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

by Jon Cronshaw

  Trinity's residents sit along six parallel rows of benches with a central path leading to an altar at the other end of the room. “Take a seat, wherever,” Sal whispers. She continues towards the altar, whispering greetings to the residents as she goes.

  Abel sits at the end of the bench to his left along the back row, its seat hard against his buttocks. Torches line the walls, and beeswax candles burn on the altar. A crucifix hangs from the rear wall, as tall as Abel and crafted from fine oak. Herby incense drifts through the air.

  Sal takes her position behind the altar and sweeps her gaze along the residents' faces. “There is an enemy among us. It is not a man or a woman, but it is the one thing that is holding us all back from salvation.” She waves her hands, gesturing in time with her words.

  “Look around this congregation, at this community. Take a look at the faces. Are you holding grudges, resentments, jealousies? Has one of these people betrayed you, stolen from you, caused you pain or anguish?”

  She waits as the residents look around. “In the Gospel of John, we learn about the miracle of God's forgiveness. But how can we find peace, how can we find salvation, if hatred is holding us back?”

  Abel sighs and receives a sharp glare from a skinny woman to his left. “Forgive me” he mouths with a grin. The woman folds her arms, turning away.

  “You owe it to yourself, to our community, to God, to let go of hatred and to forgive. Let us pray.” Sal bows her head, placing her hands together in prayer. “Please, Lord, give us the strength to forgive those who have wronged us. Please give us the faith in your glory to turn the other cheek and hold onto love. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Abel mutters. He opens his eyes and looks up, meeting Sal's gaze. She smiles, nods, and turns to speak to a young man.

  The residents make their way outside until only Abel and Sal remain. She takes a seat next to him, taking his right hand in hers.

  “I know what you're going to say,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Forgiveness can be difficult, but it is also very important.”

  “I appreciate that, and I respect what you do here, but you know this God stuff doesn't sit too well with me.”

  She takes her hands back and makes a mournful expression. “You can believe or not believe in whatever you want to. But forgiveness is still very important.”

  “What can I do? I took the kid under my wing, helped him the best I knew, and then he upped and left with a load of my things.”

  “Material possessions can be replaced.” She looks down at his backpack and the blanket. “I'm sure you have things there you can trade.”

  “Yep.”

  “It's the feeling of betrayal that you're struggling with.”

  Abel looks down at his hands, his mouth twitching. “Yep.”

  “You look as though you’re holding on to a terrible burden.”

  “I’ve been here before. I don’t learn.” He makes a fist.

  “Prayer does help.” She rests a hand on his shoulder.

  “Damn it, Sal. Didn't I say I don't go in for this God stuff?” He gets to his feet.

  “Please, sit down,” she says with a deep sigh. “If you find God, you'll do it without me. I'm so used to giving advice to believers...” Her voice trails off.

  He sits back down and looks at the crucifix. “You're forgiven,” he says, sardonically.

  “I worry about you going out alone in the wastes. It's hostile out there — you need someone to travel with.”

  “I had the dog and she died. I had the wizard and he got killed. I had the kid and he left.” He shakes his head, takes off his cap and turns to Sal with a grim expression. “I can't lose like this again. I lose everyone around me.”

  “What happened with the boy?”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Talking can help you to get things straight in your mind,” she says, taking his hand again. “Please.”

  He gives a half-shrug and sighs. “Alright. After we left, we stumbled upon a building on the edge of the road. We took shelter and the kid was in a bad way. He's still withdrawing from plez.”

  “Addiction is so terrible.”

  “He made a mess of his clothes while going toilet, so I washed and cleaned him up. I left him alone and went to search a nearby building, found some really useful stuff — medical books, that sort of thing. When I returned, he was gone and so was my stuff.”

  “And you know for certain that he ran away?”

  “The pack was gone. His clothes were gone. He upped and left, simple. You said it yourself; it’s like the kids who went back to the Family. It’s what happens.”

  She holds his gaze. “I'm not so sure. You were taking care of his needs. Why would he run away?”

  “To return to the Family, get some plez.” He pulls his hand away and shrugs, turning back to the cross. “He was begging me. It's the drugs that call him.” He looks down at his cap, frowns, and puts it back on his head.

  “When you were here before, you told me you had a confrontation with the Family. Is there not a possibility that they tracked you and kidnapped your friend while you were away?”

  He scratches his beard. “I hadn't considered that,” he says quietly.

  “You were blinded by your feelings of betrayal. Perhaps you weren't betrayed.”

  “Damn it, Sal.” He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “What have I done? If you're right and they've taken him, I'll never forgive myself.”

  She offers a smile. “There was nothing you could have done. With forgiveness there is also redemption.”

  He sits up and turns to Sal. “What are you suggesting? That I go find the kid? That I go find the Family and get him back?”

  Sal gives no response.

  “Damn it,” he mutters. “I can't.”

  “I'll take you to your room,” she says, rising to her feet and heading for the door. “You need a good night’s sleep.”

  13. The Tool

  ABEL SIGHS AS HE STRETCHES out on a clean bed. The room stands dark and cold and smells of wood and damp clothes. He kicks off his boots and socks and lets them drop to the floor.

  After an hour or so staring into the darkness, he gropes for his pistol. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes tightly, holding back the tears.

  He lies there, still.

  Several minutes pass and Abel opens his eyes. He stares ahead, blinking, and sighs. With every breath, his body sags, deflated. Prickly irritation crawls over his skin. His head throbs. His feet throb. His arms, back, and legs throb. A dull ache encloses him and smothers him.

  The pistol rests in his hand, warming against his grip. He drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  A CROWING ROOSTER SHOCKS Abel from his sleep. He sits up and pulls the soft wool blanket around him, ducking his head into its warmth. The pistol lies still in his hand.

  Patched wood panelling makes up the walls. He places the pistol on the bedside table and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  The kid's backpack leans against the wall to his left, next to the door. His bundled blanket of medical supplies lies like a flattened mushroom at the foot of the bed.

  He wriggles his bare feet and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Stiffness grips his thighs and his knees creak. He touches the cold wooden floor with the soles of his feet, leans down, and pulls on his socks and boots. He takes his cap from the bedside table, puts it on his head, and gets to his feet. Yawning, he picks up the backpack and swings it over his shoulder. He takes his pistol and pockets it in his jacket.

  Stepping outside, he takes in the smells of the morning — the scent of cooking, the freshness, the vegetables, and the animal filth. A baby cries out from inside a nearby shack as the rooster continues its call.

  He stretches his arms above his head, yawning, and ambles down towards the communal hall. When he enters, a few residents eye him with suspicion as he takes a seat next to Sal at the head of the central table. “I want to thank you for last nig
ht. I had a bit of time to think, and I'm going to look for the kid — I need to know either way. If he betrayed me, then I'll know for certain. If he didn't, then...”

  “You'll save him,” says Sal.

  Abel shrugs. “If that's what I need to do.” He leans over the table, reaches for a water jug, and pours a cup for himself and one for Sal. “I'm going to have to make some preparations. I can't just go running in there and think anything is going to work. If I learned one thing from the wizard, it’s about being prepared.”

  “Preparation is always important,” Sal says. “You don't want to rush into these things if you can avoid it.”

  A pile of tin plates makes its way down the table. He takes one and passes the pile to Sal. “You okay to show me what you've got when we're finished here? I don't even have a water bottle.” He takes a slice of bread and a boiled egg from a tray moving along the centre of the table and puts them onto his plate.

  “Even when we think everything is lost, there's always hope,” says Sal. “Always try to hold on to that.”

  “Hope springs eternal, right?” Abel smiles and pops half an egg into his mouth.

  AFTER BREAKFAST, SAL escorts Abel across the yard to the trading house. The room smells of old clothes, engine oil, fresh bread, and vegetables. Tables stand all around with goods strewn haphazardly along every surface. He waits for his eyes to adjust, walks over to a table along the right-hand wall, moves a few pieces of junk aside, and empties out his backpack.

  Stepping to the side, he lets her take a close look. She reaches down and flicks through the medical books with a grim smile. “They're a little bit technical, but Jacob can probably work with these.”

  He opens the blanket and the medical supplies spill out onto the table. Candlelight catches the clear plastic, flickering around the bandages, gauzes and swabs. He grabs a few of them, taking them for himself. “This stuff is all sealed.”

  “We can definitely use this,” Sal says, poking at one of the bandages, the plastic crackling against her touch. She turns to Abel. “What are you looking for? Anything in particular?”

  Abel looks around. “I need a water bottle for sure.”

  Sal stoops, rummages through a wooden crate to her left, and returns with a plastic bottle, off-white and semi-opaque.

  He takes the bottle and frowns. “Anything tougher?” he asks, squeezing the bottle, bending it with his grip. “This is a bit...” He doesn't finish his sentence.

  “This all we have — you had the last decent one. We're expecting a caravan from out west in a few days, so we might have something soon.”

  “That's okay. I'll have to take it.” He scans the tables, scratching the back of his neck. “Any more spoons?”

  “You took the last spoon as well.”

  “Right,” he says, rubbing his beard. “I suppose if I'm going to go pay the Family a visit, I should take that.” He points to the diving helmet.

  “Unless you've got more to trade, I can't.”

  “Come on, Sal,” he pleads.

  “You know I can't.” She raises her hands in a helpless gesture. “It's not just about me.”

  “Fine.” He frowns and looks around at the other items.

  “You got a torch? One of those wind-up ones?”

  Sal shakes her head. “You were lucky to get the last one.”

  “I figured it was a longshot.” He sucks at the corner of his mouth.

  “You asked about a knife last time.” She reaches into a box. “This has just come in.” She turns and hands him a utility knife.

  “I thought you didn't deal in weapons?”

  “It's a tool.” She takes the knife back, flicking out the different attachments — a serrated blade, a pair of scissors, two types of screwdriver, a tin-opener, and a toothpick. She flips a tiny pair of tweezers from its casing. “It's in excellent condition.”

  “Done,” he says, taking the knife and pocketing it in his jacket. He leans down and stuffs the blanket into his backpack.

  “You can have a few tins as well.”

  “Thanks, Sal. I really appreciate that.”

  She hands him the unlabelled tins and wraps a slice of salt beef. “What now?” she asks, handing him the meat.

  He shrugs and swings the backpack onto his shoulders. “I need to get back on the road. I need to prepare for my visit to the Family.”

  “I thought they’d moved out of the Grid?”

  “I’m not going to the Grid — I’m going to the city.”

  “Don't rush anything. They're dangerous.”

  “Yep, but I need to find the kid. I need to know, either way.”

  14. The Dog

  ABEL SCRAPES DUST FROM his boat as the sun blazes high above the city. He opens the garage shutters and looks out towards the floodwaters, black and shimmering beneath the pinkish-grey clouds.

  He goes inside and looks around in the dim light, his eyes adjusting slowly. Grey lines of light shimmer along the boat’s trailer. The smell of ash and sweat hang in the air. He pulls a plastic sheet from his trolley, shakes away the dust, and then runs his fingers along his books.

  “It's good to be home,” he mutters.

  He frowns at the empty tins, the half-chewed bone, a pair of the kid's grubby socks, and Pip’s red ball. With a sigh, he gathers them up in his arms and takes them outside. Crouching, he claws at the dirt, digging a hole. He drops the bone, the ball, and the kid's socks into the pit and kicks the soil back into the hole, stamping it down when it's full.

  Back inside, he rolls his rug out on the floor and fluffs up a coat as a pillow. He coughs, looks in his trolley, pulls out a book about medieval history, and sits down on the rug, opening the book on his lap. For the next few hours, he reads the book from cover to cover. When he’s finished, he examines the cover image. A faded picture of a knight in gleaming armour looks out at him. Abel nods to himself and places the book back in the trolley.

  A pile of dust and ash lies beneath the hole in the roof. He kicks the ash outside and then picks up his backpack. He drapes the plastic sheet over his trolley and leaves, slamming the shutters closed behind him.

  HEADING SOUTH, HE SKIRTS past a line of telegraph poles, their wires hanging limp among the drifts of dust. The ground lies bare, the trees dead and drooping, their branches gnarled and twisted. He looks to the west, scanning for signs of the Family and signs of the kid.

  He keeps walking until the soil finds life again. Green bushes and trailing ivy slow him down. Twigs snap beneath his feet. His boots rub from the long walk from Trinity, and his legs and shoulders cramp and seize. With grunts and groans, he pushes ahead, one hand raised against low branches.

  He approaches the gorge, as deep and treacherous as ever. A gust of wind howls through the ravine, shaking the sticks that cling to the edge, withered and bent like an arthritic finger. He looks down at the rock face, the reds and oranges dulled by the coating of dust. The river below meanders in a slow churn. With hesitant steps, he walks onto the trail and presses his hands against the wall to his right. His feet slip on the damp moss.

  He falls into the cave entrance, weak and exhausted, his breath loud and ragged, tearing through his throat and burning chest. Cursing, he gropes forward into the blackness, crawling deeper into the cave, following the sound of trickling water. The rocky ground is unforgiving. Small stones dig into his knees and cut into his palms.

  The air gets colder and fresher. The floor grows damp, soaking through his clothes. He looks up to see the faint blue glow of fungus clinging to the cave walls. The water sounds close.

  Abel pats along the ground until he hits water, splashing himself and starting at the unexpected rush of cold. Sitting up, he removes his backpack, and pulls out the water bottle. The plastic is warm and smooth, its form popping back into shape when Abel squeezes it in one hand. He fumbles with the unfamiliar cap, requiring a twisting and then a flipping motion to open. He dips it into the water, waiting for it to fill. Straining, he twists the cap back on the bot
tle and stands it next to him on the ground. With cupped hands, he takes a sip from the stream. His mouth stings, parched and raw. The water helps.

  He sits for a while, allowing his eyes to adjust to the fungal gloom, its faint blue glow projecting ripples onto the cave ceiling. Removing his boots and socks, he submerges his feet into the water. The icy cold burns his skin, but he holds his feet still, focusing on the stinging sensation. When his feet grow numb, he reaches down, kneading the thick corns on the sides of his big toes, popping a blister into the water. He winces at the pain, grimacing as he grits his teeth.

  “Damn it,” he mutters, taking his feet from the water. He washes his socks in the stream, rubbing them against the rocks, squeezing away the filth with all his strength. The water drips in pools around him as he twists the socks and places them flat onto a rock.

  Exhaling, he removes his cap and washes his face. He pushes the cap below the water’s surface and rubs it against itself until the layer of dust and grime ebbs away. He shuffles back and leans against the wall, slowly closing his eyes.

  STEPPING OUT FROM THE cave, he makes his way back along the ridge and back through the overgrown brush. After a while, the ground changes and becomes bare and lifeless. Dust clings to everything.

  He hears a noise and stops.

  Cursing, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his knife, chewing his bottom lip. Reaching behind into the backpack, he pulls out the tyre iron and looks around.

  A dog howls somewhere nearby. He waits, listening, scanning through the dead trees for movement.

  Barking and growling, they close in towards him. He can't see them yet.

  With urgency, he backs up to a telegraph pole and raises his tyre iron to shield his throat.