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

by Jon Cronshaw

  “How you do that?” the kid asks, smiling.

  “You've just got to find the right stone and skim it. You've just got to feel it.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Sure.” Abel kicks aside a few scattered rocks and then leans down to pick up a flat ovoid stone. He rotates it in his right hand and passes it to the kid. “You've got to lean into it, like this.” He stands behind the kid, pulling back the kid's elbow. “You've got to get nice and low, grip it with your thumb and forefinger, then throw.”

  He steps back and the kid throws the stone straight into the river. The kid turns to Abel, confused. “It didn't work.”

  “You've got to get lower.” Abel looks around, picks up another stone, and skims it across the river's surface. “Like that,” he says, the stone bouncing in a haphazard pattern, rebounding this way and that before dropping into the water. “Try again.” He stands back, watching as the kid finds another stone.

  After several seconds, the kid turns to Abel with a round stone in his hand. “What about this? It’s like the one you got.”

  “Looks good, kid.”

  The kid turns back to the river, bends his knees, and skims the stone across its surface. The stone makes five smooth bounces before plopping into the river. “It worked,” he says, grinning.

  Abel claps and smiles. “Good work, kid.”

  “Hey,” a gruff voice calls from behind.

  “Damn it,” Abel mutters. He turns to see a man and a woman. The man lumbers forward, bulky, bearded, and draped in tattered denims. Animal skins wrap around the woman, many-hued furs encircling her, creating the illusion of something much bigger. The man holds a tyre iron in his right hand and slaps it against the palm of his left.

  “That your kid?” the woman asks. Grubby wrinkles line her face, sunken cheeks tugging against her skull. Her hollow eyes flicker with rage, her leathery skin browned by the sun and malnutrition.

  “He's just a kid,” Abel says.

  “This is one of ours. Isn't that right?” the woman says, calling over to the kid with narrowing eyes.

  Abel turns to the kid, now frozen in place, mouth agape, trembling.

  “Whatever history you've had, the kid's running with me.”

  The man laughs. “You hear that? He's running with this guy.” The man gives a toothy grin and scratches at the bald patch nestling among his black sinewy hair.

  “We're taking him back,” says the woman. “He's coming back to the Family.” She leans past Abel to address the kid. “Isn't that right? You owe us. You think you can just up and leave, run out on us? No one leaves the Family. The Family's for life.”

  Abel shakes his head and raises an amiable hand. “Let's not get overexcited here,” he says. “If the kid wants to come with you, he's welcome to. If he doesn't, well...” He gives a half-shrug, folds his arms, and gropes for his hunting knife and pistol.

  “If he doesn't, we'll string you up from one of those trees and leave you to rot,” the man says, gesturing with his tyre iron. “Then we'll take him back anyway.” The man spits on the ground.

  Abel turns to the kid. “Well, kid. What's it to be? I'm not going to stop you if you want to go back.”

  The kid’s on the verge of tears, the whites of his eyes showing, framed by purple flesh. He waves his arms, shaking his head frantically.

  “That's your answer,” says Abel.

  The man lets out a loud, harsh laugh and stops abruptly. “This isn't a negotiation. Hand over the kid or I'll do you.”

  Abel pulls out his hunting knife and pistol, smiling as their confidence evaporates. He points the knife with his left hand, pointing it at the man, and aims the pistol at the woman, tilting his head. “Unless you've got anything better than a tyre iron, I suggest you step away.”

  The man drops the tyre iron and raises his hands. “We're going.”

  Abel smiles and nods. “I want to see you two walk towards the city. You keep moving until you're back with the Family. If I even see you look back, I'll shoot you. Do you understand?”

  The woman yanks the man's arm. “Come on.”

  The man hesitates, looks down at the tyre iron, and hesitates again.

  “You can leave that there,” Abel says.

  “Okay,” the man says. “But we're not done with you. We'll be back.”

  “You do that.”

  The woman scowls at Abel, mouths something to the kid, and then runs towards the city with the man at her side.

  Abel stands for ten minutes, watching the pair go, his pistol pointing towards them until they become mere specks in the distance.

  He slips the pistol back into his jacket and sheaths his hunting knife. “You alright, kid?”

  The kid nods. “Thanks.”

  Abel leans down, takes the tyre iron, grips it in his hands, and swings it. He steps over to the riverbank and slides the tyre iron into his backpack. Heaving the backpack onto his shoulders, he sighs at his shaking hands. “We should get going, kid,” he says, looking down the hill. “They'll be back.”

  “I don't think they were looking for me. I think they were just out scavenging.”

  Abel turns to the kid. “What makes you say that?”

  The kid shrugs. “If they're hunting, they bring more people, better weapons.”

  “You knew those two?”

  “Not really. I've seen them around.”

  “Well, let's hope they don't head back this way, kid.”

  7. Promise

  THE TREES GROW WILDER and greener the farther Abel and the kid get away from the city. Abel turns, surveying the road behind them. He looks for signs of movement. The sun burns high and yellow. Its rays shimmer across the city's expansive black lake, reflecting the oily sheen in blues and purples.

  “You hungry, kid?”

  “I could eat.” The kid's voice rings flat, listless.

  Abel gestures towards a tumbledown brick wall to the highway's left. Dust-coated trees surround the waist-high wall, enclosing it with shadows, hiding it from the road. “We'll go behind there. It's not ideal, but we won't be seen from the road.”

  The kid vaults the wall. Abel walks around, removes his backpack, and sits with his back against the bricks. “You should be more careful, kid,” he says, rifling through the backpack. He pulls out a ball of cloth, opening it to reveal a roll of paper. Holding it up, he unwraps the paper and takes out a slab of salt beef. Using his hunting knife, he slices the meat in two and hands a piece to the kid.

  “Thanks.”

  “How did you end up running with the Family?”

  The kid doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tugs at the meat with his back teeth until a piece tears free.

  “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'm just wondering, is all.”

  The kid chews and crosses his legs. “I don't mind,” he says, swallowing. “I used to live with my uncle in a place north of the city, further north than where the Family are at. My uncle went out to hunt one day, and I never saw him again. I waited for days, but he never came back. I went out. This woman said she'd let me join her family if I wanted. I said I was looking for my uncle. She said he was probably dead. She took me on a boat into the city, and they let me stay there with all the other kids. That's when they started giving me plez. They said I owed them, so they put me in the factory.”

  Abel's eyes widen. “You were making plez?”

  “That's what they do. I had to clean out the vats. I didn't want to, but they said they'd do me if I didn't.”

  “Damn it, kid.” Abel shakes his head, rubbing his beard. “What happened?”

  The kid shrugs.

  “How did you get free?”

  “I got out. Used a barrel to float.”

  The kid sweats again — the cold sweat of the plez working its way out of his system.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I'm alright.”

  “I'm not giving up on you, kid.” He gives a grim, determined smile. “They get you hooked,
then put you to work.” He shakes his head. “Bastards.”

  He leans his head back against the wall, feels its roughness through his cap, and looks up at the whirlpool clouds. Sighing, he tears a strip of meat, and drops it into his mouth. The kid exhales in erratic tremors, sometimes violent and wheezing and other times weak and shallow.

  The pair sit wordlessly while they eat. Abel takes a swig of water, passes it to the kid and holds his gaze. “I promise you now that I'll never let the Family take you back. We're going to get the plez out of your system, and you're going to start living again.”

  The kid smiles. “Thanks.”

  “You're going to beat this — we’re going to beat this.”

  “I know.”

  8. The Car

  “WE SHOULD FIND SOMEWHERE to camp for the night before it gets too dark,” Abel says.

  Purple brushstrokes streak across the sky. The sun fades fast over the western horizon as trails of reds and oranges stretch like flames beyond the clouds. The ground around them lies flat and barren, vegetation sparse. Asphalt snakes its way across the landscape ahead, grey and cracked and lifeless. They skirt along the road's edge rather than trip or twist an ankle on another pothole.

  “How about here?” the kid asks, pointing up to the right.

  “It's too open. If the Family come after us, they'll spot us for miles. We just need to keep moving until we find something better.”

  “Right. I'm really tired though.”

  “We're at the highest bit here. The road slopes back down soon. There's more shelter there.”

  “Okay. It’s cold.”

  Abel stops.

  “What is it?” the kid asks.

  Abel raises a hand and gestures for silence, cocking his head to listen. “You hear that?” he whispers.

  The kid looks back down the trail.

  “Damn it.”

  “I can hear it.” The kid’s eyes widen. “It's the Family.”

  “Shh, it's not people.” He listens to the sound of dogs on the road behind them, snarling, howling, and barking. “We need to keep moving.”

  With aching thighs and burning feet, Abel marches briskly towards the sunset. He reaches into his jacket and takes out his hunting knife, keeping up the pace. “Can you see them?”

  “No, they're down there.” The kid points south. “I can hear them.”

  “We can't let them surround us. We're too exposed.” His voice grows frantic. His pace quickens, his feet snagging on something. He fumbles the knife, almost tripping. “Damn it,” he growls.

  “You okay?” the kid runs up to him.

  “Yep. Let's keep focused, kid. Can you tell where they are?”

  The kid points southwest. “You think they're trying to circle us?”

  “That's what it seems like. Keep moving.” His breath wheezes out, thin and strained. Lactic acid burns along his thighs. Adrenaline courses through him. He trembles through the fear, pushing himself past the tiredness.

  The dogs grow closer, louder. Branches snap as they crash through bushes.

  “They're splitting into two groups,” Abel says. “They're hunting us.” He turns round to see the kid trying a car door. “Damn it, kid. This isn't the time.”

  “It's still got all its windows.” The kid opens the door, clicks it closed, and then opens it again. “Get in,” he calls.

  Abel looks around and sees a trio of dogs approaching from the west, fangs gleaming white against the dying sun and drool cascading from their mouths. He runs over to the car and dives in through a backdoor. The kid follows him in, slamming the door closed behind them.

  The seats sag with rot, little more than rusted springs with a coating of worn leatherette, wrinkled, bleached, and bubbled by the sun. Something crawls inside the seat, clicking.

  The dogs surround them, circling, barking, and growling. They paw and scratch at the grubby windows and push their noses against the cracks along the doors, sniffing and frothing at the mouths. They howl and moan. A huge black dog leaps onto the car, its claws scraping against the windscreen as it tries to climb the roof. It scrambles to the ground, facing the grill with its tail erect and teeth exposed, its eyes flickering and wild.

  “What now?” Abel asks, leaning back against the flimsy springs.

  “We wait. They can't get in.”

  The final iridescent strands of orange from the setting sun disappear and reveal the swathes of stars dotted across the blackish-purple sky.

  “My legs are spent,” Abel says, rubbing his thighs as he gets his breath back. He shuffles against the springs poking into his buttocks, takes off his backpack, and places it on the passenger seat. A bead of sweat drips down his face. He takes off his jacket, laying it over the kid and himself as a blanket. “This is a good find, kid,” he says. “Good work.”

  Leaning down, he pulls off his boots and socks and drops them in the foot-well in front of the backpack. His feet burn red, blistered and throbbing. He wiggles his toes as the dogs continue to assault the car.

  The kid’s already asleep. He smiles and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of the dogs.

  ABEL OPENS HIS EYES early the next morning to find the dogs gone. His breath comes out in white clouds. He turns to see the kid has gone too. With a stiff neck and aching legs, he opens the car door and slides off the seat. An icy cold shock washes over him when the soles of his feet rest on the asphalt, shaking away any lingering sleepiness. He looks around, squints at the sunrise, and yawns. Reaching across the car seat, he takes his jacket and puts it on. A sharp breeze tickles his beard.

  Trees tower around him, green and teeming with insects. Vines wrap around a lamppost, its form bent to nature’s will. The kid sits cross-legged at the side of the road, poking a campfire with a stick. Abel walks over. “Hey, kid. Any sign of the dogs?”

  The kid shakes his head but doesn’t look up. “They must have got bored.”

  “How was your night? Sleep okay?”

  “I don't know,” the kid sighs. “Had some really weird dreams, but I'm okay.”

  Abel gives a throaty groan as he sits on the ground next to the kid. A white blister swells on the bottom of his right foot. He pokes at it with a finger, cringing as the thick liquid beneath the stretched skin moves like an egg yolk.

  “I don't want to speak too soon, but I'd say you're over the worst. The night before last was really bad.”

  The kid gives a slight nod.

  The fire crackles in the gap between two birch trees, their fallen leaves coating the ground in shades of reds and yellows. A tin of something lies unopened next to the fire.

  “We'll have to look out for a knife for you, kid.” He leans forward, takes the tin, pierces it with his knife, and cuts around the lid. “Well, look at this,” he says, grinning.

  “What is it?” The kid turns to him.

  “Hope you like beans.” Abel gives the kid a wink, placing the tin in the flames. He looks around for a long moment and takes in the scenery. “You know, kid. I think we're a bit further along than I thought.”

  “Must be all that running we did.”

  Abel laughs, gets up, and ambles over to the car. Around the opposite side, he opens the passenger door and leans in. He grabs a cloth, a spoon, and the water bottle from his backpack. Leaning back, he stumbles, his foot landing on a sharp stone. The blister on the sole of his foot bursts beneath him, wet and warm. He lets out a pained yelp. “Damn it.”

  The kid bolts to his feet. “What is it?”

  “Just the blister, kid.”

  Wincing with each step, he limps back over to the kid. He crouches awkwardly, sits back and holds his feet against the fire, wiggling his toes against the heat. The foul stench of infection drifts from the sagging blister sac.

  The kid leans down and looks at the open wound, the flesh around it hanging loose like a deflated balloon, wrinkled and white. “Looks pretty sore.”

  “That's a damn understatement.” Abel wraps his hands with the cloth, takes th
e beans from the fire, and places the steaming tin on the ground between them. He lets out a sigh, gritting his teeth with the pain.

  “You still alright to walk?” the kid asks.

  “I've had worse.” Abel waves a hand. “I'll just air it for a while, then we'll head out.”

  The kid takes the spoon and the tin and shovels the beans into his mouth. “There's bits of meat in this,” he says, chewing.

  “Really?” Abel sits up.

  The kid holds up the spoon to show the end of a tiny sausage.

  “That's great, kid. Bit of variety's always good.”

  With a smile, the kid smells the pinkish meat and drops it in his mouth. He has a few more mouthfuls and then passes the tin over.

  Abel finishes it and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He looks back along the road towards the distant dot of the city, checking for movement. “At least the road looks quiet.”

  They make their way back to the car. Abel cleans the spoon and his feet with water from his bottle. He takes a clean pair of socks from his backpack and sits on the passenger seat with his legs hanging outside, feet resting on the ground. Sucking in his bottom lip, he pulls the socks over his feet. Ripples of pain spread from his foot and along his leg. He fastens his boots and gets up, grimacing as he puts his weight down. He pulls his backpack over his shoulders, and nods to the kid. “Let's keep moving.”

  The kid looks up. “You think those dogs will come back?”

  “Let's hope not.”

  9. The Helmet

  TRINITY EMERGES AS if from nowhere when they take a right along a thin, winding trail. The thick vegetation rustles on either side of them. Cultivated fields emerge — rows of yellow wheat leaning with the breeze. The sun bears down, high, glaring, and warm, white against the sky's bland greyness.

  “Just a little bit more,” Abel says, limping, his foot aching. His thigh muscles grip and contort with each step. He curses under his breath, wincing each time he puts his weight down on the burst blister.