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

by Jon Cronshaw

  The kid puts the book back in the trolley and looks over to the beans. “Can we eat?”

  “Sure, kid.” He takes the spoon from the trolley, wipes it with a cloth, and hands it to the kid. “Half each,” he says, nodding towards the tin.

  Squatting, the kid takes a seat on the rug, facing the fire. Abel sits next to him and pokes the flames with a stick. The pair’s shadows stretch behind them, dancing against the wall. The kid spoons the beans into his mouth and chews with urgency. “I hope I get to see geese,” he says as bean juice runs orange down his chin.

  “Hope's good, kid. You need hope in this world.”

  The kid takes a last mouthful of beans, burps, and passes the tin and spoon to Abel. “This place is alright,” the kid says as if noticing for the first time. “How long you been here?”

  “Not too long.” Abel scrapes congealed beans from the bottom of the tin and drops them into his mouth, smacking his lips when he swallows.

  The kid shakes his head. “You can do more with this place.”

  Abel looks around and shrugs. “This is it, kid.”

  The kid gets to his feet. “I bet we can fix the roof and get some better stuff to sit on. The Family got these chairs — they're soft and bouncy.”

  “If we work together, I'm sure we can make more of this place.”

  The kid smiles. “That would be great.”

  “Yep.”

  ABEL WAKES IN THE MIDDLE of the night and finds the kid hunched over the fire's dying embers. The kid sits with his arms around his knees on the rug, shivering as he tugs at the blanket around him.

  “Hey, kid. Trouble sleeping?” Abel crawls out from beneath his blankets and joins the kid. The embers glow pink. Abel pokes at them with a stick, a few bits of outlying wood catching as they roll.

  The kid’s eyes are wet with tears. Sweat shimmers on his forehead, his skin pallid. He nods weakly. They both stare ahead, sharing the silence.

  After a few minutes, Abel picks up a few more sticks and drops them on the fire. He pokes at them until the flames take hold. “You'll get past this,” he says, his eyes still fixed on the play of the flames. Tiny sparks turn and twist as they follow the thin trail of smoke up and through the hole in the roof, vanishing into the night.

  “They say you can't get off plez.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  The kid shuffles in his blanket, but doesn’t respond.

  “Damn it, kid. I said we're going to get you off this stuff.” He scratches his beard and shakes his head.

  “I can't. It's too hard. I'm so cold.” The kid pulls the blanket around himself, rocking back and forth, his teeth chattering.

  Abel stares at the growing flames and sighs. “You can get off it. You've got to keep hope. You can do that, can't you?”

  The kid doesn't answer.

  “Look,” he says, turning to the kid. “The sun's nearly up. We'll get you some fresh water, get you cleaned-up. You're in a bad way, and it will get worse before you get better.”

  The kid shudders. “How can it be worse?”

  “Things can always be worse, kid.” Abel gets up and stretches, the taste of sleep thick in his mouth. “Whatever happens, I'll keep you safe. It might take a few days, it might take a few weeks, but you will beat this. I promise.”

  “Why you helping me?”

  There's a long silence. “Because we can help each other,” Abel says, finally.

  4. The Cave

  TENDRILS OF BRIGHT orange sunlight break through the clouds to the east as Abel looks downhill towards the city. A dust cloud brushes over the rooftops, spinning and swirling in lazy tornadoes before dispersing into nothing.

  The backpack's weight presses against his back and shoulders. He clambers over the foundations of ruined buildings as they head south. Brownish-grey dust carpets the ground, stretching in all directions, occasionally collecting in drifts against the lines of brickwork, wrinkled like dead skin. War wages between the traces of the world from before: the growing, twisting vegetation; and the waves of choking dust. Roots and vines crawl over each other, vying for dominance. The world from before has already lost.

  “How far is it?” the kid asks. He holds himself, hugging his body as he looks around with frightened eyes.

  “Not far.” Abel keeps looking back at the kid lagging behind. “Try and pick it up a bit, kid.”

  They pass a line of telegraph poles, warped and scrawny — as lifeless as the trees. Black wires drape in slack arcs, touching the ground between a pair of poles leaning towards one another. The wind picks up dust around them as the wires skitter along the asphalt. Abel keeps his head down, keeps pressing on.

  The ground gets thicker with brush and trailing plants. Branches snap and foliage tears as Abel stumbles through the brush. He looks back at the kid who follows in his footsteps, sweating and pale, his movements weak.

  “Nearly there.”

  They reach the edge of the gorge, deep and treacherous. Reddish-brown rocks spread before them. Some of the rocks rise cracked and craggy from the river’s edge, looking as though they are about to split. Others have been smoothed by the elements, giving the illusion of a gel-like softness, plunging towards the slow-moving water.

  Abel drops down to a ledge, following a trail along to the right. He presses his hands against dry rock as tiny stones sprinkle into the gorge below.

  “Is it safe?” the kid asks.

  “Just keep looking ahead.”

  After a while, they reach the mouth of a cave arching over them in a thin jagged curve. “We're here.” Abel turns and grins at the kid.

  “You going in there?”

  “We both are, kid.”

  The kid looks back along the trail with a doubtful expression. “Okay.”

  They step into the cave entrance, and Abel gets his torch from his jacket and winds the handle until it gives off a dull glow. “This way.”

  He breathes in the cold air, its freshness hitting his chest with a jolt as their footsteps echo along the walls. They move through the dark, deeper into the cave, torchlight casting brown ripples against the stone. Dampness clings to the walls, shimmering with the glow of luminescent fungus hanging in grape-like bunches. The sound of running water grows louder.

  A spring emerges to their left, a fast-flowing stream cutting through the rock.

  “This water's clean,” Abel says, crouching to one knee. He reaches into his backpack, retrieves his bottle, and fills it with the water. A sharp chill passes over him as the water stings his fingers. He sips the water, cold and fresh, and refills the bottle. “Here,” he says, handing it to the kid.

  The kid’s eyes widen. “It tastes of nothing,” he says, handing the bottle back.

  “If you drink water and it tastes of something, it's not the water you're tasting,” he says, refilling the bottle and slipping it into his backpack.

  “It's good.” The kid wipes his mouth with a sleeve.

  “You should clean yourself up, kid.” He places his torch down on the ground so it reflects the stream’s glistening surface onto the ceiling, catching the veins of silvery metal forking through the rocks like tree roots. He reaches into his bag, takes out a pair of socks, and dips them into the stream, squeezing and kneading them in the freezing water. A breath catches in his chest with the shock of the cold. He twists the socks, wrings the water away, and places them aside, laying them flat on the ground.

  The kid takes off his battered shoes, inhaling sharply as he dips his feet in the water. “It's cold.”

  “Yep.” He looks at the kid's grubby feet and then down at his own boots. Unfastening the laces, he kicks them from his feet, rolls off his socks, tucks them inside his boots, and then dips his own feet into the water. “Damn it, kid,” he cries with a start. “That's pretty damn cold.”

  “I said that,” the kid says, offering a wolfish grin.

  Abel removes his cap and splashes water onto his face. He looks at the cap, grimy between his fingers, and dips it in
the stream to wash.

  “How you know about this place?”

  “Just found it wandering with Pip.” Abel shakes his head.

  The kid stops splashing water on himself and looks up at Abel. “Why you like dogs so much? Every dog I've ever seen is all big teeth and snarling.”

  “Dogs are like people, kid. Some you can trust, some will try and kill you.” He flaps the drips from his cap.

  The kid moves away from the stream, brushing the water from his feet with his hands.

  Abel reaches into his backpack, pulls out a cloth, and tosses it to the kid. “Here.”

  “How do you know which ones are the good ones?” the kid asks, rubbing around the soles of his feet.

  “You just know. Difference is, dogs don't trick you or lie to you. They either trust you and they’re with you, or they're not.”

  “It's like you. I could tell you're alright.”

  “The way I see it, kid, it doesn't matter how bad things get, if you can keep good in this world, then you're living right. Sometimes there's an easy way, and that might not be the right way. You've got to live by a code.”

  The kid hands the cloth back to Abel and gives him a quizzical look. “What code?”

  “Try to do right. I don't kill. I'm not much better than a wild dog if I do that. That's the main one.”

  “It's like the Family; they always say you got to look out for the Family and no one else.”

  “Damn it, kid.” He clenches his fists. “That's no code — that's the opposite of a code. That's just saying we'll make sure life's good for us, but to hell with everyone else. You can't live like that.”

  “You think I can have a code?”

  “Just do right, kid,” he says, gripping the kid's shoulder. “Just do right.”

  5. The Storm

  ABEL AND THE KID HUDDLE between rugs and blankets as a gale rages from the east, bringing with it the dead city's foulness. The rains pour through the hole in the garage roof, putting out the fire and coating everything in a grimy sheen.

  The kid shakes violently. He scratches at his skin with twitching urgency.

  “Hold on, kid,” Abel says as they lie next to each other in the corner by the trolley. He gets up, pulls the plastic sheet from the trolley, shakes off the dust, and drapes it over them, creating another layer of shelter. The sheet thrashes with each gust of wind.

  The kid cries out. His fingers spasm.

  Abel places his hand on the kid's chest to settle him. Sweat oozes from the kid’s body, his heart racing and breath rapid. Convulsive tremors run down his legs. He lets out a quiet sob.

  “Try to keep calm,” Abel whispers. “It's going to be alright.”

  The kid jolts though another wave of seizures. Formless words burst from his mouth, thick phlegm spilling to the ground. He gasps and coughs, clawing at the air. His eyes swivel in aimless darts, unfocused, their sockets the shade of bruised plums.

  Eventually, the kid's movements slow, becoming less erratic. Outside, the wind drops.

  Without warning, he scrambles to his feet, leans his head into the boat, and vomits.

  “Damn it,” Abel says, getting to his feet. He helps the kid crawl into bed and cradles his head, gently pouring water into his gaping mouth. Cold sweat seeps from every pore. Abel strokes his hair. “It's okay, kid. You'll get through this.”

  The kid sits up, wobbles back down, and cries. He says something incoherent, babbling like a baby. Abel keeps holding him and keeps whispering.

  The boat rattles on its trailer. Ash whirls around them, blowing into Abel’s eyes. Items fall from the trolley and crash onto the floor. He grips the plastic sheet as it quivers and flaps against the storm.

  The kid wails and flails, tears spilling from his eyes as his face fills up with snot. Mud-like spit oozes from his mouth. He scratches vigorously at his arms, drawing blood as skin collects beneath his fingernails.

  Abel grips the kid's wrists, protecting him from himself.

  The kid shudders and then stops. Defeated, he falls back, breathless.

  The storm calms and the kid falls asleep.

  Abel sighs.

  THE KID IS ALREADY awake when Abel wakes up, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire with a blanket around his shoulders.

  “Morning, kid.” Abel forces his eyes open through the gum and rubs them with his hands. “How are you feeling?” He rolls over onto his belly and crawls out from under the pile of blankets.

  “Okay.” The kid scratches out the words, little more than a hoarse whisper.

  The fire crackles when the kid pokes it with a stick. Abel gets up and sits next to him on the rug. Watching the flames, they say nothing to each other for a long while.

  The kid turns to Abel and clears his throat, shattering the silence. “I got some dry twigs out the trolley, hope that's alright?”

  “That's fine. You eaten?”

  Leaning forward, the kid shakes his head. “Really sorry about last night.”

  “Don't worry about it, kid.” Abel puts a hand on the kid's shoulder. “We knew it wasn't going to be easy.”

  The kid stands, steps past Abel, and rummages through the trolley. He pulls out a tin and sits back down on the rug.

  Yawning, Abel takes his hunting knife from his jacket, resting next to his bedroll. He pierces the tin lid and hacks it open. “Well, what do you know? Beans.” He sniffs them and places them on the fire.

  A thin plume of white smoke rises through the hole in the roof. Damp twigs fizz and pop. He watches the flames close around the tin, blackening it on one side.

  The kid prods the fire again. “It was really bad last night, wasn't it?”

  “Yep. But you made it through.”

  “It's hard,” the kid says, shaking his head, his black hair hanging lankly past his brow, knotted with sweat and grease.

  “I know, kid.” Abel makes a grim smile.

  “You think that was the worst?”

  “Who could say?” Abel shrugs, wraps a cloth around his hand, and moves the tin from the fire, a drop of orange bean juice splashing on the floor in a tiny pool. He wipes it with the cloth. “I hope you're over the worst, but these things can come in waves.”

  The kid gets up and retrieves the spoon from the trolley and hands it to Abel. He sits back down, leans his elbows on his knees, and puts his head in his hands, sighing.

  Abel takes the tin, stirs its contents with the spoon, and offers it to the kid.

  The kid keeps his head down. “You eat. Not hungry.”

  “Damn it, kid. You need to eat. We've got a long trek ahead of us and you had a long night.”

  After several seconds, the kid looks up, nods, and takes the tin and spoon. “Okay.”

  Abel leans down to pick up the stick and pokes the fire, moving the twigs around until a few more of them catch. He watches the kid rock back and forth. “Are you going to be up for today?”

  The kid shrugs, passing the tin of beans across. “I'll be fine. I'm not staying here by myself. The way I'm feeling, I'll probably just run back to the Family, and I don't want to.”

  Abel gives a half-smile. “Good.” He takes a spoonful of beans in his mouth and chews.

  The kid goes over to the trolley and picks up the water bottle, unscrews the cap, takes a swig, and offers it to Abel.

  “Just put it next to me, kid.” He makes a gesture with the spoon and turns his attention back to the beans.

  “Where we headed today?” He takes a seat back on the rug, rubbing his hands towards the fire.

  Swallowing, Abel looks into the tin and then puts the tin on the ground. “Trinity.”

  “I don't know it.”

  “I told you about it yesterday. It's a good place to get stuff.”

  The kid looks at him with a blank expression.

  “It's about thirty, maybe forty, miles west of here. Straight along the highway. They've got a pretty nice settlement there. They farm, they make things, and they trade.”

  The kid raise
s his eyebrows, pushing out his bottom lip. “Sounds good.”

  “Yep.” Abel stands, wipes the spoon with a cloth, and takes his backpack from the trolley. “We'd better get going.”

  6. Stones

  ABEL LEANS INTO HIS backpack as the pair march west. They cast strange elongated shadows before them, bizarre dancing figures leading the way with their ghostly greyness. The ground ahead climbs upwards in a gentle slope, reaching away from the city, away from the decay. Sagging trees line the highway, its surface wide and endless. Ancient lampposts dot along the centre, some still standing, while others lie like fallen trees. Rough grass spreads along the mossy asphalt, soft underfoot. Other times the old road surface reveals itself, bare patches of grey lingering like puddles through the ocean of green. Around them, the bony trees rattle against the insistent wind.

  “Keep an eye behind us, kid.”

  “Sure.” The kid skips every few steps, trying to keep up with Abel's pace.

  “We don't want to get caught by a dust storm.”

  They trudge on, passing the ruined foundations of buildings, fossils in brick and soil. All the while, the road keeps sloping upwards. They pass rows of cars, some still recognisable as vehicles, most little more than rusty carcasses tangled with weeds and debris.

  The kid checks each vehicle in turn, leaning through shattered windows and trying doors.

  “I've been over all these, kid. They were cleared out long before we came along.”

  After an hour, they reach the side of a river to the road's left. The water flows clear and fast. Smooth grey and white stones lie along the riverbed as larger stones linger along the bank.

  “Let’s rest,” Abel suggests, gesturing to a flat area of sand and shingle at the water's edge. He eyes slivers of shale scattered along the riverbank, kicking them aside and occasionally leaning down to pick one up. He throws some stones into the water, watching as they splash and then disappear, their ripples erased by the current.

  “Water's looking cleaner than it has,” he says, picking up a smooth flat stone and leaning low to skim it across the water. The stone bounces across the river in broad arcs, ricocheting along its surface seven times until losing its momentum and dropping beneath the flow.