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

by Jon Cronshaw

  After more than an hour, they return to the shack and consider the corpse. Abel points to a blanket, stained with rust-brown blood. “You take that end. I'll take this one.” He takes the blanket's corners nearest the head and looks down at the rot as maggots squirm along its sides. Abel waits for the kid to take the weight at his end. They lift the blanket and grimace as something wet and putrid squelches from the bathtub. “Damn it. Put it down, kid. We need a rethink.”

  “We could move the bath.”

  Abel looks at the kid, down at the bathtub, back at the kid, and nods. “Hold the door.” He waits for the kid to open the door and grips the bathtub. The corpse’s face glows when the room fills with sunlight. He drags the tub along floorboards as he heaves it through the doorway.

  Without a word, the kid grips the other end of the bathtub, and they lift it together along the edge of the embankment, heading towards the copse of trees.

  Panting, they reach the freshly-dug grave, four feet deep at the bottom of its bell curve. “Think it'll fit?” the kid asks.

  “Nope.” Abel stands and stares into the hole, scratching his beard. “We'll leave the tub here as a marker. Do what we were going to do.”

  The kid nods and they grab each end of the blanket. With delicate movement, they lift the body from the bathtub and lower it into the hole, gagging. They line the body up and then move away from the grave. The kid turns to the bathtub and vomits. Abel pats his shoulder. “You need to get a drink?”

  The kid wipes a string of bile from his mouth with a sleeve. “No, let's finish it.” He reaches into his pockets, retrieves a length of copper pipe, and tosses it into the hole.

  “Was that yours?”

  “No. His.”

  They stand and stare for several minutes, looking at the corpse and looking at the plez pipe. “Let's cover him up, kid.”

  Together, they move the mound of soil back into the grave, covering the body until the ground lies flat, the bathtub standing as a grim memorial beneath the trees.

  FLAMES CAST AN ORANGE glow along the shack walls. Abel sits on the crate, rubbing his hands for warmth. The kid sits near the door with his back to the wall, his legs crossed and a blanket draped around his shoulders.

  Abel reaches into his backpack and pulls out a whiskey bottle. He turns the cap, feels its seal break, lifts it to his nose, and sniffs inside.

  “What you got?”

  “Whiskey.” Abel holds the bottle up to the flames' light. “And it smells good.” He takes a swig and shudders as it heats the inside of his throat. Taking in a deep breath, he nods to himself. “Yep. It's good.”

  He reaches out with the bottle and hands it to the kid. The kid sniffs it, scrunching his nose. “Doesn't smell good to me.”

  “It's good, kid.”

  The kid takes a sip, cringes, wipes his mouth, and hands the bottle back, gasping. “It's strong.”

  “Yep.” Abel takes another swig and stares at the fire. “You know, kid, burying that guy today's got me thinking. I wasn't sure about taking on the Family. Not really.” He turns to the kid. “We've got to work out a way to end them for good.”

  The kid gets to his feet, nodding. “We’ve got to burn the factory. It's the only way.”

  A plume of white smoke swirls above as Abel pokes the fire with a stick. “You think you can direct me?”

  “I know where it is.”

  “So you're coming with me? Into the city?”

  The kid nods.

  Abel takes a mouthful of whiskey. “You're not going to be scared?”

  “Of course, I'm going to be scared. It's what we need to do.”

  “I'm scared too, kid.”

  “What you scared of?”

  “Their rifles, for one. Getting shot. Falling into the water. Losing you.”

  The kid reaches his grubby hand towards Abel and signals for a drink. Abel takes a sip and then passes it over. The kid takes a seat and drinks, cringes for a moment, and then gasps. He wipes his mouth, handing the bottle back.

  Abel screws the lid back on the bottle and slips it carefully into his backpack. “We'll finish that when we get back from the city.”

  The kid says nothing.

  22. Cleansing

  DEAD PINES RATTLE AROUND them as Abel and the kid make their final descent towards the garage. Filth drifts on the wind in waves from the city. They pass collapsed cars and steel barriers, tangled with moss, nettles and corkscrewing vines.

  Abel points to the tattered strip of red cloth waving from a branch. “We're back,” he says, turning right off the highway. He shoulders his way through the overgrown weeds, looking around until the garage emerges through the bushes.

  With bended knees, he grips and raises the shutters, shuddering at the noise and falling dust as it rolls into itself. He covers his mouth and blinks. Pip’s smell lingers faintly. He lifts his backpack from his shoulders, drops it into the boat on his left then turns to the kid. “How you feeling?”

  “I'm okay.”

  “You good to keep moving, kid? I figured we should get cleaned up, wash some clothes.” He feels around inside his backpack, pulls out his torch, and smiles when the brownish-yellow light illuminates his garage, casting dull shadows inside the boat and along the walls. He pockets the torch in his jacket, removes it, and then undresses.

  Naked, he turns to his trolley and retrieves a cotton bed sheet. “Put your dirty stuff on here, kid,” he says, unfolding the sheet onto the ground. He drops in his battered combat trousers, two T-shirts, and a sweater. The kid adds his clothes to the pile, and Abel pulls on a clean T-shirt and fresh jeans, looks down at his left arm, and sees the kid looking at the stitches.

  “It's doing okay, kid. It's healing nicely.” Taking a scrunched-up cardigan from his trolley, he flaps it open and pulls it on, taking care not to catch the stitches. Satisfied, he twists the bundle of clothes into a knot, pulls on his leather coat, and swings the bundle over his right shoulder.

  “You leaving that?” the kid asks, gesturing to the machete.

  “Yep. I got my hunting knife. That thing's pretty heavy.” He leans over to his backpack, takes his water bottle, and fastens it to his belt. “Let's go.”

  HEADING SOUTH, THEY weave through the ruined foundations of long-collapsed buildings, finding a route through the thick brush and twisted weeds. Abel scans the horizon to the east, looking across the city's murky waters.

  They follow a line of telegraph poles, bent and twisted. The vegetation thickens and the kid overtakes, leading the way, hopping over fallen trees as Abel trips and stumbles.

  “Nearly there,” the kid says.

  They reach the gorge, its rocks a dark orange-red. Abel stops to watch the river's flow. The kid looks back. “You okay?”

  “Yep. Just thinking.”

  The kid walks back up the thin trail and stands next to Abel.

  “Where do you think this river goes, kid?”

  There's a silence and then a shrug. “The city, I guess.”

  “I don't think so, look how it curves around to the right. It's subtle, but it's moving to the south.”

  The kid nods. “I see it. What does it mean?”

  “Not sure, it's got to go somewhere.”

  “Take the boat,” the kid suggests.

  Abel gives a short laugh. “Take it down there? Drop it down the sides of these rocks?” He shakes his head.

  “Maybe it's the same river as the one where you taught me to skim stones?”

  Abel follows the river west upstream, nodding. “You could be right, kid.”

  “Think there's other settlements? Other cities?”

  “Could be.” Abel gives a signal, and they follow the path towards the cave. He reaches into his pocket for his torch when they reach the cave's entrance and then places it back in his pocket as he moves inside.

  Darkness quickly descends. Abel's flesh prickles at the cold. The damp rock smell rests in the air, and their feet echo above the noise of running water. Around them,
faint light emanates from the cascading fungi. The sound of their footsteps fades as the water grows louder.

  Abel gropes along the wall to his right, damp and cold beneath his palm. He looks to his left and sees the shimmer of the stream's surface as it drives through the rock.

  He drops his bundle and hands the water bottle to the kid. “Here.”

  The kid takes the bottle, fills it, takes a swig, and hands it to Abel. “I love that taste.”

  “Which taste?”

  “The nothing taste. It's good.”

  Abel takes a swig, wipes his chin with his sleeve, and smiles. “Can't beat it.”

  “We should clean ourselves up. I can still smell that plez guy on me.” The kid takes off his battered shoes, inhaling sharply as he dips his feet in the water. Abel does the same as goose bumps spread across his body. He gets up, unfastens the bundle of clothes, and tips them into the water.

  “You think we'll be okay?”

  “We'll be right, kid.”

  “I mean about the Family.”

  There's a long pause. Abel scratches his beard and shrugs. “Damn it, kid. We'll be right, or we won't.”

  “What we going to do?”

  Air bubbles creep from his clothes as Abel pushes them down into the water with his hands, turning and squeezing them against the smooth rocks at the stream's bed. “I don't know, kid. I don't know.”

  “We can't back out of this.”

  Abel turns, glaring at the kid. “We've just got back from Trinity. Let's catch our breath and make plans.”

  “I don't want to hang about. We just need to do it now.”

  Abel sighs. “Alright, kid. Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow.”

  A PAIR OF TINS SIMMERS on the fire as a thin line of smoke drifts up through the hole in the garage roof. Abel and the kid sit on a rug with their backs against the rear wall as the flames crackle to their left. “To tomorrow,” Abel says, raising his bottle of whiskey and then taking a swig. The alcohol burns his mouth, warming his throat and chest as it goes down. He hands the bottle to the kid.

  “Tomorrow,” the kid says, leaning forward on his crossed legs.

  Abel reaches down and picks up the loaf of bread from Sal. He unwraps it, tosses the paper onto the fire, and tears the loaf in half. He takes a bite and then hands the other half to the kid, following it with another sip of whiskey.

  “You like Sal, don’t you?”

  Abel looks at the flames and then down at his bread. “She’s been good to me.”

  “You like her though. It’s more than that.”

  They sit in silence, chewing. Abel wipes the crumbs from his chin and chest and gets to his feet. “She’s a priest and a friend. That’s all it can ever be.”

  “But I’m right?”

  “Damn it, kid. Yes.” He wraps a cloth around his hand and takes the tins from the fire. He hands the kid a tin, resting his own between his legs on the rug. “She was there for me when no one else was. She got me off plez.”

  The kid stares at him with wide eyes.

  Abel dips the bread into the beans, scooping them into his mouth. “Let’s change the subject. Sal’s a friend. It can’t be more than that.”

  “I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

  “Damn it, kid. Just drop it.”

  They sit in silence for over a minute, both focusing on their food. “This is the best meal I've had in a long time,” the kid says.

  “Let's hope it's not our last, kid.”

  “Yep,” the kid says. “Let’s hope.”

  ABEL LIES AWAKE IN the dark, listening to the kid snoring. Pulling the blankets around him, he watches the dying embers pulsating red, pink, and orange. The sound of feral dogs howling and barking seeps through the night, their calls fluctuating with the whistling wind.

  “Damn it,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Damn it.” His hands pulse from the tightness of his balled fists, echoed by the throbbing in his head. He gets up and steps over to the boat, feeling around for his jacket. Whiskey and bean juice smells cling to his beard. He takes out his pistol, heavy and comforting in his hands.

  He sits on his rug and goes through the old ritual of stripping down the weapon and putting it back together. He does this in the dark and hears the hum of his breath as he blows down the barrel, delicately gripping the cold bullet between his fingertips. Sighing, he places the bullet back in the cylinder, feeling the click as he closes it.

  The kid convulses for a second and then stops. Abel places the back of his hand on the kid's forehead, clammy and cold. He sighs again, adjusts the kid's blanket and gets to his feet, replacing the pistol in his jacket. He leans on the boat with his head rested on his folded forearms and closes his eyes.

  23. The Map

  THE KID ALREADY HAS a fire going by the time Abel stirs. He pokes at the fire with a stick, pushing a tin farther into the flames. “Bad night?” the kid asks.

  Abel sits up, coughs, and yawns. “How long you been awake?”

  “Not too long. I made a fire. There's some beans cooking.”

  “Good work, kid.” Abel shuffles free of his blanket, blinking away the sleep. The smell of ash and wood smoke mingle with the smell of his own breath. “You okay?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

  “I'm fine.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yep.” The kid prods the fire with a stick. “Sorry about pushing you last night about Sal.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

  The kid looks back at the flames and nods.

  “It's not too late to back out,” Abel says, wobbling to his feet. “We don't have to do this.”

  The kid turns to him and shoots him a hard glare. “We're not backing out.”

  Abel raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I never suggested that...”

  The kid's eyes narrow. “We need to eat then we get ready to go.”

  “As you say, kid.” Abel rolls up his blanket and tosses it into the trolley. He takes a clean T-shirt from the pile, carefully working it over his head so as not to aggravate the stitches on his left arm.

  The kid wraps his hand with a cloth, takes the tin away from the flames, and offers it to Abel.

  “You go first,” Abel says.

  The kid eats as Abel empties his boat, transferring items over to his trolley and emptying his backpack onto the rug.

  “What's that?” the kid asks, beans falling from his mouth.

  “It's called a stethoscope. It's used for medical stuff. I was going to trade it with Jacob.”

  “What's it for?” He reaches his hand out, gesturing to take a look.

  Abel passes it to him with hesitation, gripping the rubber tubes at both ends between his fingers. “You can listen to hearts with it, hear if there's anything wrong.”

  “I can feel mine today. It's beating pretty hard. I don't even need this to know that.” He holds the stethoscope in front of him. It drops like a spider from a web as it dances under his fingers. He rolls it up and hands it back. Abel slips it into his jacket.

  “We could make something like this for you if you want?” Abel holds up his makeshift armour and dusts off the dark grey slabs of tyre.

  “It would just slow me down.”

  “Well, I'm going to wear it with the helmet. That thing saved my life last time.” He takes the remaining beans from the kid, hops into the boat, and eats, the seat hard beneath him as he chews. He takes a swig of water when he's finished and wipes his mouth with the cloth. He lets out a long sigh, turning to the kid. “It's time,” he says. “You ready?”

  The kid nods.

  THE SHUTTERS SLAM HARD behind them as they manoeuvre the trailer across the bumpy ground towards the road. Once they reach a flat area, Abel looks up at the tattered red strip and then back at his garage shrouded by the tangle of greenery. He attaches his harness, tightens it around his shoulders, and looks down towards the city.

  A bloody sky hangs above the eastern horizon, sending fingers o
f light across the black waters. He glances at the kid and double-checks his rope. His backpack leans on its side in the front of the boat. His armour rests on the seat next to the helmet. He takes the tension in his shoulders, leans into the weight, and takes his first step.

  He falls into his rhythm as he marches forward. The kid runs ahead, shoving aside fallen branches and junk and scanning for movement.

  After a while, three lines of black smoke emerge from the city, drifting vertically into the sky from the Family's factory.

  The trailer's wheels bounce and moan as they rumble along the soft ground. “At least it's a clear day, kid,” he says, stitches prickling.

  The kid turns back to look at him. “Huh?”

  “I said it's a clear day.”

  “We picked a good one,” the kid calls back.

  The city grows closer and closer as they continue along the highway. Tension squeezes in Abel's chest. The road gets steeper and the trailer knocks at the backs of his legs, jolting him, bruising him. Around them, the trees get thicker. The lifeless pines give way to the traces of flattened buildings.

  They reach the shore.

  Abel gags and scrunches his nose, suppressing the urge to vomit. He drags the trailer into the crater and stops, sitting on the ground, sweating and wheezing. He unfastens his harness and pats a hand against Pip’s grave, staring at the dirt.

  “You alright?” the kid asks.

  Abel looks up and stands. “I'm fine. Just getting my breath back.” He holds his forearm over his nose and looks out beyond the crater's rim to the north. The smoke from the Family still rises, unmoved, unchanged.

  “You need a drink?”

  Abel nods.

  The kid takes the water bottle from the backpack and hands it to Abel.

  “Thanks, kid. You never get used to that smell, do you?”

  The kid shakes his head, looks over the crater, and shudders.