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

by Jon Cronshaw

  The kid wobbles to his feet and reaches out a weary hand, sweat pouring from his trembling flesh.

  “It's just water, kid. It's clean.” He unscrews the cap, takes a sip, and then holds it out to the kid.

  The stench of the kid mixes with the stagnant water. The kid takes the bottle and licks his lips. He looks to Abel and then to the bottle, sniffing inside before taking a long swig. “Thanks,” the kid gasps. “Where you get clean water?”

  “There's a spring.” Abel makes a vague gesture south.

  The kid gives him a blank look and hands back the bottle.

  “Who you running with?”

  “No one,” the kid says.

  “No one?” Abel shakes his head. “This is no world to be alone, kid.”

  The kid makes a half-shrug and looks along the shoreline to the north. “I was running with the Family.” The kid turns back to him, scratching at the back of his head.

  “You're on plez?”

  “No,” the kid says. He rubs the back of his neck, and sighs. “I was. I am. I don't want to...”

  Abel's face contorts into a grim, mirthless smile. He nods over to his boat. “Can you dig?”

  The kid frowns. “Dig? Dig what?”

  “A hole.” Abel turns and trudges across the soft ground, over the crater's edge, to his boat, his shoulders aching and feet burning. The kid follows.

  He kneels at the boat's side and claws at the ground, pushing his hands into the soil, throwing stones aside. The kid crouches to his left, and they both dig until the hole is three feet deep and three feet around.

  With sweat streaming from his brow, Abel gets to his feet, removes his cap, and wipes his forehead with a sleeve. “This should be about enough,” he says, placing a filthy hand on the kid's shoulder. The kid flinches, reeling back with a sudden jerk.

  “It's okay, kid.” Abel drops his hand and goes over to the boat. He offers the kid a smile. “Help me lift this.”

  The kid doesn't move but stares at Pip’s body. “What is it?”

  “It's a dog.”

  “Dogs are bad.” He makes a concerned face.

  Abel shakes his head. “This dog was my friend. She was the best.”

  The kid turns to him. “Did you kill it?”

  “She got hurt. She died...” Abel's voice cracks for a second. He climbs into the boat and scoops Pip up, cradling her stiff body. “Easy now,” he says, lifting her from the boat.

  They lower Pip into the hole and stand over her, eyes downcast, silent.

  Abel crouches, grabs a handful of soil, and lets it fall slowly onto the dog's side. The kid takes his own handful and does the same. Pip's mouth lies open, her tongue resting dry on the dirt. Her deep chest juts out from her skinny body, her legs thin, spidery.

  Abel gets up and sighs. Taking a few steps back, he nods to himself and covers Pip with more soil. The kid helps. They carry on until the ground is flat.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, now high and bright, Abel coughs and steps over to his backpack. “You hungry, kid?”

  The kid nods. “What you got?”

  Abel pulls out a slab of greyish-brown meat. “Salt beef.”

  “What's that?”

  “It's tough and it tastes bad, but it keeps well and it'll put hairs on your chest.”

  He takes out his hunting knife and the kid recoils.

  “It's okay, kid. I'm not going to hurt you.” He holds the meat up and stabs it with the knife. The blade slides through the meat with ease, splitting it down the middle. Reaching out, he hands half to the kid. They stand chewing, tugging at the meat with frowns and dry mouths.

  Abel takes out his water bottle and unscrews the cap. He offers some more to the kid. The kid takes a swig and hands it back.

  “Do you want to get off plez?” Abel asks.

  The kid looks at his hands, trembling and coated in fresh dirt. “You can't get off plez,” he says in a small voice.

  “You can. I'll help you.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me. I'll teach you to trade. You won't need plez.”

  “You trade?”

  Abel nods.

  “What you trade?”

  “Stuff. Things. Books. Stuff from before.” He rubs his chin and looks at his hands, caked with dirt. He goes over to the shoreline, dips his hands in the water, and rinses them with the water from his bottle. Shaking away the drips, he reaches down and dries his hands on his thighs.

  The kid gives Abel a confused look. “What's books?”

  “Damn it, kid. Books.” He shakes his head and opens his palms, imitating an open book, but the kid shrugs. “They contain words, stories, wisdom, knowledge from before...before all this.” He makes a sweeping gesture across the water. “Can you read?”

  The kid gives another blank look.

  Abel puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. This time the kid doesn't flinch. “Look, kid. Come with me and I'll teach you how to read. I'll teach you about trading and I'll get you off plez.”

  The kid looks down at the grave then back to Abel. “I don't know,” he says. “I can survive.”

  “Anyone can survive, kid. I'm talking about living.”

  Abel moves towards his boat, pulls it from the trailer and drags it to the water's edge. “I'm going to see what I can find out there,” he says, gesturing towards the city.

  The kid looks across the water and shakes his head. “I'm not going back there.”

  With a strain, Abel pushes the boat onto the water and hops inside. He shuffles into the seat and raises the oars. “I'll be an hour,” he calls. “If you want to come with me, you can meet me here. If not, good luck to you, kid.”

  The kid does not answer.

  Abel rows towards the city, craning his neck over his shoulder to see his way, as the dead waters ripple around him in slow undulations.

  2. Pip

  BUILDINGS EMERGE SLOWLY from the water, empty shells whistling and groaning in time with the wind, a chorus of ghosts. Abel looks up, scanning the grey and brown walls, barnacled and mottled with mould and streaked with filth. He sees his own marks on the walls — hand-sized blue crosses marking the buildings he's already explored.

  The water ripples in slow waves from the boat, eventually slopping against the walls with deep swallowing gulps. Abel tastes the death stench, thick and cloying in the back of his throat as his tonsils spasm involuntarily against the foulness.

  The buildings grow taller — some ornate with carved stone pillars and weather-worn statues, cracked and curved, and others drab, flat concrete slabs punctuated with uniform square windows, glassless and hollow. Between them, twists of brick and metal jut out from the dark waters, no clues to their original forms.

  He stops rowing, pulls in the oars, and lets the boat drift towards one of the flat-walled concrete buildings. Reaching out, he pushes a hand against the wall and pads along until he reaches a corner. The wall towers above in cracked grey, speckled with patches of black and green. A grubby line, marking a time when the floodwaters were higher, stains the concrete. He turns to his backpack and retrieves a length of rope.

  A rusted drainpipe descends from the roof, brown tears dripping from its wall brackets. Abel grabs it and shakes it a few times. It does not budge. Satisfied, he fastens the rope around the pipe and secures it to the boat. He pulls the boat flush against the wall, gets up, and puts on his backpack. Placing a hand against the wall for balance, the boat tips in the water, black waves rippling away from him.

  With a deep breath, he grips the pipe and pulls himself up to a window half a floor above. He steps along a ledge and climbs in through the first window, unglazed with a rotted wooden frame, brown and squashy beneath his hands.

  Broken glass crunches beneath his boots when he gets inside. Darkness fills the building, the smell of rot, damp, and stagnant water ubiquitous. He swings his backpack down and leans it against the outer wall. Blinking away the dust, he takes his torch from his jacket pocket, winding the handle until the li
ght glows dim. When his eyes adjust to the gloom, he puts his backpack back on.

  Abel’s boots stick to the thin black carpet as it squelches with each footstep. Dozens of office desks stand in uniform rows. Computer monitors and telephones rest in stillness, the remains of ancient cobwebs, dry and dusty. He looks over each of the desks. Greyed, peeling photographs of girls in party dresses, babies, families, and cats remain fixed in dusty frames or pinned to monitors, sagging with the damp and age. Faces from before — all of them long dead.

  He picks up a stapler, examines it, clicks it, and then drops it into the backpack. Reaching for a plastic pot, faded and filled with stationery, he tips it, scattering pens and pencils across the desk's surface, and grabs the pot and pencils, adding them to his haul.

  He opens drawers, pulls out damp papers, and then puts them back. The building creaks around him, clicking and groaning under its ancient weight.

  Looking around, he moves on to the next row of desks and finds more of the same — a pencil, a mug, a woollen cardigan, and a plastic ruler. He places the stationery and mug into his backpack, arranging them with care before stuffing the cardigan around the empty space.

  A frosted glass wall stands at the room's far end, framing a wooden door. A crack runs in a smooth arc along the glass from the floor to the ceiling. The door handle drops to the floor when Abel tries it. He shoulders the door, lets it swing open, and steps inside.

  A lacquered desk stands in the centre of the small office, a lamp, telephone, and computer resting on its surface. A glass bookshelf appears to hover behind the desk with no visible brackets holding it in place. He shoves past the desk and stands on tiptoes to read the titles of books arranged along the shelf. He squints and sighs, flicking through a few pages of each book before placing them back.

  Resigned, he turns to the desk and opens the top drawer, wriggling it to tease it open. He pockets a few elastic bands and a notepad. The edge of a book brushes against his fingers at the back of the drawer. He pulls it out and looks at the cover. “Concise English Dictionary,” he reads, tracing his finger along the title.

  He removes his backpack, pulls the chair from under the desk, and lets the seat take his weight. Leaning forward, he holds the torch between his jaw and raised shoulder, tilting his head to one side as he flips through the pages.

  The torch drops and he fumbles to stop it clattering to the floor. His heart pounds in his chest.

  “A book of words,” he whispers to himself, running a finger down the page. Creases bunch across his forehead. A smile stretches across his face. He bites his bottom lip and places the book in the backpack, taking care not to bend its cover or spine.

  Opening the next drawer, he finds a cloth which he uses to wrap around the dictionary.

  He discovers another book, its pages yellowing, but dry. Abel smiles. “Great Expectations, Charles Dickens,” he reads. He opens the book and scans the first few pages. “Pip,” he says, letting out a shuddering breath. With a shake of his head, he closes the book, sliding it into his backpack.

  He opens the bottom drawer and finds it’s empty.

  The chair groans as he stands. He takes his backpack and swings it onto his shoulders. A gust of wind shrieks through the building, sending dust and papers flying. He starts and tugs at his beard, watching as the dust settles and the papers soak in the moisture from the carpet.

  Returning to the window, he leans out to see his boat bobbing gently on dead water. He looks across the city. A stream of black smoke ascends from a rooftop to the north. He stares at the smoke for a while and then drops his backpack into the boat. Climbing down, he takes up the oars and rows back to dry land.

  3. The Goose

  “I DIDN'T THINK YOU'd still be here,” Abel says, dragging the boat along the shingles towards the crater.

  The kid gives a shrug but doesn't say anything.

  “Help me with this.” Abel gestures to the boat.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the kid runs along the other side of the boat and pulls it to the trailer. They lift it together, and Abel secures it with rope to the steel frame.

  “You got a name, kid?”

  The kid doesn't answer.

  “I take it you've thought about my offer?”

  The kid gives a slight nod.

  “So?”

  “Got nothing else. You say you can help me off plez.”

  Abel nods and looks at Pip's grave, his breath catching for a moment. “You got anything to protect you from the dust?”

  The kid shakes his head. “All I got is what I got,” he says, making a vague gesture to his tattered clothes and his empty hands.

  Abel reaches into his bag, pulls out a kerchief and tosses it to the kid. It catches the air; the kid leans forward to grab it.

  “I got nothing for your eyes, kid. If it gets too bad, you can keep hold of the boat and I’ll guide you.”

  The kid ties the kerchief around the back of his neck, covering his mouth. He looks up at Abel with watery eyes.

  “You need to pull it over your nose, kid.”

  The kid lifts the kerchief over his nose and then fumbles for several seconds, adjusting the knot at the back. “How's that?”

  “Better, kid.” Abel smiles.

  The sun droops low in the sky as pools of deep red burn at the edges of twisting clouds. The wind brings with it the smell of death and rot from the city. Smoke rises at an angle from a rooftop to the north, deep in the city. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” the kid asks.

  “I got a place. We'll make camp there for the night, get some food, and I'll take you to the spring in the morning.”

  “Did you find anything good in the city?”

  “Yep.”

  “What you find?”

  “Couple of books, some odds and ends. Might keep the books.”

  The kid gives a confused look. “Why would you keep them?”

  “To read. To learn stuff.”

  “Is that better than trading?”

  Abel furrows his brow. “I think so. Probably.”

  THEY REACH THE TATTERED red marker an hour before sunset. The kid helps move the boat into the garage as Abel closes the shutters behind them. He secures the trailer, pushing it against the left-hand wall.

  The kid watches as Abel arranges a couple of logs in a V-shape below the hole in the roof, and piles on the branches of dead pines. Turning to his trolley, Abel moves the plastic sheet aside and fishes around for some matches and then lights the fire, piling on more twigs until it catches.

  Coughing, the kid sits cross-legged on a rug next to the flames. He rubs his hands. Sweat pours in filthy streaks from his head and neck as he shivers with sudden jerks and spasms.

  Abel looks over, watching him with a worried frown, his back dark against the flames. “There's some blankets in here you can use,” he says, rummaging in his trolley. “We've got a big trip ahead of us.”

  “Where we going?” The kid turns to Abel, his pupils black and wide.

  Abel takes a dented tin from the trolley and sits to the kid's right. “Trinity. I've got some things to trade. They sometimes get some real good stuff from out west.”

  “I never heard of it.” The kid gets to his feet, steps over to the trolley, and looks inside.

  Taking his hunting knife from his jacket, Abel pierces the tin, working the lid off as he watches the kid. “Beans,” he mutters to himself. He sniffs inside and purses his lips.

  The kid drags a rug and a blanket from the trolley and unrolls them between the trolley and the boat.

  “I'm cooking beans.” Abel places the tin on the fire and watches as the flames dance around it, catching the tin's ribbed sides with reflections of orange and blue.

  “Beans are good,” the kid says, arranging his bed. “Not eaten warm food in a while.”

  “I've only got one spoon. I should have looked for one when I was in the city.”

  “I don't mind,” the kids says, making his way back
to the trolley. “Can I?” He signals towards the books.

  “Sure, kid.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Be careful.”

  “What do they say?”

  Abel gives a puzzled look. “The books?”

  “Yeah. They got words in. What they say?”

  Crouching, Abel wraps his hand with a cloth, leans forward, and moves the beans off the fire to let them cool. He goes over to the kid and picks out a book on carpentry. “This one tells you how to make things from wood.”

  The kid nods, takes the book, and flicks through the pages. “There's pictures,” he says, smiling back at Abel.

  “Some books have pictures. A lot don't.” He takes the book from the kid, puts it back in the trolley, and then pulls out another. “This is a good one.”

  The kid leans over his shoulder and blinks at the book. “No pictures? I don't get how you know what's going on without pictures.”

  “You read the words and the pictures come in your head, kid.”

  The kid scratches his hair and grabs another book. “This one's got pictures.”

  “Illustrated Book of Birds.”

  “Birds?” the kid asks. He turns each page over, tilting his head at the colourful illustrations. “Are these things birds?”

  “When I was a kid, younger than you, I remember we'd see birds all the time. They used to fly in the sky.” He points into the air, tracing the flight path of an imagined bird. “They used to sing.”

  “Sing?”

  Abel whistles a few notes and shrugs one shoulder.

  “I’ve never seen one.”

  “Yep. That's about right. You still get chickens occasionally. I’ll show you some when we get to Trinity.”

  The kid laughs out loud and points to one of the images. It shows a long-necked white bird with a bright orange beak. “That one is funny.”

  Abel leans in and fingers the bird's name. “It's a goose. They used to fly in big groups overhead. They'd make this honking sound. My mum said that when you saw geese flying that meant...” Abel stops, furrows his brow, and then waves a hand. “It's been so long, I can't remember, kid.”