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

by Jon Cronshaw

  More buildings loom around him. Taller and more densely packed, they huddle in a patchwork sprawl, a mishmash of different styles and materials — some ornate, some plain. He glances at the contorted statue, severed across its middle, bent in an unnatural arc — a frozen diver.

  He passes the building where he found the watch and looks up at its intricate decorations, beautiful flourishes, rendered unnecessary by the world.

  The sun emerges above the rooftops behind him, warming his back as it throws spears of purple and orange across the sky. He shudders and rows. Reaching the corner before the Family's buildings, he slows the boat, bringing it to a coasting stop, his heart racing as nervous pangs pulse through his body. He takes a breath in through his nose, holds it, and exhales. With each breath comes a quivering shudder — the panic of the abyss.

  Slowing his breath, he nods to himself and lifts the helmet over his head, squirming as it folds his ears down, the cartilage bending painfully. He feels the scratches and scuffs along its smooth surface and the coldness of the metal.

  Turning his body, he looks along the buildings until he makes out the first of the wooden bridges. He watches and listens. There’s movement, but he’s too far away to make out details. The buildings stand lower than many of the others, perhaps old mills or factories, with one storey rising above the floods.

  Hesitating for a moment, he picks up the oars and heads towards the first bridge. The closer he gets, the tighter he grips, the more the nervous chill engulfs him. He puts his head down and clenches his jaw, pushing his teeth together as the muscles below his ears throb with the pressure.

  Dislocated voices echo around him, reverberating between the buildings, making it difficult to locate their source. He draws the boat to a stop, bringing in the oars. Pawing the brickwork, he pulls the boat in against the side of the first Family building. He looks around and counts six bridges linking various rooftops. “What am I thinking?” he mutters.

  A bulky man crosses the nearest bridge with a rifle resting over his shoulder. Abel holds his breath and waits, holding his body completely still, completely silent.

  Members of the Family wander this way and that, not noticing the boat. An arc of pee goes over his head from the rooftop above. He looks up and sees the kid. He freezes for a moment, unable to move. “Kid,” he whispers. “Kid.”

  The kid starts and quickly pulls up his jeans with a clumsy motion, looks down, and frowns. “Who are you?”

  Abel lifts his helmet for a brief second and then pulls it back on his head.

  “You came,” the kid says, a smile flashing across his pallid face.

  “Yep. Can you climb down?”

  The kid glances over his shoulder and then shakes his head, gesturing to his bound wrists, pink and raw.

  “Damn it, kid.” Abel scratches his beard and reaches under his armour and into his jacket. He takes out the utility knife. “Catch,” he says, tossing the knife to the kid. The kid fumbles, almost dropping it into the water before sliding it into his pocket.

  “Good work, kid. Cut yourself free, then climb down.”

  “Who are you talking to?” a gruff voice says, out of view from Abel.

  The kid turns, fearful. “Just taking a pee, sir.”

  “Get back to work,” the voice snaps.

  “Just a second, sir.”

  “Now.”

  The kid gives Abel a helpless expression.

  “I'll wait for you, kid,” he whispers.

  The kid is jerked away from the edge.

  “Damn it.”

  ABEL BOBS ON THE WATER for half an hour, waiting for the kid to return. He sighs, rolling his shoulders against the armour's weight.

  “Stop right there,” a voice calls from a rooftop above. “You shouldn't be here.”

  Abel scrambles and grabs his oars. “I was passing, sorry.”

  “You've been here before.”

  He stares up at the woman looking at him through the sight of a rifle. “I don't want trouble, I made a wrong turn.”

  The woman takes a shot and the bullet hisses through the water to his left. He pushes from the wall with the oars, rowing away as fast as he can. The woman fires another shot. His head bounces violently inside the helmet as a bullet ricochets off its side. His vision floods with a glaring purple-white light, his thoughts unconnected, smoky. He shakes his head, feels a stab of pain, and then realises where he is. He pulls the oars with all the force he can muster and moves the boat in a series of convoluted zigzags, trying to avoid being an easy target.

  When he reaches the end of the row of buildings, he turns the corner and brings the boat to a halt. He holds his head in his hands as the adrenaline subsides, throbbing with pain. Gasping for breath, he removes the helmet and takes a swig from his water bottle. He rests the helmet on his lap and runs his fingers along the fresh dent, the steely grey of the exposed metal emerging like rising damp through the dull yellow. He pats its surface and lowers it back onto his head.

  Flexing his fingers, he grips the oars and takes the boat east, heading deeper into the city. A richly carved building stands to his right. Pillars poke through the water, holding a broad triangular façade, crowded by carvings of lions and mythical warriors. A knight on a horse charges towards a dragon, his spear pointed at the creature’s chest. Behind that, the frame of a dome reaches to a central flagpole. He looks over his shoulder as he turns the boat left at the next corner, rowing past the other side of the concrete buildings that back onto the street occupied by the Family.

  A fire escape descends from a rooftop in an alleyway to the left. He pulls the boat in and tethers it to the handrail, looping rope around it, testing to make sure it doesn’t slip. He takes his hunting knife and heaves himself up onto the fire escape. The steps groan as they take his weight. Rust crumbles beneath his fingers as he grips the handrails, the steps wobbling as he climbs.

  Reaching the rooftop, he looks around and crawls on his knees. He struggles against the helmet to look up, so he removes it and leaves it next to the fire escape, a few feet away from the edge. He gets lower and scrambles forward in a prone position on his elbows. Loose stones and broken glass lie scattered along the rooftop. Each movement fills him with a shot of pain somewhere along his body as something pushes sharp against his skin. He clenches his jaw against the pain as he reaches the edge of the rooftop and looks over the side. He's two storeys higher than the Family.

  People move around, unaware Abel is watching. Those in charge sport rifles and use them to poke and prod and threaten. Addicts wander around in a daze, others get shoved and pushed and sent across bridges or down into buildings. Many of them are around the kid’s age, some of them much younger. Some carry crates in pairs. Others roll dented plastic barrels.

  A web of bridges links several buildings. A series of makeshift huts, made from wood and brick and patched with an array of detritus, stand scattered across the rooftops. Fires burn in steel drums, but only those with the rifles get to feel their warmth.

  Abel looks for the kid, but he’s too far away to make out faces. Crawling to his right, he skirts along the rooftop until he reaches the building's far corner. He takes in the scene again but this time looks at the routes of the water. He rolls away from the edge, gets to his feet, and runs, head ducked, back to the fire escape. He dons the helmet and climbs down to his boat.

  The wind picks up around him, rocking the boat as he takes up the oars. “Not now.”

  He pushes the boat out and continues north, passing more unexplored buildings. He takes a left and sees the Family's buildings from the other side. He maintains his speed until he’s forced to move closer to the wall. Voices echo above as he lifts the oars from the water, allowing the boat to drift until the voices subside. He gets to the end of the building and takes another left, passing beneath a ramshackle wooden bridge.

  Movement flashes on the rooftop above. Abel freezes and then starts as someone jumps onto the boat behind him, almost capsizing in an instant.


  “Go,” the kid says.

  Abel lets out a frightened breath, nodding frantically. He turns the boat around and heads back the way he came, taking a right back down the street with the lion and warriors. “You alright, kid?”

  The kid says nothing. His teeth chatter.

  Abel rows, finding new strength as he passes beneath the bent-over statue. He turns to the kid. “You look terrible.”

  The kid nods. “I'll be alright. I can't believe you came for me.”

  “What else was I going to do?”

  They sit in silence until they reach the shore and drag the boat from the water. Abel offers the kid a drink when they reach the trailer.

  “I'll die before I go back into the city again,” the kid says, handing the bottle to Abel, staring from the crater towards the Family.

  “Yep.”

  “You think they’ll come after me?”

  Abel narrows his eyes. “Yep.”

  17. Hope

  THE KID LOOKS AT THE ground, sobbing. He sits forward on the rug, leaning on his knees, his bony elbows skinnier than ever. Dust and filth coat his ragged clothes. “I didn't think I'd ever get free.”

  “You're safe now,” Abel says. “You hungry?”

  The kid nods weakly. “They don't feed you too well. They keep the best stuff for themselves.”

  Abel looks down at the kid's dark eyes, at his pale skin, slick with sweat and dirt. “You back on plez?”

  The kid shrugs. “They tried. I didn't take it.”

  Abel tilts his head, considering the kid for a long moment. “Really?”

  “You helped me. I couldn't go back.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  The kid scratches around the back of his matted curls. “I'm having bad days. I'm over the worst, I think.”

  Abel smiles and pats the kid on the shoulder. “I'm proud of you. You did right.”

  “Thanks.” The kid smiles for the first time since his return. “What's with the clothes?”

  Abel looks down, sees he's still wearing his armour, and laughs. “Armour, kid.”

  “Here,” the kid says, tossing Abel the utility knife. “I couldn't have escaped without it.”

  “You keep it, kid. Call it a coming home present.”

  “Thanks.” The kid sits down and pockets the knife.

  “Let's get some wood.”

  Abel steps out of the garage, and the kid follows along a thin path to the north, stepping over brackish bare earth, loose and lifeless. They pass thin trees, stripped of branches, coated in dust and fungus.

  “How about over there?” the kid asks, pointing to a cluster of wiry dead pines.

  “Looks good, kid.”

  They step off the path and traverse the stones and loose earth. Abel shivers as a gust of wind brings the city's smells from the east, the pungent stench of chemicals and rot.

  Reaching the trees, they get to work snapping away the lower branches, brittle and dusty. “I'm sick of the dust storms,” the kid says.

  “Yep. They’re getting worse.”

  The kid pulls the branches down, while Abel holds the growing bundle of sticks in his arms. The kid jumps up, grabs a thick limb, and bounces until it snaps with a loud crack. He places the limb on the ground, and puts his weight on it while Abel leans down and pulls at it until it breaks.

  “What do you think?” asks the kid.

  “I'd say we've got enough.”

  The kid gathers the limbs and leads the way back to the garage.

  “I saw a dog after the Family took you,” Abel says when they reach the path.

  “What sort of dog?”

  “One of the good ones. He came over. I played with him.”

  “Where's he at?”

  “It was short and sweet, kid. He came to see me then ran off.”

  “Where'd he go?”

  “Who could say? Just hope he’s okay.”

  The kid sets out the wood for the fire. Abel feels inside his backpack and pulls out his copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. “I found this when you were gone. Remember that building you spotted before you were taken? Going to have to go back there at some point. Got some great stuff for trade.”

  The kid looks at the book and scratches the back of his neck. “What is it?”

  “It's a book.”

  The kid shakes his head. “I can see that. What's in it?”

  “It's called Grimms’ Fairy Tales. They're stories from before. I was thinking I could teach you to read, tell you the stories.”

  “I'd like that,” says the kid, handing the book back and giving a half-smile. “I really would.”

  Abel kneels next to the sticks, lighting the fire with a match. The sticks crackle as a wisp of white smoke dances ghost-like against the breeze. He takes a tin from the trolley, pierces the lid with his hunting knife, and then flips it. “Beans,” he says, shaking his head. “We can do better than that — we’re celebrating.”

  He reaches back into the trolley and takes out another tin and opens it. Abel blinks.

  “What is it?”

  “Beans.” He places the pair of tins on the fire.

  The kid smirks and Abel smiles. “I missed you when you were gone, kid,” he says, swallowing. “It's lonely out here.”

  “How did you know where I was?” The kid moves over to the boat, vaults inside, and takes a seat, looking out.

  Abel pulls a cloth from his trolley and pokes the fire with a stick. “The Family said they'd come back for you. I had a rough idea where they were.”

  “They must have been following us.”

  “Probably.”

  “You think they'll try and come back for me?” The kid's lip trembles, his hands too.

  “Yep.” Abel takes the tins off the fire, letting them cool. “Damn it, kid. I’ve got no spoons.”

  “I'll eat with my hands — it's fine. What we going to do when the Family come after us?”

  Abel scratches his beard and shrugs. “Hide, fight, whatever it takes. You're free now. I intend to keep it that way.” He hands a tin of beans to the kid. Picking up the other one, he scoops the beans into his mouth with his fingers. “You should carry the tyre iron with you.”

  The kid nods and burps. They both laugh.

  The pair sit next to the fire, rubbing their hands against the cold once they finish eating. “I was thinking we need to go back to Trinity,” says Abel. “I'll be able to get some good trade for the helmet, and Sal's been worried for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “We'll only go if you feel up to it.”

  “We can go now if you want. They tied me up, locked me up. The only walking I got was when they led me to the factory.”

  “They got you making the stuff, didn't they?”

  “I didn't want to—”

  “You don't have to make excuses, kid,” Abel says, interrupting. “You did well being around the stuff and not getting back on it.”

  “That's how they paid me. They got me cleaning the gunk again then brought a bit at the end of the day.”

  “And you really resisted?”

  “It was the only thing keeping me going. I'd take it with me when I went for a pee and drop it into the water. I thought if I could keep doing that then I'd beat them.”

  “You've got stronger, kid.”

  The kid looks down at his skinny arms and shakes his head.

  “Stronger in yourself.” Abel points at his temple. “In here.”

  “The plez is still there. I still want it, but I don’t. I can't go back.”

  “You still getting the withdrawal?”

  The kid nods. “Not as much. Not as bad. I'm still twitching.”

  “We've already had a long day. Let's get some water, get clean, and then we can have a good sleep before we head out.”

  “Sounds great.”

  ABEL ENTERS THE CAVE first, pressing his hand against the right-hand wall as he walks with careful steps, shifting stones to the side as he goes. The air is damp but fresh.
He hears the kid lose his footing as he follows behind.

  “You alright, kid?” He leans down, finds the kid's wrist, and helps him to his feet.

  “I'm okay. What happened to your torch?”

  “The Family has it. I'm looking out for something new.”

  “Oh.”

  They move through the cave, passing beneath the glowing fungi. Abel listens to the trickling water as he takes off his backpack, leaning it against the rocks behind him. He removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, placing the shoes and jacket next to the backpack. He removes his cap, sweaters, T-shirts, and vests and takes down his jeans and drops them into the water. Even in the dim light, he sees the water changing colour as the filth washes away. He turns to his socks and washes them, then wrings the water from the clothes and lays them flat on the ground.

  The kid strips down and does the same, his clothes dirtier than Abel's. “They stuck to me the last few days,” the kid says. “You've no idea how much I wanted to clean them.”

  Abel looks at the bruises along the kid's ribs and around his back, barely visible in the fungal gloom. “The Family do those to you?”

  The kid doesn't respond.

  “You can tell me what happened, kid. You don't have to, but you can.”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “They hurt you,” Abel says flatly. “But they won't hurt you again, I promise.”

  “When I was out there, I kept thinking about this place. I like it here. It's cold and fresh, and you don't have to worry about things. Even after the dust storms, it's clean.”

  “I suppose. It's just a place to get water.”

  “No, it's more than that. It kept me going, just thinking about it. Does that make sense?”

  The water washes over Abel's feet. It's as icy as ever, but the sting has gone. “We all need something to focus on, kid. We all need something to give us hope.”

  “Maybe that's it.”