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

by Jon Cronshaw

  “What makes you think they won't come after you again? And again? No, Jacob's right.”

  “There's no way I'm going back into the city,” says the kid. “I'd rather die.”

  “You can stop them. You have a boat, you know where they are. Only you can do it.”

  “I thought you were all about forgiveness,” says Abel. “Are you suggesting that I kill people? I'm not going to do that.”

  “No one's saying you should kill anyone, but you would be saving many lives if the Family were no more. This is bigger than all of us — this is bigger than your code or your friend's fear. You need to do this.”

  Abel casts a dark look at Sal and then turns to the kid. “Come on,” he says, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. “Let's get some sleep so we can get out of here first thing.”

  Sal says nothing as she leads them to their rooms. She opens the door to a small hut and shows the kid inside while Abel waits. He looks over to the crucifix, black and silent against the emerging stars. “God,” he spits.

  Sal moves past him and opens the door to the next shack. He follows her inside and sits on the edge of the bed. “Why are you putting this on me, Sal?”

  She stands over him and takes his hands. “Because you can end this.”

  “That’s not an answer. Why don’t you get your people to make some boats and go out there? They’re armed, damn it.”

  Sal shakes her head. “You said yourself that my people aren’t ready for life out there. How long do you think it will take us to prepare for a raid? The longer we wait, the more people will die — it’s that simple.”

  “One thing I’ve learned is to keep your head down. You don’t go looking for trouble. If we keep away from them, there aren’t going to be any more deaths.”

  “Of course there are,” she snaps. “Every crystal of plez they produce is bringing another person closer to a certain death.”

  Abel leans forward and sighs. “I can’t.”

  20. The Hydra

  ABEL LIES AWAKE AND stares up at the slatted ceiling, following the lines of wood grain through the light of a dying candle. He tries desperately to close his eyes. The blanket irritates the wound on his left arm, rubbing against its stitches.

  There's a knock at the door. “Yep?”

  The door opens and Sal leans inside. “I was hoping you'd still be awake. I couldn't sleep.”

  He sits up in bed as she closes the door softly.

  “May I?” she asks, gesturing to the end of the bed.

  “Sure.”

  The bed creaks as the mattress takes her weight. “I just want to apologise for earlier.”

  “Don't worry about it. We'll be gone first thing.”

  “I don't want you to leave with bad feelings,” she says, sucking in her bottom lip.

  “You and Jacob put too much on me tonight.” He pushes himself to a sitting position, crossing his legs beneath the blanket. “You know I can't take on the Family alone. I'm just one man and the kid says he's not going back there. I can't say I blame him.”

  Sal looks at him with an intense stare. “I have faith in you. I believe you can do it.”

  “Hope's all well and good, Sal. But I'm not that strong. I can't do it alone.”

  “You are strong enough. You've already been to their factory. You destroyed their vehicles at the Grid. You know where they are, and you've come out the other end.”

  “Damn it, Sal. I had help last time — and look what happened to him.” He shakes his head. “I'm not doing it.”

  “We both know what you've been through, what you've survived. You can do this.”

  “I've survived because I pick my battles. This isn't my battle.”

  “You've got the boat, you've got the knowledge, and they'll keep looking for your friend until something gives.”

  “There's a story I read about a monster called a hydra. This monster was really dangerous and when anyone tried to chop off its head, two grew back. That's what the Family's like. You think what happened at the Grid has changed anything? It just made them more organised, more focused. I can't beat them.”

  “I know a story about a boy called David who used his skill and imagination to defeat a giant.”

  “This is real, Sal. I can't defeat giants and monsters. I'm too beat up, and I wouldn't even know where to start.”

  “You've already shown you're strong, and the kid could show you where to go.”

  “The kid won't go into the city. There's no way.” He curls his upper lip.

  “He's already said to me he will,” she says, rising to her feet. “He wants to do this.” She opens the door and leans against its frame. They stare at each other for a long time.

  He turns away. “I can't,” he says finally.

  ABEL ROLLS AND FIDGETS through the night, turning this way and that to try to sleep. There's another knock at the door. “Yep?” he asks abruptly.

  “It's just me,” the kid says. “I couldn't sleep.”

  “You neither?” Abel strikes a match and lights a candle. The kid's face emerges from the dark, orange and black, as the flame catches.

  “Sal came to see me earlier.”

  “I know.” Abel moves up the bed, leaning back against the cold wall. “You want to talk?”

  The kid nods, sits on the corner at the other end of the bed, and hunches over, resting his elbows on his knees. “I said I'd take you to the factory, that I'd show you where it is.”

  “I'm not going, kid.”

  “But we've got to do it. You said yourself you were on plez — we can stop it.”

  “No, kid. We can't.”

  The kid raises his head and turns to Abel. “We can.”

  Abel narrows his lips. “Listen, kid, they've got rifles, they've got people. We've got nothing.”

  “We can't keep running away. We can't keep hiding.”

  “I've done okay running and hiding my whole life, kid. Sal's filled you with this idea that we owe something to the world. We don't owe anything. It was only yesterday you were saying you'd rather die than go back into the city. Hold onto that thought.”

  The kid shakes his head. “No. We’ve got to do right.”

  “Sal's got her ideas about the world, and I've got mine,” Abel says, raising his voice. “If you want to start preaching that stuff, leave me out it.”

  “It wasn't Sal who told me that.”

  Abel glares at the kid. “Don't make me a hypocrite.”

  The kid looks back at him with a blank expression. “What's that?”

  Abel sighs, shaking his head. “A hypocrite?”

  “That.”

  “It's when you say you're about one thing, but you're really about another.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “So, as I say, don’t make me a hypocrite.”

  “It's not me making you like that, is it?”

  With a deep exhalation, Abel's body softens. “You're right, kid,” he mutters.

  “We going to do it?” The kid looks at Abel with a hopeful expression.

  “Yep.”

  AT THE SOUND OF A CALLING rooster, Abel slides out of bed, runs his fingers along his hair, and rolls his neck, bones clicking. He takes his cap, resting on the bedside table to his left, and sniffs it before placing it on his head.

  The room glows with strips of bright sunlight creeping through the tiny cracks and holes in the walls. Flickers of light suggest movement outside. The smell of eggs and fresh bread drifts into the room as he pulls on his socks and boots and grimaces as the stitches pull at the wound on his arm. He shoulders the door open, steps outside, and breathes in the air, fresh and mingling with the food and animal smells.

  “You're up.”

  Abel turns to his right to see Sal smiling. “Yep,” he says. She hooks an arm in his, and they head towards the communal hall as the kid catches up to them.

  “Morning,” the kid says.

  “Hey. You sleep alright?”

  “Yeah. Eventually.”
/>   “Did you think about our conversation?” Sal asks as they pass a chicken coop.

  “All night,” Abel says, watching the kid jog on ahead. “The kid spoke some sense to me.”

  “He really looks up to you. I think you're doing the right thing.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  They join the line of residents filing into the communal hall. Sal drops his arm when they reach the door. She turns to him. “Come see me in the trading house when you're done eating.”

  Abel nods.

  AFTER FILLING UP ON fried eggs and freshly-baked bread, Abel returns to his room, gets his backpack from the kid, and meets Sal at the trading house.

  Dim candles shine unsteadily, casting watery shadows against the panelled walls. Goods lie heaped on tables all around — old clothes, junk, cured meats, tins, and bread loaves. The smell of old books, engine oil, and damp socks fills the air.

  “I don't have anything to trade,” Abel says. “I was going to see what I could get for the helmet, but I’ll need that. There's also paying for Jacob sewing me up.”

  Sal waves a dismissive hand. “Don't worry about that. I'll speak to Jacob.”

  “Thanks, Sal.”

  “Open your pack,” she says, turning to a nearby table.

  He gives her a confused look, shrugs then heaves the backpack from his shoulders, opening the top flap.

  She grabs a pair of tins and places them into the backpack. She wraps some salt beef and a loaf of bread in paper, dropping them next to the tins.

  “I don't have anything to trade.”

  “Call them a gift. If you stop the Family, that will more than pay for these.”

  “Thanks.”

  She glances over to the door and then pauses. “I've got something else,” she whispers.

  “Oh?”

  He watches as she leaves the main room through a side door. A few seconds later she returns holding a broad machete, gleaming and sharp. She hands it to him, handle first, grinning. He feels its weight, turns the blade in his hands, and looks up. “I didn't think you traded weapons?”

  Sal gives a sly smile. “This isn't a trade.”

  “You going to tell me it's a tool?”

  She laughs. “No. I just hope it will keep you from...” Her words trail off. She takes his left hand. “I need you to be safe. I know what you're doing is going to be dangerous, but I will be praying for you.”

  “Thanks, Sal.”

  ABEL FINDS THE KID waiting for him when he steps outside. Shadows veil the east side of Trinity as the rising sun shines beyond the outer fence, its light catching the rooftops of shacks with iridescent flashes as wisps of white smoke climb from the chimneys.

  “That's a mean-looking blade,” the kid says, eyeing the machete.

  “Yep. It was a gift from Sal.”

  “It's as long as my arm.”

  “Let's hope we don't have to use it.”

  “Do you want me to carry that?” The kid gestures to the backpack, his face slick with sweat and dirt.

  “I'll be alright, kid.” He grips the kid's shoulder and offers a smile. “Thanks.”

  “How're the ribs?”

  Abel frowns and pats his chest. “I'll be fine. Just bruises.”

  He looks over to the main gate and smiles as Sal heads towards them, her dreadlocks swinging in time with her steps.

  “Shall we?” she says.

  Abel gives a slight nod and swallows. “Yep.”

  They follow as she leads the way across the settlement. Soft ground dips underfoot as they weave around the odd puddle, taking an indirect route to avoid boggy ground. A cow looks up at them with slow, idle movement, mouth churning as hay hangs from her lips. Tin cans strung together on a line along a vegetable patch sway with hollow chimes.

  When they reach the fence, Sal slides it open and turns to Abel. “Promise me you'll come back,” she says, touching his elbow.

  “I'll try my best.”

  Sal leans towards him and kisses him hard on the cheek, holding her lips against his face for a long moment. He flushes and looks away. “You take care.” She turns to the kid. “Look after each other.”

  The kid nods. “We will.”

  Abel gulps as tears form in Sal's eyes. “We've got a long road ahead. Thanks again, Sal...for everything.”

  The kid steps through the gate and Abel follows. He looks back at Sal as they walk up the road. She leans against the entrance, watching as they leave. Abel waves, takes in a deep breath, and turns to the kid. “You sure you want to do this?”

  The kid gives a shrug. “No, but we need to. We’ve got to do right.”

  SHRIVELLED GRASSES droop along the road's edge when the city comes into view at the brow of a hill. The floodwaters shimmer with rainbow patches, a black smudge on the horizon, a ghost through the haze. The sun bears down from a high angle as Abel trips and stumbles over knots of weeds and vines curling across their path, green and wild, their tones dulled by dust. “We shouldn't be too far,” he says, his right forearm aching with the machete’s weight.

  Squinting against the sun’s glare, his eyes dart along the horizon, along the road. He scans for movement, searching for signs of wild dogs or of the Family.

  “You okay?” the kid asks.

  “Just getting nervous. I’ll be fine.”

  With each trip, with each tumble, an unexpected shot of pain courses through his nerves and sends tingles along his back. The hairs on his neck prickle and goose pimples spread along his skin.

  He watches as the kid walks on ahead. His steps are more confident, his posture improved. He doesn't hold himself like an addict anymore. Abel smiles.

  “I think we're here,” the kid says, pointing down an embankment to his right.

  “Keep on your guard, kid. This is where they took you last time.”

  The kid leads the way as they step down the slope. Abel's feet slide down the damp earth and loose stones. A concrete building comes into view, squat and mottled with moss and streaks of wet dust. The kid leans inside. “The stuff's still here.”

  With a hesitant motion, Abel looks into the gloom. The single room smells of rotting food. Coats and blankets lie shoved in a heap in the far right corner. The kid pulls the backpack free, dragging it across the floor.

  “Good work, kid. Let's swap.” He drops the backpack from his shoulders and takes the other one. It's cold to the touch and smells of damp. He looks inside and then pulls the first strap over his shoulder. “I'll be able to secure this thing now,” he says, gesturing to the machete. He places the backpack on the soft ground outside the doorway and loops a strip of leather around the machete's handle, tying it to a side-pocket.

  The kid squeezes past him and looks down the embankment towards the office building at the bottom. “Shall we go explore in there, see what we can find?”

  “Another time, kid. We should keep moving.” He opens the side-pocket, takes out his torch, and then looks inside the main compartment, grinning at the metal box and length of fuse.

  21. The Bathtub

  The sun hangs like a blood clot in the sky as the clouds thicken. They pass a line of cars — rusted, crumpled heaps, slowly decaying into the soil. They look over at the sagging remains of a truck, tipped on its side halfway down a rocky pass to the right. The highway snakes down towards the city. Billows of dust drift by as they walk.

  “You hungry?” the kid asks.

  “I could eat.”

  They move off the road to the left and find a copse of poplars and oaks, lush and green and knotted with vines. Abel looks back along the road, scanning for movement. He hears the distant howling of dogs and licks his dry lips.

  He sits down on a moss-covered log, feeling the dead wood bend beneath his weight. “Take a seat, kid.” He pats the log at his side.

  The kid sits to Abel's right and drops his backpack between his legs. Abel does the same. “There's some beef in your pack.”

  Unsure, the kid rummages through his backpack and retr
ieves a slab of salt beef wrapped in a roll of yellowed paper. Abel takes the meat from the kid, cuts it with his hunting knife, and passes half back. The eating is slow-going, the dry, tough meat difficult to swallow.

  The kid looks around. “We're not too far from that dead guy — the plez one.”

  Silence hangs between them for a moment. “Yep,” Abel says, rubbing his beard.

  “We should bury him.”

  “Yep.” He wipes his hands against his thighs and gets to his feet. “You sure?”

  “We need to.” The kid hauls his backpack onto his shoulders, gets up, and sighs. “It’s like with your dog. It’s right.”

  Abel places a hand on the kid’s shoulder and nods.

  The kid leads the way up along the sloping embankment, stepping over the uneven ground and kicking aside pieces of junk and plastic. They reach the battered shack and the kid opens the door without hesitation.

  The stench of death hits Abel before he steps into the gloom. Flecks of dull light penetrate the walls, casting a haze through the floating dust.

  Before his eyes adjust, Abel takes a seat on the upturned crate and slides the backpack from his shoulders. He rests his head in his hands, sniffing the damp wood, the musty clothes, and the ashes of the long-dead fire.

  “What is it?” the kid asks. He removes the backpack and leans his back against the wall to the door's left.

  “It's the plez thing, kid. I hate it.”

  “I know.”

  Abel feels the kid’s hand on his shoulder and looks up, forcing a weak smile. He gets up and over to the bathtub with his forearm covering his nose. He stares into the corpse’s hollow eyes, its skin blotched with green and grey, flayed and fraying around patches of exposed bone. “Best thing is to lift the blankets and take it outside. I don’t think this thing’s going to hold together.”

  The kid nods. “Let's make the hole first.”

  Abel sighs and follows the kid outside.

  They wander back to the copse of trees and start digging at an area of soft, bare soil with their hands. They say nothing as they dig, only stopping occasionally to wipe sweat from their brows or catch their breath.