by Jon Cronshaw
He looks around again and pulls on his backpack. “Little girl?”
Heaving Pip’s deadweight back onto his shoulders, he turns and walks back the way he came.
A minute later, a strange high-pitched clicking echoes around the buildings behind him. The girl emerges from behind a wall, riding a pushbike with colourful tassels hanging from the handlebars, a rifle hung over her bony shoulders.
She skids to a halt and gets off the bike. Her blonde hair hangs lank and greasy. She meets Abel’s gaze with sunken eyes. Gathering the blanket and food, she drops the items into a pink basket above the front wheel and waves at Abel. He returns the wave and continues on the road towards the highway.
Late the next morning, Abel spots the piece of tattered red material hanging from a tree, fluttering against the breeze. He wheezes with exhaustion at Pip’s weight on his shoulders.
He carries her off the highway, pushing through the trees and bushes, searching for several minutes, until he sees the garage.
He opens the shutters and finds it exactly how he'd left it. He carries Pip over to her bed in the corner and lays her down.
He’s trembling and gasping. He crouches next to her and pours some water into his mouth, sighing. “What we going to do, girl?” he whispers.
He strokes behind her head and frowns at the jerky spasms spreading across his arms. “You stay there, girl,” he mutters.
He gets up and steps outside. With a tight chest, he stares at the sky. Thin brown clouds swirl above. He looks back into the gloom of the garage.
Pushing his way back through the trees, he moves to the highway, snapping branches from the dead pines. He looks east towards the city, following the highway as it descends in a gentle slope beneath the shimmering black waters. He scans across the miles of buildings, turning to the south as black smoke ascends in thin streams to the sky.
Shaking his head, he returns to the garage and drops the wood next to the pile of ashes. “Home,” he says.
THE END
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Author’s note
Thank you very much for downloading my first novel (and for getting to this point in the book!)
With all the great titles out there, it really means a lot that you’ve taken the time to read my story.
If you have any comments or feedback, you can get in touch with me via Facebook, Twitter, or by email (see links below).
If you can let other readers know what you thought of Wizard of the Wasteland by leaving a review on Amazon, that would be very much appreciated.
I look forward to hearing from you!
- Jon
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Preview to Knight of the Wasteland, Book 2 of the Wasteland series
1. Burial
Abel cradles Pip, rocking back and forth, whispering to himself as she lies dead in his arms.
With an arched back, he sighs and lifts her stiff body into the hull of his rowing boat. Layers of blue and white chipped paint cover the boat, grimy ropes securing it to a grass-stained trailer, no more than a metal frame and a pair of rubber wheels. He climbs up into the boat and sits on the single seat. A pair of oars, kept in place by rusted pivots, rests on either side of him, turned into the boat.
He looks down at the dog and reaches into his leather jacket for his pistol. He turns it in his hand. Thin grey ripples glide along its barrel. He opens the chamber and takes out the bullet. He inspects it for a long moment, takes in its shape, its potential, and sighs. He blows on the bullet, places it back, and clicks the chamber shut. His eyes stare back at him in the reflection along the barrel, cold and distant.
Thick concrete walls stand silent around him. A cracked window, held from shattering by rusted wire mesh, lets in a dull trickle of light. In the corner to his right lie the remains of a recent fire, blackened wood and grey ash. A pile of grey pine branches rests next to it.
The roof above the fire gapes half-collapsed, revealing the last flickers of sunset. A bundle of blankets lies along the right-hand wall, crumpled in a heap on top of his bedroll. A glimmer of light catches the corner of his shopping trolley and disappears. The garage’s steel shutters hang open behind him.
Abel turns and looks down at Pip’s body, shaking his head at her wiry legs and brindle fur. He looks outside. Grey clouds blot out the sky. The pines across the way lean gaunt and lifeless, thin twiggy things, the same grey as the sky. The other trees loom green and wild, their branches twisting and crawling along the ground, climbing the sides of his garage and obscuring it from the highway beyond.
The smell of damp fur and moss hangs in the air. He removes his tattered baseball cap and runs his fingers over his matted hair. He considers his pistol again, bouncing it in his hands for several minutes before placing it back in his jacket. He gets up, steps out of the boat, and reaches into his trolley— a cage on wheels — filled with odds and ends. He leans in, pulling out a plastic sheet, green and stained with brown and grey patches. He unfolds it and drapes it over the boat, covering Pip’s body, protecting her from the approaching night.
He pulls down the steel shutters — a hollow rattle followed by a crash as steel meets concrete. He flinches at the noise, his head tired and body sore.
Squinting in the dim light, he goes over to his bedroll and shuffles beneath blankets and old coats. He stretches out and lies on his back for a long time, staring through the hole in the roof at the emerging stars. Wisps of thick clouds eddy across the half-moon, watching as the night grows darker and the clouds drift away.
Unable to sleep, he lets out a sharp breath and gets up. Stepping over to the boat, he pulls the plastic sheet aside.
She is still dead.
He strokes her fur, feeling her ribs beneath his fingers. “You feel wrong,” he whispers.
Chewing his lower lip, he climbs up and sits in the boat, resting a hand against her cold body. His other hand wanders to his pistol again. He grips the handle and shivers at the cold air against his chest. Shaking his head, he gets down from the boat and crawls back onto the bedroll. He smells must, dirt, and the dog. There's something crawling nearby.
“Damn it,” he says through gritted teeth.
Cold dampness fills the air when the sun rises above the eastern horizon, sending flashes of light across the water. Abel gathers enough twigs to start a fire and looks at Pip’s stiff body. He gropes through his trolley and pulls out a tin of something. Rust lingers around its edges. Its dented lid makes it difficult to open. He pierces the lid with the tip of his hunting knife and works it around the lip, levering it open.
“Damn beans,” he mutters.
He sniffs at the tin, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rust and bean juice. Sighing, he places the beans on the fire. He turns and steps outside.
He approaches a dead tree, unfastens his combat trousers, and relieves himself. He looks downhill towards the water, towards the city, and lets out another sigh.
The fire spits and crackles against the damp twigs when it finally takes. A trail of thick grey smoke rises up through the hole in the roof. He rubs his hands against the warmth. The beans bubble in the tin. He wraps his hands with a cloth from the trolley, snatches the tin from the flames, and lays it on the ground to cool. He gets to his feet and retrieves a teaspoon from his backpack.
He yawns and eats, smiling slightly as the beans fill his belly and warm him from within. He reaches for his water bottle, buried deep in his backpack, its black enamel surface chipped to expose the metal beneath. He unscrews the cap with trembling fingers and takes a swig, the water still cool and refreshing. He rubs the spoon on a filthy rag, rinses it with water, and then slides it into the trolley
between a pile of books and a coil of rope.
With a sharp tug, he lifts his backpack from the trolley, placing it into the boat, next to the dog. He arranges the backpack so it won't tip.
He turns and stamps out the fire, kicking blackened twigs aside while fanning the smoke away from his eyes. He steps over to the boat and pulls on his faded baseball cap, red and tattered. He yanks the sheet off Pip’s body and looks at her, his lips held tight. He folds the sheet and drapes it over the trolley.
Turning back to the boat, he places his water bottle into his backpack. He lifts a harness fashioned from strips of webbing, cloth, and rope from inside the boat and attaches it to the front.
He wheels the trailer outside. It makes a dull thud when it drops from the concrete to the sunken ground.
He glances at a tree to his right, sweeping his eyes along its top branch and then nodding to himself at the strip of faded red cloth — a marker, a sign — hidden in plain sight.
He looks at Pip.
Fastening the harness around his waist, chest, and shoulders, he leans into the boat's weight and heaves forward, quickly falling into rhythm as he steps onto the highway surface, heading east.
Rusted barriers lean on their sides, and trees push their way through the carcasses of burnt-out cars. The trailer wheels make a soft groan as Abel keeps step. The oars rattle against the seat behind him, clattering when the wheels hit a piece of discarded junk or bounce into a pothole. He coughs away dust and rolls his shoulders against the ache.
The city's smell hits him like a wall of filth. The acrid stench of waste and death and stagnant water make him gag. Rainbows pool across the water as the sun rises higher, brownish-red through the clouds.
He pauses and watches the oncoming dust cloud, turns, and reaches into a side pocket of his backpack. He fumbles around the buckle, struggling to unfasten it until it finally gives. He unravels a piece of cloth protecting a pair of clear plastic goggles. Scuffs and scratches mark the left lens. He hooks the goggles over his ears, the left lens useless — a grey cataract smear, like oil on paper.
The water's edge looms closer as the stench gets stronger. The road steepens, worming its way towards the city. Avenues of trees and weeds thin out, revealing a film of dust and slime. The foundations of hundreds of buildings extend downhill to the south. Some are lines of mossy brickwork emerging from the soil; others are little more than shadows, ghosts — all faded traces of the time before.
Abel coughs again, this time harder. He stops as his lungs spasm against the thickening air. He turns to the boat and pulls a kerchief from a side pocket on his backpack, all the while trying not to look at Pip’s body.
He looks at Pip.
He ties the kerchief around the back of his neck, covering his mouth and nose. He takes up the harness's tension and keeps moving.
When Abel reaches the water, he looks along the shore to the north. A scrawny kid kneels at the water's edge, clothes hanging in ragged strips from his body, his black hair stuck to his head in matted curls.
Abel unfastens his harness, lifts his backpack onto his shoulder, and moves the trailer into a nearby blast crater.
He walks over to the kid and holds his hands in an open gesture. “I wouldn't drink that water if I were you, kid.”
The kid turns and starts. He stares at Abel with hollow eyes, watery and rimmed with dark purple lines. Yellow flesh stretches taut across his bony cheeks, his expression fixed to a scowl.
“It's okay, kid.” Abel takes off his goggles and folds them into his pocket. He unties the kerchief, pockets it, and smiles. “I’m Abel.”
The kid doesn't move.
Abel reaches into his bag, retrieves his water bottle, and holds it with an outstretched left hand. His other hand hovers over the hunting knife. “ here.” He nods towards the bottle. “Trust me — you do not want to drink anything from that.” He waves the bottle towards the water, slick with oil and algae and strewn with flotsam and detritus.
The kid wobbles to his feet and reaches out a weary hand, sweat pouring from his trembling flesh.
“It's just water, kid. It's clean.” He unscrews the cap, takes a sip, and then holds it out to the kid.
The stench of the kid mixes with the stagnant water. He takes the bottle and licks his lips. He looks to Abel and then to the bottle, sniffing inside before taking a long swig. “Thanks,” the kid gasps. “Where you get clean water?”
“There's a spring.” He gives a vague gesture south.
The kid gives him a blank look and hands back the bottle.
“Who you running with?”
“No one,” the kid says.
“No one?” Abel shakes his head. “This is no world to be alone, kid.”
The kid gives a half-shrug and looks along the shoreline to the north. “I was running with the Family.” The kid turns back to him, scratching at the back of his head.
“You're on plez?”
“No,” the kid says. He rubs the back of his neck, sighs. “I was. I am. I don't want to...”
Abel's face contorts into a grim, mirthless smile. He nods over to his boat. “Can you dig?”
The kid frowns. “Dig? Dig what?”
“A hole.” He turns and trudges across the soft ground, over the crater's lip, to his boat, his shoulders aching and feet burning. The kid follows.
He kneels at the boat's side and claws at the ground, pushing his hands into the soil, throwing stones aside. The kid crouches to his left, and they both dig until the hole is three feet deep and three feet around.
With sweat streaming from his brow, Abel gets to his feet, removes his cap, and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “This should be about enough,” he says, placing a filthy hand on the kid's shoulder. The kid flinches, reeling back with a sudden jerk.
“It's okay, kid.” He drops his hand and goes over to the boat. He offers the kid a smile. “ help me lift this.”
The kid doesn't move but stares at Pip’s body. “What is it?”
“It's a dog.”
“Dogs are bad.” He makes a concerned face.
Abel shakes his head. “This dog was my friend. She was the best.”
The kid turns to him. “Did you kill it?”
“She got hurt. She died...” Abel's voice cracks for second. He climbs into the boat and scoops Pip up beneath his arms, cradling her stiff body. “Easy now,” he says, lifting her body from the boat and dropping to the ground.
They lower Pip’s body into the hole and stand over her, eyes downcast, silent.
Abel crouches, grabs a handful of soil, and lets it fall slowly onto the dog's side. The kid takes his own handful and does the same. Pip's mouth lies open, her tongue resting dry on the dirt. Her deep chest juts out from her skinny body, her legs thin, spidery.
Abel gets up and sighs. Taking a few steps back, he nods to himself and covers Pip with more soil. The kid helps. They carry on until the ground becomes flat.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, now high and burning bright, he coughs and steps over to his backpack. “You hungry, kid?”
The kid nods. “What you got?”
Abel leans into his backpack and pulls out a slab of greyish-brown meat. “Salt beef,” he says.
“What's that?”
“It's tough and it tastes bad, but it keeps well and it'll put hairs on your chest.”
He takes out his hunting knife and the kid recoils.
“It's okay, kid. I'm not going to hurt you.” He holds the meat up and stabs it with the knife. The blade slides through the meat with ease, splitting it down the middle. He hands the kid half. They stand chewing, tugging at the meat with frowns and dry mouths.
He takes out his water bottle and unscrews the cap. He offers some more to the kid. The kid takes a swig and hands it back.
“Do you want to get off plez?” Abel asks.
The kid looks at his hands, trembling and coated in fresh dirt. “You can't get off plez,” he says in a small voice.
“You can
. I'll help you.”
“How?”
“Come with me. I'll teach you to trade. You won't need plez.”
“You trade?”
Abel nods.
“What you trade?”
“Stuff. Things. Books. Stuff from before.” He rubs his chin and looks at his hands, caked with dirt. He goes over to the shoreline, dips his hands in the water, and rinses them with the water from his bottle. Shaking away the drips, he reaches down and dries his hands on his thighs.
The kid gives Abel a confused look. “What's books?”
“Damn it, kid. Books.” He shakes his head and opens his palms, imitating an open book, but the kid shrugs. “They contain words, stories, wisdom, knowledge from before...before all this.” He makes a sweeping gesture across the water. “Can you read?”
The kid gives another blank look.
Abel puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. This time the kid doesn't flinch. “Look, kid. Come with me and I'll teach you how to read. I'll teach you about trading and I'll get you off plez.”
The kid looks down at the grave then back to Abel. “I don't know,” he says. “I can survive.”
“Anyone can survive, kid. I'm talking about living.”
Abel moves towards his boat, pulls it from the trailer and drags it to the water's edge. “I'm going to see what I can find out there,” he says, gesturing towards the city.
The kid looks across the water and shakes his head. “I'm not going back there.”
With a strain, Abel pushes the boat onto the water and hops onto its back. He shuffles into the seat and raises the oars. “I'll be a few hours,” he calls. “If you want to come with me, you can meet me here. If not, good luck to you, kid.”
The kid does not answer.
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About the Author
Jon Cronshaw is a British science fiction and fantasy author based in Morecambe, England.
As a freelance features writer, he has had work published in local and national newspapers across the UK, including the Metro, Yorkshire Post and the Guardian.
