by Jon Cronshaw
They stagger back inside and the kid collapses weakly onto the rug. Abel gets his water bottle from his backpack, unscrews the cap, and hands it to the kid. The kid lifts his head with a wobble, sips, and flops back down.
Abel changes his clothes, wraps the kid in a blanket and steps outside. He washes his filthy clothes in the stream, lays them out on a rock next the kid’s, and then gathers wood for the fire.
Back inside, he clears the ashes and builds a new fire. “I think we should have a tin each,” he says. “We've certainly earned it.”
The kid sits up, his head wobbling to one side.
Abel takes a pair of tins from his backpack and pierces them with his hunting knife. He slices the lid free from the first tin, sniffs at the beans, and places it on the fire. Sighing, he pierces the second tin and smiles at the sweet, fruity aroma.
“Well, look at this,” he says, levering the lid. “Peaches.” He shakes his head. “I'll be damned, kid.”
The kid shuffles forward and leans in to smell the tin. “Smells great,” he says with a slurred, scratchy voice.
“Yep. We'll have the beans then we'll save this for after.” He hands the kid a spoon, picks up his own, wiping it with a cloth.
Wrapping the cloth around his hands, he takes the simmering beans from the fire. He scoops them into his mouth, feeling their warmth spread down his body. After a few more mouthfuls, he hands the tin to the kid.
The kid eats with slow, deliberate movements, concentrating. Beans trickle down his chest and onto the blanket. He picks them up with trembling fingers, fumbling them into his mouth. He rocks forward and then forces his head up.
“You alright, kid?”
The kid nods and finishes the beans.
Abel takes the tin from the kid, wipes their spoons, and turns to the tin of peaches. He looks at the kid and feeds him a peach.
The kid gives a weak smile.
“We'll take things easy today, kid. We can stay here as long as you need to. We've got food and water to spare, so we're in no rush.” He dips his fingers into the syrup, pulls out a peach, fleshy and moist, and drops it into his mouth. “I'm going to cover these. We can have some more later.” Taking a brick from the fire's edge, he brushes away the ashes then balances it on top of the tin. He slides the tin against the wall to rest. “You just let me know if you need anything.”
With a grunt, the kid turns over and falls asleep. Abel sighs and steps outside. He looks around. They are hidden from the road.
He wanders back to the stream. Their clothes still lie draping over a rock. He sits down on the trunk of a fallen tree and listens to the flowing water and the rustling branches. Nettles and ferns stretch across the stream, the edges of their leaves brushing the surface. He leans down into the water and pulls out a stone, round and smooth. Reaching into his jacket, he takes out his hunting knife and sharpens the blade. He runs the stone along its edge.
After ten minutes, he blows the blade clean, wipes it on his trouser leg, and turns the knife this way and that, examining its edge, testing it with a finger. He nods to himself.
With trepidation, he reaches for his pistol, feels its weight in his hands, and then returns it to his jacket. Blinking at the sun, he gets up, skirts along the stream's edge, and looks down the hill towards the building.
11. Fuse
ABEL GRABS THE WET clothes from the rock and drapes them over a branch next to the building where the kid sleeps.
Creeping, he steps over the door. The kid lies on his back, open-mouthed, snoring. Abel removes his boots and changes his socks. “I'll be back soon, kid,” he says, patting the kid on the shoulder. The kid lets out a murmur of acknowledgement.
Abel pulls his backpack onto his shoulders and steps outside. He hops over the stream and works his way down to the building below. Holding his body against a tree, he listens. All is quiet.
The building has two storeys. Creamy-white walls stand mottled with moss and cracks, spattered with brown streaks and smears. He keeps close to the wall when he reaches the building, working his way around until he comes across an entrance. Rusting cars stand in orderly rows, the ground half asphalt, half vegetation. A blast of wind blows up clouds of swirling dust, whistling between the vehicles in a low drone. The windows along the building are glazed and scratched, etched inside with a crisscross of wire mesh.
A pair of double doors creaks open against rusted hinges. Streaks of sunlight force through the windows, catching dust motes bobbing in the air. The lobby smells stale and reeks of death. Abel takes the torch from his jacket and winds it, but the torch beam shines dull and offers little extra light. He sighs and drops it into his backpack.
A chequerboard of blue and white tiles stretch along the floor, cracked and grubby, bleached by time. A bulky oak reception desk stands guard to the right, and a set of stairs stretches up straight ahead.
He climbs the stairs, testing each step, gripping the banister rail. The wood creaks and groans. He walks on a sagging red carpet, its edges eaten by rot and insects. The stairway splits left and right. He considers which way to go, the floor squashy with damp beneath his boots, and turns back down to the ground floor.
Abel frowns at the sight of a potted plant to the left of the reception desk, its leaves broad and lush, like green umbrellas. He approaches the plant, touches its silky plastic leaves, and shrugs to himself as a thin layer of dust tumbles from its surface.
He turns to the reception desk, ignoring the pens. He grabs a few pencils and drops them into his backpack. Opening the desk drawer, he finds a fossilised sandwich, solid, black, and withered.
A cockroach darts along the floor, scurrying into some unseen hole. He waits and listens to the whistles, the groans, the creaks, and the distant echo of dripping water. Taking the corridor to the right of the entrance, his footsteps echo back at him. The place sounds hollow — an empty, lifeless shell.
The first door on the left rests half open. He leans inside and checks over the room. A desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet stand shrouded in dust and cobwebs. A bookshelf lines the wall behind the desk. He heads for the books first and runs a finger along the titles. Most of them are books about computers. He frowns, scanning the titles, then stops, his eyes resting on a leather-bound hardback. Taking the book down, he traces the shape of a crucifix, embossed in gold leaf. “The New Testament,” he reads, running his finger along the title page. He flicks through the book, squinting at the tiny print. The paper is thin, almost translucent. He closes it and drops it into his backpack. The filing cabinets stand hollow.
The top desk drawer is locked. He checks the second drawer, finds a key, and tries it in the first drawer — it opens. Inside, there's a bottle of what looks like whiskey, unopened, so he takes it. He checks the second drawer again and finds a pencil. The bottom drawer is empty.
Leaving the room, he notices a waterproof jacket hanging vulture-like from the back of the door, its left sleeve mostly moth-eaten. The faded-blue material is rough, almost brittle. Rusted zips, like rotting teeth, line a pair of pockets. He takes the jacket down, examines it, forces open the zips and rummages inside the pockets. Finding them empty, he rolls the jacket into a ball and stuffs it inside his backpack.
Exiting the room, he marks the doorframe with a pencil mark. Shadows shift along the walls, as if dodging his torch beam. He closes the door and strides across the corridor to the opposite door and finds it closed. He tries the handle, but it is locked. He keeps moving. The next door on the left stands open, the room’s layout the same as the first. He takes a mug from the desk. He opens the drawers, finds a box of matches, and drops them in his backpack.
Scratching his head, he looks over his shoulder, heads back into the corridor, and walks over to the locked room. He pushes his boot against the door handle and then kicks out with all of his strength. He staggers back when the door flings open.
The room is the same size as the others and windowless. Piled boxes lean haphazardly against the walls. Some of them a
re made from faded coloured plastic. The cardboard boxes sag in varying states of decay.
Dust slides from the lid as he opens the first plastic box. He shines his torch inside and squints. A long length of fuse lies tangled inside. He pulls it out and shakes away the knots, wrapping it around his arm thirty times, slowly and gently. He makes a loop, securing the coil, and then drops it into his backpack. He turns to his right, his torchlight catching the side of a metal box on the floor between two shapeless cardboard boxes. Going down on one knee, he lifts the lid. His eyes widen at the find — twelve sticks of dynamite. With slow movement, he closes the box and slides it carefully into his backpack.
Stepping back into the corridor, he looks down at his trembling hands. A sharp breath leaves his mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. “What a find,” he mutters.
He turns back to the room opposite and searches through the drawers. His feet knock against a pair of leather boots, too small for him. He takes them.
Leaving the room, he marks the doorframe with a pencil, turns back to the room opposite, and marks that too. The corridor curves around to the left. He enters the first door on the right. He scans his gaze across a desk, a chair, a bed, and a cupboard. Off-white cotton sheets lie over the bed, their edges tucked beneath the mattress. He yanks the sheets free, folding them into his backpack.
Books lean on a shelf above the desk. He scans the titles and gasps.
Taking the first book down, he opens its cover and thumbs through its pages. The words are too complicated, too technical. He puts it back. The next book has more pictures, diagrams of medical procedures, human anatomy, bones, and organs. He chooses the four with the most pictures, slides them into his backpack, and puts the remaining books back on the shelves.
He tries the cupboard and finds it locked, so tries the drawers. A stethoscope lies like a curled snake in the top drawer. He squeezes it into a side-pocket of his backpack, now full.
He returns to the corridor, finds his way back to the lobby, and steps outside. The sun shines high and bright. The dust has mostly dispersed, though some still remains pooled in potholes.
He looks back at the entrance and then heads back to the kid.
When he returns, he finds the kid half-asleep, licking his fingers as he eats the final peach from the tin.
“Hey,” the kid says. “Where you been?”
“That building you spotted — it's got some really good things. Medical books, equipment. Some boots.”
“That's great.” The kid sits up. “Really sorry about before.”
“Don't worry about it, kid. I've told you we'll get you through this.”
The kid gives a guilty look. “I finished the peaches.”
Abel forces a smile. “Don't worry about it. You need the energy.” He drops his backpack and sits next to the kid on the rug. “If you're up for it, you're welcome to come with me to have a look around that building. We'll have to take your pack.”
“You go ahead. Every time I try to stand up, I feel all dizzy.”
“That'll pass.” Abel takes the water bottle from his bag and shakes it. “We're running a bit low.” He offers it to the kid who takes a swig. “I won't be too long in there. I'm going to pick up a few more books and come back.”
“Okay,” says the kid, lying back. A layer of dusty brown sweat coats his skin.
With the back of his hand, Abel feels the kid's forehead, hot and clammy to the touch. “You'll be fine here, won't you, kid?”
The kid gives a weak nod.
“I won't be long.” He steps over the door and makes his way back to the building.
Reaching the entrance, he feels in his jacket for his torch. “Damn it,” he mutters. He looks up the embankment for several seconds, shakes his head, and then steps inside the building. He passes the reception desk, makes a right down the corridor, follows it round to the left, and then goes back into the medical room. He takes more books from the shelves and drops them into the backpack. Reaching inside, he feels something cold and hard. He pulls out the tyre iron and places it on the desk.
Coughing away the dust, he gropes in the corners of the drawers, searching for a key to the cupboard to no avail. He takes the box of pencils from the desk and drops them into the backpack. Turning, he takes the tyre iron in his right hand and swings it down on the cupboard’s lock in one smooth movement. The blow scuffs the edge of the lock, jolting his hand back. He swings again and the lock spins along the tiled floor, parts scattering. A tiny screw rocks back and forth in a quarter circle, coming to rest at his feet.
The cupboard door creaks open. The shelves brim with an array of first aid equipment — bandages, sticking plasters, sterile swabs — all sealed in plastic. He grabs at the goods with excitement and stuffs them into the backpack until its too full to fasten. Satisfied, he leaves.
Whistling to himself, Abel clambers back up the embankment, returning to the kid. “You won't believe the haul I've—”
Abel stops. There’s no sign of the kid.
The door has been pushed to the side. The blankets lie in a heap in the corner. He leans outside to see the kid's clothes no longer hanging from the tree.
He scratches his beard and looks behind him. “Kid?” he calls. “You about?”
There's no response.
“Kid?”
Nothing.
With a sigh, he takes off the kid's backpack and rests it in the corner. He sits on the rug, removes his jacket, rolls it up as a pillow, and then leans back.
He waits.
After ten minutes he gets up, agitated. He wanders down to where the kid had been to the toilet, but there’s no sign of him. He walks down to the stream to find no sign there either. He looks around and scratches his head. “You about, kid?”
No response.
“Damn it,” he mutters.
Swallowing, he marches up the embankment to the building. He looks down at the blankets for clues and then notices his own backpack is gone. He clenches his jaw. Blood thunders in his head, throbbing at his temples. His fingers curl into fists, and he slumps down onto the rug.
He sits holding his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “How could I be so stupid?” He shakes his head. “How could I be so damn stupid?”
Abel takes his pistol from his jacket and blows down the barrel. He ejects the bullet from the cylinder, rubs a mark away from its casing, and reloads it. He sighs and looks at the kid's backpack, dusty and stained with grass and dirt. A glimmer of white passes along the pistol’s barrel, spreading out like mercury.
He gets up, opens out a blanket, considers it, and then tips the contents from the backpack onto the blanket. Sucking in his bottom lip, he looks over the items for a few moments — some tins of food, a few medical books, a tyre iron, a pair of the kid's socks, and medical supplies. There’s no water bottle, no cloths, no goggles, no spoons, no spare clothes, no matches, and no torch. He sighs, shaking his head.
Shafts of light illuminate the building's interior with a bland grey glow. The empty peach tin lies on its side, abandoned. The blankets and coats used to stuff the windows lie piled in the corner. Abel looks around, grimacing.
He places the books, food, and tyre iron into the backpack, leaving one tin out. He rolls up the rug, strapping it to the outside of the backpack. Grunting, he heaves up the blanket like a sack and ties off the corners.
He stabs his hunting knife into the tin — another can of peaches. With grubby fingers, he fishes them out one at a time, cold and slug-like, savouring the texture and sweetness. When he swallows the last peach, he downs the syrup, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. The tin spins in place when he drops it to the floor.
Reaching down, he takes the kid's backpack and lifts it onto his back. He adjusts the straps, swings the blanket over a shoulder and lets out a long, deep sigh.
Dark clouds of dust swirl high above when he leaves the building. He takes his clothes from the tree and scales the embankment until he’s back on the highway.
He looks east towards the city and sees no sign of the kid, no sign of the Family, and no sign of the feral dogs. He turns west, heading to Trinity.
12. The Sermon
THE SETTING SUN STAINS the sky with bruise-like patches by the time Abel reaches the trail towards Trinity. Smoke rises at a slant from the settlement as the towering crucifix shimmers red against the dying light. His thighs contract with every step. He switches his makeshift sack between his shoulders as the strain in his muscles builds. No one greets him when he reaches the outer fence. ”Hello,” he calls, angling his head back. “Sal, are you there?”
A gap opens in the fence and a slim man leans through and regards Abel with narrowed eyes. “Yes?”
“Would you get Sal?”
The man says nothing and slides the gap closed. Abel waits, idly kicking a stone at his feet.
A few minutes later, the fence moves again, and Sal appears with a broad, welcoming smile. “You're back quick.”
“Yep. Got some more stuff to trade.”
Sal looks past Abel. “Where's your companion?”
“The kid?” He gives a shrug. “He ran out on me — it’s like the wizard.”
She gives a reassuring smile and steps aside. “You'd better come in.”
He squeezes through the gap, and she closes it behind him. Clucking chickens, the hum of bees, and the lowing of cows surround him as he follows along the dirt trail into the settlement.
“Really sorry, but we've already had our evening meal,” she says. “There should still be some bread. I'll see what I can cobble together.”
“That's great, thanks.”
“I'll make sure there's a bed for you. The road is no place to wander alone at night.”
“Thanks, Sal.”
Flames flicker in torches secured to building walls and along the fence, dotted like fireflies around the settlement. He follows her down into the crater, her dreadlocks dancing behind her, waving from left to right with each step. They veer to the right and head towards the only two-storey building in the settlement. She opens the large white wooden door. “Come in,” she says, gesturing.
