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

by Jon Cronshaw

  A barricade of car doors, metal sheets, and chunks of cracked concrete surround Trinity, enclosing it like a fortified wall. Felled trees and lampposts stand staked into the ground, tethered together with strands of rope and telegraph wire.

  “What’s that?” the kid asks, pointing up at a wooden crucifix, towering above them to the fence's right.

  “It’s a cross, kid. It’s God stuff.”

  “God stuff?”

  “They’re just stories, kid. Don’t worry about it.” Reaching the fence, he stops.

  “Isn’t God magic or something?”

  “Something like that, kid. Just be nice and you’ll be okay.”

  “How do we get in?” the kid asks, looking at the ground where the trail comes to an abrupt end.

  Abel cups his mouth and leans back. “Sal?” he calls. “Jacob? It’s Abel.” He turns to the kid. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  He looks around for about a minute and then steps back to call out again when the fence screeches across.

  A dark-skinned woman leans around the fence and steps forward smiling. Brown woollen robes, tied around the waist with a length of rope, drape around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in thick dreadlocks descending past her waist. “Abel,” she says, a smile reaching her eyes.

  “Hey, Sal.” He turns to the kid and smiles. “This is Sal.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to be back,” she says. “Come on in, we're about to eat.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Abel leans forward and gives Sal a hug.

  She looks past him and frowns “It’s strange seeing you without Pip.”

  Abel's face drops. “Yep.” He takes in a deep breath through his nose and swallows. “I buried her.”

  She places a hand on his arm and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Bless her. You two were good together.”

  Abel gives a weak nod and frowns. “Thanks, Sal,” he manages. “I'm travelling with the kid now.” He squeezes the kid’s shoulder.

  She narrows her eyes, looking the kid up and down for a long moment. “Is he okay? He doesn't look so great.”

  “He's fine. Bad night's sleep. We had a run-in with a pack of dogs.”

  “Okay,” she says, shrugging.

  They walk with Sal through the gap, and she closes the fence behind them. The fence lines the edge of a crater, about a mile from end to end. Goats and chickens wander around as cows and sheep graze in a fenced-off grassy area in the centre. The noise of grunting pigs drifts from the right as the gentle humming of bees fills the air. They weave through makeshift shacks patched together with wood, plastic, and metal panels.

  “What happened to your leg?” Sal asks.

  Abel frowns. “Nothing.”

  “Why the limp?”

  “Had a burst blister. It’s okay. How are the kids doing from the Grid?”

  “A couple of them went back to the Family after a few days, I’m afraid. The others are doing well, working around the settlement, helping out in the kitchens.”

  “That’s good.”

  “There’s still a lot of work to do, but they’re getting there. Jacob thinks one of them could learn how to do surgery.”

  “That’s great,” he says, passing vegetable patches, their leaves shrouded by the water tower's elongated shadow. “What happened to the ones who left?”

  Sal stops and turns. “God had other plans for them. They both seemed to be doing well. One of them was learning to read. I think the withdrawal was too much for them.”

  “That’s a real shame. It’s hard.”

  She nods and walks on, leading them towards the communal hall. They enter through a wooden door. Men, women, and children sit at three long tables. Laughter and chatter fill the space, the air thick with breath, steam, and cooking smoke.

  The kid's eyes widen at the sight of so much food making its way along the tables — eggs, bread, fresh vegetables, and steaming-hot meats. Abel salivates at the aromas.

  “Join us,” Sal says, gesturing to an empty bench.

  The kid slides along the seat and Abel sits to his right.

  Sal walks around to the top of the central table and spreads her arms in a welcoming gesture. “Let us pray,” she says, dipping her head.

  The kid gives a confused look.

  “Just bow your head, kid,” Abel whispers. “Copy me.” He clasps his hands together and closes his eyes.

  “For what we are about to receive, we thank you, Lord. Amen.” The other residents echo the affirmation, and Sal takes her seat as the head of the central table.

  “What's going on?” the kid asks.

  “They're Christians — the clue's in the name of this place.”

  “Christians?”

  A pile of round tin plates makes its way along the table. The kid takes a plate and hands one to Abel.

  “It’s the God stuff. They think we’re living in end times.”

  The kid glances around. “They’re weird.”

  “They're good people. They just see things in a different way.”

  The kid nods, filling his plate with strips of chicken as a bowl of hard-boiled eggs and a tray of fresh bread follow the plates along the table. “They sure know how to eat.”

  “Yep. This is good stuff.” Abel grabs a few slices of bread, savouring the smell.

  A bright-eyed young man sitting opposite the kid leans towards Abel. “You're the book trader, aren't you?”

  Abel wipes crumbs from his mouth. “That's right.”

  “We are truly blessed by your wares.”

  “Books are important,” Abel says, placing his fork down. “Stories and knowledge from before. You do good work here — teaching kids how to read, teaching them about the world before. We can't lose that.”

  The young man lets out a sad sigh and steeples his fingers. “It has already been lost, but we must prepare.”

  “Right.” Abel gives the kid a cursory glance and tears off a chunk of bread.

  “You had a dog. Is she no longer with us?”

  Abel shakes his head. “She, actually... She died. We buried her near the edge of the city.”

  “That is not a holy place.”

  “It's a terrible place, but it's also the place where I’ve found books.”

  The young man nods sagely, raising his head. “Yes, I suppose even in the worst places, God's work must be felt. Hope springs eternal.”

  “Amen to that,” Abel says. He picks up his fork and drives it into a slice of cooked chicken breast and smiles.

  AFTER THE MEAL, SAL leads the pair to the trading house — a squat wood-panelled building smelling of damp and engine oil. Tables piled high with junk, and tinned goods and clothing, line the walls. Beeswax candles flicker inside as Abel lays out his goods on an empty table — a few books, a notepad, some pencils, and a mug.

  Sal leans over, flicks through the books, and nods. “Is there anything you're looking for in particular?”

  “Is there enough for that?” Abel points to a deep-sea diving helmet resting on one of the tables, patches of rust clinging to its dull yellow curves.

  “Sorry. No deal. We're holding out on that one — it's very valuable.”

  Abel scratches his head. “You got a backpack for the kid?”

  Sal steps over to a table piled with clothing and roots around until she finds a backpack, green with nylon webbing. “Will this do?”

  Abel nods. “You got any spoons? Also, a good knife?”

  Sal walks over to another table, pushes aside tools, and brings back a tablespoon.

  “That's great. How about a hunting knife?”

  “You know we don't trade weapons.”

  “They're tools.”

  “I'm sorry.” She holds her hands open and shakes her head.

  He gives a resigned sigh. “Okay. I'll take some matches, and just fill the rest with tins.”

  “Where do you get these? These are clean.” The kid holds a tin up to the light.

  “A trader from out
west. I don’t really know.” She fills the kid's backpack with tins and hands it over. The kid wobbles as he heaves the pack onto his shoulders.

  “Will you be wanting to stay the night?”

  “You've already been more than welcoming,” says Abel. “We'll be on our way.”

  “You're always welcome, you know that.” She leans forward and embraces Abel, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Keep God with you on your travels. I'll pray for you both.”

  He drops the new spoon into his backpack. “Thanks, Sal. That means a lot.”

  SAL LEADS THE WAY BACK to the settlement's main entrance. Young children, laughing as they run, duck between them as they chase a chicken.

  “You take care on the roads,” she says.

  “Don't worry about us, we'll be fine.”

  She takes a twist of rope in her hands and drags a section of fence across to make an opening.

  Abel hesitates and then turns to Sal. “Just so you know, we had a run-in with a couple of people from the Family. I'm sure they won't come this far, but keep an eye out.”

  Sal shakes her head. “They have brought nothing but trouble.”

  “They forced the kid onto plez, made him work in their factory.”

  “That's awful,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “So many good people have been lost to plez. It's disgraceful.”

  “Yep. But what can you do?”

  She gives a bitter smile then moves aside. “Just be careful. You two need to watch out for each other out there. It's not safe.”

  “We will.”

  Abel and the kid squeeze through the gap. He gives a wave and tips his cap as Sal pulls the entrance shut.

  “Let's split those tins between the packs.”

  The kid nods and takes off his backpack. Abel takes some of the tins and drops them into his own.

  “What's with all this God stuff?”

  “They believe what they believe, kid. They do right and they're our friends.”

  “I don’t get it. Why did they do that praying thing? It’s just weird.”

  “Drop it, kid.”

  The kid looks down at the ground. “Right.”

  10. Smeared

  THE SUN SETS BEHIND a flurry of clouds by the time Abel and the kid stop to make camp at the roadside. The air hangs warm and dry, but the kid hugs himself, shivering.

  “You okay, kid?”

  The kid gives a languid nod as the corners of his eyes quiver.

  “Damn it,” Abel mutters.

  Crawling vines and thick moss and grasses engulf the asphalt as tree roots tentacle their way over car wrecks, coiling around the edges of doors, strangling the exposed metal.

  “Look,” the kid says, pointing down the slope to the southeast.

  Abel looks, raising an eyebrow at the hint of rooftop. “Let's go take a look, kid.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out his hunting knife, and crabs his way down the slope. Stones fall and clatter free as they descend. When he drops to flat ground at the bottom, he crouches and ducks his head low, working slowly towards the building and listening.

  The concrete building stands a single storey. A pair of broken windows overlook the embankment. A rotted door leans at an awkward angle against its hinges. Abel tests the door, jerking back with a start as it falls flat against the floor, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Grasses and weeds poke through the chequered floor tiles inside. He looks around the single room; it has already been cleared of anything useful.

  The kid stares ahead, his eyes unfocused, glassy.

  “We'll set up here for the night, kid. At least the roof's still up.” He uses his feet to sweep chunks of broken glass and bits of plastic and rot outside. He looks at the kid. “You sure you’re okay? You look terrible.”

  “I'm alright.” The kid inhales with sharp, rapid breaths.

  Abel rolls out a rug from his backpack and gestures for the kid to lie down. “Looks like you're in for another rough night,” he says. He drapes a blanket over the kid, now curled into a foetal position. “You stay here. I'm going to gather some wood for a fire.”

  The kid shudders.

  Abel steps out into the twilight and climbs back up the embankment and onto the highway. He looks east, towards the city, and frowns at a dust storm gathering in the distance. The wind whips up junk in swirls, tossing it from the highway and onto the bare earth. He licks his finger and tests the wind's direction, feeling the pressure drop around him. “Damn it,” he mutters.

  Turning back, he climbs down to the building, stuffs blankets and clothes into the window frames, and leans the door back against the doorframe and frowns. He takes his goggles from his backpack, wraps a kerchief over his mouth and nose, and then covers the kid's face with a dry cloth.

  The door wobbles and falls flat as the dust storm approaches.

  Abel huddles with the kid in the corner, shielding his face from the thick clouds of dust. Even with the kerchief and goggles, the dust tears at Abel's lungs. The kid shakes violently, sweat seeping brown and mud-like from his forehead. The kid convulses in fits and starts, sobbing and wailing. Abel curses the storm.

  Within half an hour, the dust storm passes, but the kid continues to shake and sweat. Abel gets up, takes off his goggles and kerchief, and puts them away in his backpack. Dust falls in clumps from his beard. He takes out the water bottle and holds it against the kid's lips. The kid doesn't drink.

  Abel goes outside and urinates against a tree. He shakes the dust from his clothes as he gathers twigs and finds a loose log, taking them back to the building. Branches sway around him. He arranges the fire in the opposite corner to the kid and uses loose house bricks to surround it. The kid murmurs something.

  “Huh?”

  The kid doesn’t respond.

  Abel strikes a match, holding it against the screwed-up sheet of paper from the salt beef. The fire catches. He takes off his boots and socks, placing them in the corner next to him. His feet still burn with pain, but the blisters have receded. He crawls next to the kid and lies down on the rug. Smoke drifts from the window, into the night. He leans over to the door, turns it on its side, and props it against the doorframe. Stars emerge through the blackness, twinkling like distant campfires. He drags the backpacks against both sides of the door, pushing the door flush against the walls on either side of the doorframe.

  After a while, the kid settles into a restful sleep. Abel removes his jacket, uses it as a pillow, and falls asleep in minutes.

  THE KID WAKES UP THRASHING in the dead of the night, bringing Abel out of his sleep with a jolt. Shuddering staccato breaths rattle from the kid’s throat as fever engulfs him, his body soaked with cold, dripping sweat.

  “It's okay, kid.”

  Throwing the blanket aside, the kid bolts to his feet and vaults the door, stumbling as he runs outside.

  “Damn it.” Abel jumps up and calls out. He looks into the night, but sees only stars. He pulls on his boots and takes the torch from his jacket. Listening out for the kid, his eyes searching in the dark, he winds the torch’s handle and steps over the door.

  After half a minute, he hears straining and groaning from the bushes nearby. He heads towards the sound. The kid sobs.

  “What's up, kid?”

  “Nothing, leave me.”

  “I'm not leaving you.” He steps towards the kid and covers his nose with a forearm. His torch beam passes over the kid, squatting as diarrhoea sprays out behind him.

  “I'll find some leaves.” Turning away, he looks around, scanning his torch along the ground until he spots a clump of dock leaves. With urgency, he tears up a handful and jogs over to the kid.

  “Here,” he says, gagging.

  “Sorry,” the kid manages through his tears.

  “Hey, don't apologise, kid. Happens to all of us.”

  The kid grips the tree at his side, leaning weakly against its trunk, sweat glistening in the moonlight.

  “We need to get you cleaned up, get you washed. You’ll need to drink
some water.”

  “I can't do this anymore,” the kid growls. “I need some plez. I can't do this.”

  “You're getting there, kid. This is the worst bit. I'm with you.”

  The kid slips, falls into his faeces and wails. “Plez,” he begs, still lying in his own waste. “I need plez.”

  “Damn it, kid. You don't need plez. You need to get cleaned up.”

  The first hints of sunrise colour the sky to the east. Abel hears the faint gurgle of water. He grabs the kid, lifting him to his feet, trousers still round his ankles. The kid lets out a pained sob and leans into Abel, unable to support his own weight, excrement smeared across his face and arms.

  They stumble over each other as they make their way to the edge of a stream, its surface browned by the dust storm and flowing with a slow trickle.

  “This will have to do,” Abel says. “Get in.”

  The kid flops into the stream buttocks first, tears streaming down his face, sweating and shaking and cursing. He leans forward, resigned, and then strikes out with his fists at the air.

  Abel shakes his head and cleans the kid, splashing the water over his flailing body. “We're going to have to wash these clothes, kid.” Covering his nose with one hand, he drags the trousers from the kid's ankles and squeezes them against the bed of the stream, rubbing them against the rocks until the dirt separates from the material and washes away. He does the same with the kid's sweater and frowns at the kid sitting slumped and helpless, naked and dithering in the cold water.

  The sky turns scarlet. Abel squeezes the kid’s clothes, laying them out on a rock to dry. He steps over to the kid and washes away the last traces of filth from his body.

  “I'm so pathetic,” the kid mutters.

  “Let's get you back inside and warmed-up.” Abel helps the kid to his feet and they head towards the building. The kid looks behind them. “My clothes.”

  “We can get them later.”

  “Look,” the kid says.

  Abel turns to where the kid is looking and sees the top of another building through the trees. “We'll take a look after breakfast, kid. First we need to get you some fresh clothes on and get you a drink.”