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

by Jon Cronshaw

  Two dogs march towards him, matching each other's pace — one white and patchy and the other a chestnut brown. Muscles bulge through their fur as their canine teeth glisten with drool. The white dog stands taller and moves out from the brown one, making a loop to approach Abel from the side.

  At once, the dogs launch forward, bounding towards him with flopping jowls and wild eyes. He twists to his right as the first dog leaps forward and then collides with the telegraph pole. The dog yelps and shakes as the other dog jumps forward.

  Abel makes a vertical thrust with his knife, catching the brown dog in the throat. The dog spins, whimpering on the ground as it lands with a hard thud, gurgling and gasping for breath as the knife rests lodged in its neck.

  The other dog charges forward. Abel sidesteps and swings the tyre iron, reeling with the impact as the dog's skull collapses beneath the force.

  Out of breath and shaking from the adrenaline, he looks around, tensing as he waits for the other dogs.

  Sighing, he steps over to the patchy white dog, still twitching on the ground. He leans down, pulls out his hunting knife, and turns away as he puts it out of its misery with a final thrust of the blade.

  He looks down at his bloody hands and shakes his head.

  When he gets his breath back, he picks up the white dog’s limp body and heaves it onto his shoulders.

  THE SUN LIES LOW AGAINST the western horizon when Abel takes a right off the highway, the sky a dull milky yellow. Ferns, thistles, nettles, and thorn bushes clog up the narrow trail ahead. Trees lean over him, their gnarled forms set by the years of storms.

  He follows the trail as it bends to the right, stepping over bits of discarded machinery and burnt plastic. Wrecked cars, tipped on their sides, act as a makeshift wall, forming a horseshoe shape around the approaching settlement.

  A woman with bright red hair, pale skin, and drooping earlobes meets him at the entrance. A blue polythene poncho flaps around her as she raises a webbed hand. “You back,” she says.

  “Is Big Ned around?”

  The woman runs behind a mesh fence and bangs against the door of a tumbledown hut, its walls a hodgepodge of pine and plastic. A blue polythene sheet stretches over its roof.

  “Pa. It’s bird man.”

  Abel moves into the settlement and smiles at the other residents, their faces identical to the woman’s.

  The woman staggers back when the door bursts open. “What?” A broad man with thick red hair leans from the shack and stares at the woman, a cleft palate splitting his lip into curtain-like flaps.

  The woman looks over her shoulder and gestures towards Abel.

  Big Ned steps outside and runs over to him, bumping into him with a forceful hug and a hard pat on the back. A string of rats’ heads rattles around Big Ned’s neck, his blue poncho tossed behind him like a cape.

  Winded, Abel gasps and takes a step back. “Ned,” he manages. “I’ve got something I think you’ll like.” The dog slips from under his arm and drops to the ground.

  “You dog look different,” Big Ned says, scratching behind his neck

  “This isn’t Pip. Pip died.”

  Frowning, Big Ned tilts his head and stares at the dog. “This dog dead.”

  “They’re different dogs, trust me.”

  Big Ned crouches next to the dog and prods its side with a finger. “Look like good eats. What you want?”

  Abel shrugs and looks around. “What you got for trade?”

  There’s a long silence as Big Ned pokes at the dog some more. He gets up and turns to the huts. “Second Bob. Where you at, boy?”

  A younger version of Big Ned sticks his head out of one of the doors and sprints over to them, his skinny legs throwing up dust as he runs.

  “How are you?” Abel asks.

  Second Bob makes a wide, black-toothed grin. “I’m getting me a woman.”

  Big Ned grabs Second Bob around the wrist and jerks him close. “My boy is getting married. He nearly man and Edna bleeding now. They going to make lot of babies. Just like your Pa.”

  Abel rubs the back of his neck. “Congratulations.” He holds a hand out to Second Bob, who blinks at it with a blank stare.

  “Where your dog, mister?” Second Bobs asks.

  “She’s dead.”

  “I thought she was different.” Second Bob turns to Big Ned. “That not his dead dog.”

  Big Ned shows Second Bob the back of his hand, his top lip curling. “Don’t make asks, boy. Get some eats.”

  “Sorry, Pa.” Second Bob’s feet scramble against the bare earth as he runs to a shack at the far end of the settlement.

  “Eats good? We not got no trade.”

  Abel sighs. “Eats is fine.”

  Second Bob returns with a filthy bucket, the charred remains of unrecognisable rotting animals piled to the rim. “Can’t remember what critters we got. Think it just old bits of critter.”

  Abel pushes aside a few pieces of the cold, rancid meat and flaps away the circling flies. He lets out a deep breath and looks up at Big Ned. “I’m okay. I’ve not long eaten.” He rubs his tummy.

  “What wrong with eats?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with them. I’m not hungry.”

  Big Ned nods and grabs a handful of meat from the bucket. “Turn.”

  “What?”

  “Turn.” He makes a circling motion with his fingers.

  Abel nods nervously and turns. Straps tug down on his shoulders as he feels Big Ned stuffing the meat into the backpack. When the pulling stops, he turns back around.

  “You got eats now,” Big Ned says, grinning. “Eat them when you need. They good eats.”

  “Thanks.” He looks over to Second Bob. “Good luck with the wedding.”

  “I give lots of babies. Pa say he show me.”

  Abel shudders and clears his throat. “As I say, good luck.”

  AFTER GATHERING WOOD, Abel lights a fire and takes a seat in his boat as he waits for the flames to take. Smoke rises through the hole in the roof. He watches it for several minutes and then hops down and takes a tin from the trolley. He retrieves his utility knife and opens the lid with the can opener attachment. Green peas bob in the brine when the lid comes off. He sniffs at them and smiles and places the tin on the fire.

  When the water bubbles, he wraps his hands with a cloth and takes the tin from the flames. Looking around, he frowns. “No spoon,” he mutters.

  He picks up the discarded tin lid from the floor, steps outside, pushes the lid down onto the peas, and tips the brine away. With weak fingers, he bends the tin lid to act as a scoop, taking care not to cut his mouth as he eats.

  When he finishes, he goes back inside, sits on his rug, and burps. Exhausted, he pulls a coat and blanket over himself and rolls over to sleep.

  ABEL STRUGGLES TO OPEN his eyes, his eyelids gummy and sore. He drags his blankets towards him, shivering against the bitter chill. With stiff joints, he sits up, rubs his eyes, and reaches for his water bottle. Taking a drink, he gets up and looks outside. He curses at the height of the sun.

  He dons his cap and pulls on his socks, boots, and jacket. A few half-burnt sticks lie heaped on the dead fire, so he moves them aside before clearing out the ash. Facing the trolley, he pulls back the plastic sheet, and takes the book about medieval history. He ponders the faded image of the knight and then slides it back.

  With his knife drawn, he ventures outside to gather wood, hacking dry branches from skeletal pines. He returns and makes breakfast. Without a spoon, his hands get covered in tomato sauce. He curses as he cleans his hands with water and a cloth.

  Belly full, he takes his backpack and heads west along the highway, his back to the city. The air hangs still beneath a cloudless sky. He walks for a mile until he reaches a line of six cars in various states of dilapidation. He passes the first car, nothing more than a heap of rust and rot, the second car not much better. When he reaches the third car, he stops. Its windows lie shattered throughout its interior, upholstery punc
tuated with bent springs, like brown shoots on dead earth.

  Circling the vehicle, he examines its joints and fittings. He pushes against the roof with his hands. Nothing happens. “Damn it,” he says.

  He tries the doors, all of them seized shut. With a clenched jaw, he tries the roof again, putting all his weight behind him as he strains to yank it free. A burning sensation spreads along his fingers. Panting, he stops and wipes his brow. He steps backwards, scratches his beard, and then reaches into his backpack for the tyre iron. He slides it through the passenger door window and out through the front window. He grabs on to either side of the tyre iron and pulls. The wheels on the car's other side lift half an inch from the ground. As he loses his grip, he falls back on the asphalt. His hands throb with the effort.

  Getting to his feet, he kicks a deflated tyre. Looking at the flaccid grey rubber, he leans down and feels its thickness. A smile flickers across his face.

  With a shoulder pressed against the car, he rocks the vehicle back and forth. The car builds up momentum until he gives it a push onto its side and then flips it with a final jerk.

  It lands on its roof with a loud crash, metal scraping and twisting, dust billowing in a mushroom cloud. Within a few seconds, the car stands silent and the tyres hang limp on their wheels.

  Abel glances along the road towards the city and mops his brow with his sleeve as he waits to get his breath back, his hands trembling, pulse racing.

  Something moves towards him on the road to the west. He holds the tyre iron tight, watching as a small dog, not quite fully-grown, pads along the road, stopping only to sniff at something or cock its leg up against a lamppost.

  The dog stops and looks at Abel. They stare at each other for a long moment.

  “Hey,” Abel says, his voice soft, friendly. He crouches to one knee and holds out a fist. Black and skinny, the dog approaches in a broad, cautious arc. He drops to his stomach a few feet in front of Abel, looking up with dark vacant eyes.

  “Hey, boy.”

  The dog doesn't move as Abel approaches. Crabbing sideways on bended knees, he holds a fist out to the dog. The dog sniffs it and then licks it with a rough tongue. The first licks come as a hesitant flicker, but then the dog scrapes his tongue from Abel's knuckles to his wrists with methodical precision, coating his hand in thin layer of saliva.

  “Hey.” He laughs and tickles the dog behind its ears. “You're a good boy, aren't you?”

  The dog gets to his feet, bounces on his front paws, and then runs in a tight circle. Abel rubs the dog's back. The dog turns and jumps up at him, licking his face. He lets out a laugh and rubs the dog’s side. The dog drops to the ground, rolls on his back, and wiggles in the dust. His tongue hangs from his mouth as his legs kick in the air.

  Abel leans down, rubbing the dog's tummy and laughing. “You like being tickled?”

  The dog jumps to its feet, turns, and runs off towards the city.

  “Here, boy,” Abel calls out. “Come back.” He waits for the dog to return for several minutes and then sighs. His smile drops. “Damn it.”

  Turning back to the car, he takes the tyre iron and uses it to free the first tyre from the upturned car. It comes away easily and rolls in a circle until tipping flat against the asphalt. He repeats the process on the other three wheels until all four tyres lie on the ground next to him. He manages to fit one tyre into his backpack and loops two over his right arm and one over his left.

  Slowly, he makes his way back along the highway, the tyres heavy in his arms. He stops halfway back to rest his arms and flex his fingers, searching for signs of the dog and the kid.

  BACK AT THE GARAGE, Abel focuses on sharpening his knife. Using a round stone, he scrapes along the blade's edge until the dullness fades. He turns the blade so the edge catches the light, glimmering.

  He gets up from his boat and goes over to the corner. The tyres stand stacked and solid. He rolls the first one over to his rug and runs his fingers along its worn-out tread, following its crisscross pattern. Dropping down on the rug, he sits cross-legged and takes the hunting knife in his hand. With some effort, he forces the blade into the thick rubber, moving it up and down as it starts to slice through the tyre’s edge. The rubber is tough but brittle at points. He turns the tyre as he reaches a corner and continues to slice, but the knife stops and scrapes against metal.

  Cursing, he picks some of the rubber away from where the knife stopped and frowns at the wire lattice. He flips the tyre and cuts through from the other side until he meets the wire again. Jerking the blade against the rubber’s stiff grip, his arms drop to his side and he holds his head in his hands, letting out a long, deep breath. He jerks to his feet and kicks the tyre, the blade tumbling to the floor, its steel clattering against concrete. The tyre moves a few inches but remains unchanged, mocking.

  Resigned, he paces back and forth, scratching his beard and cursing to himself. After several minutes, he stops, shoulders the backpack, and drags his boat outside. Taking the tether rope from the front of the boat, he attaches it to himself and takes the strain.

  ABEL REACHES THE SHORE by late afternoon. He drags the boat from the trailer and looks down at the patch of soil where Pip is buried, the ground slightly darker. The floodwaters assault him with a blast of concentrated stench, its surface dulled with a dusty film. The iridescent patches of colour are gone. All is brown, flat and dead.

  He looks north along the shore towards the Family. With a quick glance at the grave, he drags the boat from the crater and pushes it out onto the water.

  With a wobble, he hops inside and positions himself on the seat with his back to the city. He grips the oars and dips them into the still water.

  It's slow-going as he works through his stiff joints and gets back into the rhythm of rowing. The sound changes as the buildings emerge like grisly hands from the water, their carcasses looming above, crying out as the wind swoops along the rooftops. He cranes his neck back and scans the walls, stained in greys, browns, blacks, and greens of dirt, oil, moss, slime, and algae — empty rotting structures, waiting to drown.

  Ripples emanate from the boat in slow humping waves that strike against the buildings with low, spluttering gulps. The buildings grow taller, several storeys reaching from the depths. He ducks beneath the statue of a man, bent to one side with its stone torso separated from its legs, prevented from falling by a drooping spike of rusted iron impaling its body. An ornate building slumps to his right, its cracked pillars and carved stone sills worn smooth and stained with filth.

  He pulls an oar in and lets the boat drift towards the wall, dampening a collision with his hands. The wind picks up, rocking the boat in the water. He tethers the boat to a sturdy stone carving of what might have been a burial urn and tugs it with a jerk. It stays firm. He lifts the other oar inside the boat and shoulders the backpack.

  With weak arms, he heaves himself onto a windowsill, his feet scrambling for traction as his stomach rests on the frame. Something takes and he falls through into the building, tumbling headfirst onto the mushy carpet, the rucksack pushing the wind out of him. He rolls over and gasps, his chest rising with each pained breath.

  With his right hand gripped on the back of a peeling leather chair, he pulls himself to his feet. He turns back to the window and looks down at his boat as moth-eaten curtains flap around him. He pulls at the drapes, bringing them down to the floor in a cloud of dust, and coughs. The exposed window makes marginal improvements to the amount of light in the room.

  Elaborate coving edges the wall and ceiling, flowers and ropes looping in shadowy relief. An intricate brass light fitting hangs from the room's centre, its arms extending like spiders’ legs. He opens the desk's top drawer, his hands groping around the emptiness. He opens the next drawer and then the next. A few pencils roll around inside. He leaves them.

  A bookshelf extends halfway along the right-hand wall. He steps over to examine the books — titles about art and artists. A book on architecture grabs his attention.
He takes it over to the desk and flicks through the pages. The book details the history of architecture in Europe.

  The light dims as the wind picks up outside. The open book's pages flap and ripple as if being turned by a spectral force. He looks outside, frowning at the towers of dust eddying past the building across the water. “Damn it,” he says, picking up the architecture book and placing it back on the shelf.

  He leaves the room through a half-open door, heavy and carved from dark oak. Wind whistles through the building, rattling doors against their frames. A corridor stretches ahead and there’s another one to his right. The carpet is a bleached pinkish-red, blackened and rotting along its edges. He marks the doorframe with a blue cross and takes the corridor to the right.

  Faded paintings lean from the walls, abstract images of shapes and colours, many of their frames cracked and hanging from the wall at crooked angles. A set of elevator doors stands sealed to his left and a broad staircase leads to the flooded floor below.

  He goes through a door on the right, into another office. Bookshelves line the right-hand wall and a desk stands in the far left corner, in front of the window. The tattered drapes flap and ripple with the wind. Stepping behind the desk, he opens the first drawer. Inside, he finds a hand mirror and hairbrush. He takes them, looking at himself in the dim light. “I look old,” he mutters, pulling at the slack flesh beneath his eyes.

  He takes the hairbrush and scrapes it down his beard, feeling the tug as it pulls against knots. When the brush goes through without catching, he places it with the mirror inside the backpack. The second drawer stands empty.

  In the bottom drawer, he feels a few pens, pencils, and a book. He takes it out and blows on the cover. “Grimms’ Fairy Tales,” he reads. He opens the yellowing pages and scans the text. After reading the first few pages, he smiles and slides it gently into the backpack.

  He examines the bookshelves. The titles are scholarly in nature, concerned with modernist art, poststructuralist philosophy, and theoretical works about the meaning of sculpture in the late-capitalist era.