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

by Jon Cronshaw

  “Be careful.”

  A few seconds later the wizard stands at the loft's edge beaming as he waves the blocks of packing foam. He makes his way down the steps with a triumphant grin. “Useless?” he says with a mocking tone. “You need to learn the value of things. My friend, this is not useless— this is the fuel for magic.”

  THE FAMILY’S CAMPERVAN is just visible in the distance when Abel helps the wizard drag the cart back onto the highway. He looks to the west and sees the sun low above the horizon.

  The wizard follows Abel’s gaze. “What is it?”

  “Seeing how much light we’ve got left.”

  “We should set up camp soon.”

  Abel glances towards the van and sighs. “Let’s see what they do. If they move through the night, we’ll lose them for sure.”

  The wizard climbs onto the cart, shuffles into his seat and grabs the reins. With a flick of his wrist, the mule lurches forward.

  “You going to tell me what’s so magical about packing foam?” Abel asks.

  “All in good time,” says the wizard, adopting his showman’s voice. “All in good time.”

  Abel shakes his head and smirks. “I’m going to go on ahead, see if I can get a better idea about this van.”

  “You should just go down with your gun, shoot them before they spot you.”

  “I’ve got one bullet,” Abel says. “I’m saving it...” His voice trails off.

  The wizard brings his cart to a halt.

  Abel stops and glances back at the wizard. “What?”

  “You,” the wizard spits, narrowing his eyes.

  “What did I do?”

  “I thought you had a weapon.”

  Abel reaches into his jacket, gripping the pistol’s handle. He takes it out. “I’ve got a code,” he says.

  “Yeah? What sort of code?”

  “Don’t kill.”

  The wizard shakes his head and lets out an incredulous laugh. “That’s a lovely sentiment, man. How do you expect to survive with a code like that?”

  Abel shrugs. “I’m still here.”

  There’s a long silence. Abel opens his pistol, takes out the bullet, and blows on it before returning it and clicking the pistol shut.

  “I don’t get it,” the wizard says, finally. “You’ve got a gun. You should use it.”

  “I do use it. I’ve got out of more scrapes using this as a threat than I would if I’d made enemies shooting people.”

  “So what’s your plan with the Family? You going to go down there, hold out your pistol, and expect them to release their slaves?”

  “I...erm...”

  “They’ve got their own guns— real guns.”

  “You ever find bullets when you’re scavenging?”

  The wizard gives a confused look. “What?”

  “Have you ever come across bullets?”

  “Once or twice, maybe.”

  “Exactly. I found bullets once, but they didn’t fit my pistol. What are the odds those rifles they carry around are just for show?”

  “That’s a pretty big what if, man.”

  “Shh,” says Abel.

  “It’s true.”

  Abel runs along the highway's right side and sees Pip. She stands stiff with her tail in the air and ears pricked, twitching. He stops and listens, hearing the sound of feral hunting dogs. He turns back to the wizard. “Get your spike thing, I can hear dogs.”

  He moves close to Pip, crouches next to her, and pats her on the side. She doesn’t move. A low growl rumbles from deep within her throat. He takes his hunting knife from his jacket and frowns at its blunted blade. Pip jerks her head to the right. They wait and watch. There’s snarling and barking and howling coming from at least three dogs.

  Abel looks back to the see the wizard frantically unfastening the bolts on the side of his cart. The mule looks at him, unperturbed.

  The first dog emerges from bushes to the south, too far away to be an immediate threat. The second and third dogs appear farther along the highway.

  “I think they’re after the Family,” Abel says in a hushed voice.

  A fourth dog races onto the highway from the north.

  “What’s happening?” asks the wizard. He’s standing behind Abel now.

  “I can’t really tell. They’re going for the Family.” He points to the three dogs. “They’re going for a pincer movement.” He moves his finger to the lone dog. “That one’s going first. Pretty clever.”

  Five gunshots ring out, and the dogs fall to the ground. One of them yelps. The others stay silent.

  “What happened?” the wizard asks.

  “I think we got the answer to our question about bullets.”

  5. The Addict

  THE LAST GLIMMERS OF daylight shine over the city to the east as dust clouds eddy. Abel gathers sticks as he watches the Family make camp near the bank of a river. He can just make out the wizard’s cart through the trees.

  A smooth round stone catches his eye. He crouches and pockets it and then walks over to the cart with the dry sticks bundled against his side. He drops the sticks so the cart will block the light from the fire. Taking a pair of damp logs, he arranges them in a V-shape on the soft ground. Without speaking, he tears the bark away from the logs in long strips and sets them aside. “You got any paper?” he asks, turning to the wizard idly whistling to himself while sitting on his cart seat.

  “What sort of paper?”

  “For the fire.”

  The wizard gives an almost imperceptible nod, slips down from the cart, and walks around the other side.

  Abel builds the fire, piling thick branches around a mess of tiny twigs and dried grasses. There’s a tap on his shoulder.

  The wizard waves a sheet of yellowed paper. “Will this do?”

  “Yep.” He takes the paper, tears it into strips, and stuffs it into the fire's base. Pip turns in a double circle next to him and flops to the ground. He gets up and arranges the lengths of bark as a roof to cover the flames.

  “What you doing that for?”

  “There’s a dust storm coming,” Abel says, not looking up. “I’m hoping this will keep it from bothering the fire.” He gets to his feet, stands back, looks at his work, and nods to himself. “You got a match?”

  The wizard takes a match from a wooden box in his robe and lights it with his thumbnail, holding it against a strip of paper until it takes the flame. He moves the match around, lighting the other strips of paper until it goes out, and he tosses it among the arranged twigs. The damp logs hiss and pop as the fire takes hold.

  “Where you get your matches?” Abel asks.

  The wizard shrugs. “You ever come across the caravans?”

  “Nope.”

  “They get all the good stuff. A lot of it new.”

  “New?”

  “We should eat,” the wizard says, rubbing his hands.

  Abel walks over to his backpack, leaning against the side of the cart, and opens the top flap. He pulls out two unlabelled tins and a cloth and returns to the fire, now growing in height and warmth. “I’ve got a bucket of half-charred critters if you’re interested?” he asks with a chuckle. He sits on the ground and crosses his legs.

  The wizard laughs. “What the hell was that?”

  “I know,” Abel says, smiling. He takes the hunting knife from his jacket and pierces the tins with the point. “What do you reckon?” he asks, gesturing to the tins with his blade.

  The wizard shrugs. “Beans, I guess.”

  Abel sniffs at the tins. “It looks promising,” he says, taking his knife and working it around the lid. “It’s a tin of beans,” he says in a showman’s voice. “Congratulations, your wizarding skills have clearly given you the ability to see though tins. Maybe you could use that in one of your shows?”

  The wizard gives a toothy grin and wiggles the fingers of his left hand over a tin, closing his eyes and tapping his forehead. “I, the Great Alfonso, can see through this metallic structure and, through the
power of ancient sorcery, discern its contents.”

  They both laugh.

  “It could work,” says Abel. He flips the lid on the second tin and chuckles at the sight of more beans. “Magic,” he says. He wraps the cloth around his hands and arranges the tins over the fire.

  When the beans steam and simmer, Abel wraps his hand with the cloth again and moves them from the fire, letting them cool on the ground. Pip sits on her haunches, slopping her tongue as she waits. A trail of thick white drool dangles from the left-side of her mouth, reaching past her jowls and swinging against the wind.

  Abel takes the spoon from his backpack. He tips half of his tin onto the ground next to him and whistles. Pip runs over and gobbles the beans with frantic urgency.

  “Why you giving your food to a dog?” the wizard asks between mouthfuls.

  Abel furrows his brow. “We look after each other.”

  The wizard shakes his head. “I don’t get it, man.”

  “What’s not to get?” He sticks his spoon into the tin and rests the tin on the ground. “We’ve helped each other today. Finding friends, finding people you can trust, isn’t easy.”

  The wizard nods. “I’ve done alright going alone.”

  “I can’t do alone.”

  The dusky sky forms a lavender mist. Abel picks up his tin and scrapes the last few beans from the bottom and eats them.

  “Is that why you’re saving your bullet?” the wizard asks.

  “Yep,” Abel says, getting to his feet. “I’ve been to some dark places. I don’t want to end up back there.” He takes the water bottle out of his backpack and unscrews the cap. The wizard looks back at him.

  “You an addict?” the wizard asks.

  Abel shakes his head, gives a slight shrug, and meets the wizard’s gaze. “Nope. I was. I got off it.”

  “What was it?”

  “Plez.” He takes a swig of water and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He pours water onto the spoon and wipes it with the cloth before dropping it into his backpack.

  The wizard lets out a sigh. “It’s always plez. How’d you get off it? I thought if you’re a plez-head the only way you get off is when you die.”

  Abel sits to the wizard’s right and holds his hands up against the fire, rubbing them together as he averts his eyes from the glow. Tiny sparks rise into the air as the smoke twists and jerks with the gusts of wind. He reaches to his side, picks up a stick, and pokes at the thick branches at the base of the flames. Pip curls up next to him. He feels her warmth against his side and pats her. “I had people looking out for me.”

  The wizard makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough. “At the Grid?”

  “What?” Abel gives a puzzled look and leans back, resting on his elbows. “No, Trinity.”

  “And they got you clean?”

  “I needed to do it.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to be alone?”

  Abel holds his breath for a long moment. “Maybe,” he mutters. “The pull’s always there, you know? I don’t know how to explain it.” He tugs on his beard, his toes cracking as he wiggles them in his boots.

  “We’ll look out for each other,” the wizard says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Abel squints and offers a slight nod. “Yep,” he says, his voice cracking.

  “What's it like? It can't all be bad, surely?”

  Abel gives a shrug and stares down at his hands. “It's like you’re filled with this feeling of bliss.” He takes in a deep breath. “All this stuff, all the badness, doesn't exist. You’re just in this bubble and it’s perfect.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “It's not. That’s how it hooks you and consumes you. The first time you take it is the greatest feeling you'll ever know. The next time is still good, but it's not quite there, you know? You keep trying to get that feeling back. But you never get it back, and you know you’ll never get it back. It doesn't stop you, though. You can't help yourself. It becomes everything. I stopped taking care of myself. I robbed people on the roads.” He shakes his head and bites his lower lip. “Trust me, it's not worth it.”

  PIP SNORES WHEN ABEL drops more sticks onto the fire. He watches the smoke rise into the blackness. The moon glows murky brown through the dust clouds. No stars shine. Around him, the trees rattle against the wind, their branches and leaves creaking and rustling in rhythmic undulations. The wizard sleeps in his cart, and the mule just stands there, chewing.

  Abel watches Pip for several minutes as her chest expands and contracts with each breath, the lines of her ribs protruding through her fur. He looks along the slope towards the highway and nods to himself. He takes the hunting knife and a smooth round stone from his jacket. With crossed legs, he sharpens the blade with the stone, turning the blade this way and that against the firelight, inspecting his work as he goes. He runs his finger along the blade’s edge, sharp and smooth.

  Getting to his feet, he brushes down his trousers with his hands then pulls up his jacket collar. With careful, deliberate steps, he walks north along the trail towards the highway. An apple pops against his weight, spraying his legs with foul juice.

  He reaches the highway but doesn’t step on the asphalt. A shiver runs along his body, part from the cold, part from adrenaline. There’s a fine line of smoke along the highway to the east.

  On bended knees, Abel makes his way along the asphalt's rim, only stopping when the campervan emerges, brown and silent against the night. He gets into a prone position and crawls along on his elbows and watches. The van rests crooked on the highway's edge, one wheel on the asphalt and the other sinking into the dirt. His gaze shifts to a dying campfire, several feet from the opposite side of the road. Two adults lie next to the fire, sharing a blanket.

  A branch snaps and then another. Abel holds his breath and waits. A man staggers from the trees to the right and joins the others next to the fire. He drops a few sticks on the embers, and one of the others stirs for a few seconds. The man pokes at the fire with a stick and fans it with his hands until the flames take.

  Abel looks over his shoulder and then moves forward, keeping his head low and his breathing shallow. He watches for several minutes, but nothing happens. The man gets to his feet, paces around, and then takes his place back by the fire. The wind blows hard as swirls of dust scoop up empty cans, dried leaves, and sheets of cardboard, cartwheeling them along the asphalt. The man bangs his fist against the van's side and shouts something.

  Abel moves backwards. He calls out in pain when his elbow twists against a loose stone. “Damn it,” he mutters.

  The man looks up, staring over to where Abel waits. He approaches, holding his rifle to his front. Something metallic clatters along the highway — another piece of junk caught by the wind. The man scratches his head, turns, and walks back to the campfire.

  Abel crawls backwards, edging along the lip of the highway, his eyes fixed on the man until the van disappears out of view. He lets out a shaking sigh and gets to his feet. He holds his jacket around him, gripping it tight against the wind, forcing the battered leather to cling to his body. Dust gets in his eyes, mouth, and nose and rubs like sandpaper against exposed skin. He coughs and blinks. Tears stream from his eyes. He dips his head and pulls his cap low, keeping only one eye half-open to navigate.

  Pip meets him when he reaches the trail. She circles him, licks his hand, and then runs back to the wizard’s cart. Abel follows with cautious steps. His arms contort around his face, shielding him from the dust.

  The wizard’s cart rocks and creaks against the wind. The mule rests on the ground, braying with a low moan. Dust motes snap and spark against the flames, the fire flattened by the storm. Abel drags a blanket from his backpack and sits a few feet from the weakened flames.

  Pip sits alert next to him, her ears twitching and tail wagging with brisk, tight flicks. She wiggles her hips and pushes her back towards Abel, getting as close as she can to him. He wraps the blanket around them both, puts his arms around
her chest, and leans against her back, hugging her and calming her into the night.

  BLEARY-EYED AFTER A night of shattered sleep, Abel sits idly as the wizard prepares the fire and breakfast. A layer of brownish-grey dust coats the ground with a velvety film. He shakes dust from his jacket and blanket. “I took a look at that campervan last night,” he says, yawning.

  The wizard stops and turns to face him. “Are you mad?” he spits. “You could have got me killed.”

  Abel stretches and yawns again. He walks over to his backpack, rolls up the blanket and stuffs it inside. “I wasn’t seen. Got caught in the storm, though.”

  “Yeah?” The wizard turns back to the fire and adds a few more sticks. “I must have slept through it.”

  “Lucky.” Abel takes a seat on the ground near the fire. Fresh scabs line his fingers, and he can’t help licking his lips, flinching each time his tongue catches an open sore. “I think we can work out a way to free those kids,” he says.

  “Yeah?” The wizard crouches next to him and checks a couple of tins on the fire.

  “They have one guy who I think is there to keep watch while the others sleep. He seemed pretty bored.” He looks over at Pip as she sniffs around the rotting apples at the base of a tree.

  “Right,” the wizard says.

  “I was thinking, if we can create some kind of distraction, I bet we could get the kids out before they even realise what’s happening.”

  “And you think it’ll be that easy?”

  Abel gives a half-shrug, his lips curling into a smile. “I didn’t say it’d be easy, but I think it can be done.”

  “You won’t change things, and they won’t even know if you don’t do anything.”

  “You think this is about me?” Abel stands, tugging at his beard.

  “This is real. We could get killed. You got nothing to prove.”

  Glaring, Abel clenches his fists and lets out a long breath through his nose.

  You got your past and I got mine,” says the wizard.

  “And what’s your past?” Abel asks, a crease deepening between his eyebrows.