getting to his feet, he wanders over to the cart and climbs up to retrieve his backpack from next to the seat.

  “What you doing, man?” the wizard asks. “Get down from there.”

  “Just getting my pack,” Abel says through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah? Well, ask next time.”

  Abel drops his backpack to the ground and squares up to the wizard. “What’s the problem?”

  “You’re the problem.” The wizard makes a sidestep and walks towards the mule.

  Abel lets out a long sigh, shakes his head, and reaches into his backpack, tearing out a page from the ancient newspaper and ripping it into strips before laying them out beneath the logs.

  After a few minutes, the flames take hold. A line of white smoke drifts up towards the emerging stars.

  The wizard barges past him and places an open tin of beans within the flames. “These are mine,” he says. “You can sort your own.”

  Wordlessly, Abel gets up and moves away. He calls out for Pip and smiles when she bursts through a leafy fern bush with a rabbit locked between her teeth. “Hey, girl,” he says. Pip drops the rabbit at his feet and rolls onto her back. He rubs her tummy, laughing as she squirms, her tail batting against the bare earth. She twists and jumps to her feet.

  Groping insid
e his jacket pocket, Abel takes out the rubber ball and throws it. Pip runs after it with bounding feet, throwing chunks of soil behind her as her legs scramble.

  “Watch where you’re throwing that thing,” the wizard says.

  Abel looks over to him and scowls. “I didn’t even throw it in your direction.”

  “Yeah? Make sure you don’t.”

  “Damn it,” Abel mutters, turning his attention back to Pip.

  PIP RESTS HER HEAD on Abel’s lap. He leans back against an apple tree, wrapped in a blanket as he watches the wizard climb into his cart.

  “He’ll be good,” Abel says, stroking Pip’s head. “We just need to get him fixed-up.”

  Pip lets out a whine as Abel closes his eyes. “Night, girl.”

  13. Clearing

  ABEL ROLLS ONTO HIS back, shivering as the first light of dawn spreads across the sky. Sitting up, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, yawns, coughs, and scratches himself. The campfire hisses, no more than smouldering embers, white and pink around a pile of grey ash. A cockroach crawls around on the ground next to him, its lacquered wings bristling.

  Squinting, Abel jerks to his feet, searching for his blanket. He looks around, all traces of sleep torn away from his body.

  There’s no sign of the cart — the wizard has gone.

  Alert, he looks around for any clues suggesting an attack.

  Parallel cart tracks cut through the mush of rotting fruit. He follows them until they fade at the highway's edge. “Damn it,” he says, looking each way along the asphalt.

  He wanders back to the clearing and sighs. Branches rattle above as brown leaves drift to the ground. He gathers twigs and branches and takes them over to last night’s campfire. He kicks aside the dead ashes as the last few embers radiate with dull warmth. He scans around for his blanket and backpack. He drops the sticks, his body tensing.

  “Damn it,” he says. “Damn it.”