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

by Jon Cronshaw

  Sighing, he leaves the room, marks it, and continues along the corridor. He almost misses the next door along, flat and painted in the same cream as the walls. He tries the handle, but the door won’t budge. Turning sideways, he charges the door with his shoulder, falling into the room with a painful clatter as the door flings open and brooms and mops fall onto him. He scrambles to his feet and drags a metal mop bucket into the corridor. Returning to the room, he picks things from the shelves — cloths, sponges, and a coil of faded blue rope. He stops as he catches sight of a metal toolbox. He heaves it from the shelf, holding it with both hands as he makes his way back to the first office.

  The toolbox makes a metallic thud on the desk as he places it down. He brushes away dust and cobwebs until the blue paint shows through. He opens the toolbox on creaking hinges. Though grubby with oil and grime, he finds only a small bubble of rust along its surface.

  Leaning inside, he takes out the tools one at a time — screwdrivers, spanners, pliers, bolt cutters, a claw hammer, a handsaw, a carpet knife, a box of matches, a coil of electrical wire, and a sealed bottle of oil. He places each item back in the toolbox, closes the lid, and grins.

  A gust of wind slams the door shut and blows in a cloud of thick dust. He squints as the dust burns his eyes, his heart racing from the shock. He scoops the curtain in his arms and drags it to the room next door. Using the desk to weigh down the curtain, he seals the worst of the dust out while the storm rages outside.

  He considers the bookshelves and curses the low light. With a sigh, he removes his backpack and slumps on the chair. It squeaks and squelches as it takes his weight. He drags the curtain from the other office and wraps it around him as a blanket, closing his eyes to rest.

  ABEL SHAKES A LAYER of dust from his face when he wakes the next morning. He gets to his feet, pulls back the drapes, and looks out of the window. A velvet shroud of brownish-grey dust clings to every surface. He sneezes and then reaches into his pack for a drink of water. He brushes his arms and legs and flaps his cap free of dust, picks up his backpack, and heads out of the room.

  Squinting through teary eyes, he ambles past the store cupboard until he reaches an ornate door on his right. He opens the door, stepping inside another office, the size of the two other offices combined. Two windows flood the room with greyish light. A sagging sofa leans along the right wall. A desk stands to his left, along with bookshelves and a drinks table. The desk chair lies on its side to the desk's right, high-backed and plush. Wallpaper curls halfway down the wall on the left, rolling into itself, a snail hiding from the world.

  He steps over to the drinks table first, blows dust off a decanter half-filled with a brown liquid, and pulls out the stopper, wrinkling his nose at the pungent vinegar stench. He puts the stopper back and places the decanter back. A twist of metal catches his eye. He picks up a corkscrew and examines it, rotating it before slipping it into a jacket pocket.

  The shelves brim with books, all of them damp and rotting, distorted, limp things, mottled with patches of black and grey. Disappointed, he turns to the desk drawers. He wiggles the right-hand drawer against the stiffness, easing it free to find it empty. He opens the drawer on the left — it slides open with ease. A black box stands at the centre of the drawer. Fine stitched leather covers the sturdy wooden box. He opens it, revealing a pocket watch nestled in silky lavender. The watch shimmers with gold. Intricate Roman numerals surround the creamy face.

  Abel whistles to himself, lifting the watch carefully from the box. There are no blemishes, no scuffs, and no scratches. A gold chain cascades behind it. He turns the winding mechanism and listens.

  The watch starts to tick.

  His smile broadens as he places the watch back in its box, leaves the office, and returns to the cleaning cupboard. He takes some cloths and a pair of sponges down from the shelves and heads back to the end office. He wraps the box between the sponges and cloths, securing them with a pair of knots. Holding his breath, he pushes it into the backpack and exhales.

  Returning to the window, he looks down to his boat. He turns to the toolbox and furrows his brow. Stepping over to the toolbox, he examines the handle, jerking it up to test its strength. The handle holds. He takes the coil of rope, secures it to the handles, and lowers the toolbox from the window and onto his boat. He lets the rope drop, marks the window frame, and then climbs down.

  Brushing the dust from the seat and oars, Abel unfastens the tether from the carved urn, grinning to himself as he pushes away from the wall. He drops the oars into the mucky water.

  The water looks solid like stone; the only clues to its true nature are at the points where the oars break through its surface revealing the slick blackness beneath. He rows farther east into the city and then makes a left along an unfamiliar row of buildings, all concrete surfaces, straight lines, and functional angles. The sun shines dull behind the buildings, casting cold shadows across the water. As he pulls against the oars, his stomach rumbles.

  A wooden bridge spans between two buildings on his left. With deliberate movements, he pulls the boat close to the wall, brings in the oars, and glides along the surface.

  Chattering voices echo above as a chemical odour fills the air. He spots more bridges through the buildings as he pads along the walls, pulling himself along.

  The voices grow louder. He hears more of them. A pair of skinny boys trip and stumble as a thick-set man prods them with a rifle butt, forcing them across a bridge. He halts the boat and holds his breath, his palms dripping with nervous sweat as he waits and watches.

  After several minutes, he sees the kid, arms bound, staggering over a bridge ahead.

  The kid doesn't see him.

  Abel stays silent, biting down on his bottom lip. He pushes the boat away from the wall, drops the oars into the water, and turns the boat around.

  “Stop right there,” a woman calls from a rooftop to the left. “You shouldn't be here.”

  Stiffening, Abel clears his throat. “I was just passing, my mistake. I'll be going.” He looks up, meeting the eyes of a woman with a rifle.

  She fires and a bullet ricochets off a nearby wall. “That's a warning shot. Next time, I won't miss.”

  “I'm going.” Abel fumbles for his oars. He rows away from the Family, falling into a frenetic, panicked rhythm that soon tires him out.

  He turns the boat west when he reaches the corner of the buildings and then drops to a slow, steady speed as he heads for the shore, trembling.

  15. The Knight

  BACK AT HIS GARAGE, Abel secures the boat to the trailer and looks again at the tyres. With a smile, he takes the bolt cutters from the toolbox and rolls a tyre over to the rug. He kneels, gripping the tyre between his knees, and sets to work slicing through the rubber and latticed wire. Though the bolt cutters cut through the tyre, he stops again and again to regain his strength. He slices each tyre into quarters and then cuts around the edges, leaving curved tiles of grip.

  His forearms ache, muscles twitching, by the time he's cut each tyre into twelve pieces. He examines each of the pieces in turn, discarding two when he spots sharp curls of metal poking through.

  He goes over to his trolley, pulls back the plastic sheet, and takes out his book about medieval history. He examines the picture of the knight in full plate armour on the front cover. Opening the book, he turns the pages until he stops on an illustration of a man wearing chainmail. He takes a piece of discarded tyre and uses it as a paperweight to hold the page open.

  With sweat dripping from his brow, he takes a drink and removes his jacket. He feels around his jacket pockets and retrieves the corkscrew. Kneeling, he bores holes into the corners of each tyre piece until his hands tremble and the work is complete. He glances at the illustration of the chainmail and then unravels the roll of electric wire from his toolbox.

  Standing over the pieces of tyre, he arranges the side pieces into rows of four and then into two squares of sixteen. He threads the wire through the holes, connecting the
slabs of rubber together.

  After a few hours, he sits and examines his work. He takes two bandage rolls and two sponges from his backpack. He stuffs the sponges on the inside of a curved grip segment of a tyre, securing it in place with the bandages.

  Satisfied, he raises his design up over his shoulders, taking its weight as the tiles of rubber hang over his back and chest. He runs his hand from the top of his chest to below his waist where his makeshift armour stops.

  He glances at the image of the man in chainmail and then turns to his boat. Reaching inside, he drags the coil of blue rope free, cuts it down to size, and ties it around his waist as a belt.

  He nods to himself and smiles. Removing the armour, he lays it carefully on the boat.

  THE SKY TREMBLES AS high clouds fracture and scatter. The wheat fields to Abel’s left jerk and stutter against the wind. He kicks a stone and stares up at the towering wooden crucifix.

  “Sal?” he calls over the fence. “Hello?”

  He waits, rolling his shoulders as his back throbs and his skin burns.

  The fence scrapes open a crack and Sal peeks through.

  “You can't keep away, can you?” she says, smiling as she opens the fence wider.

  Abel takes another look up at the crucifix and leans towards Sal, flinching when she embraces him.

  “What is it?”

  “This damn pack. It’s been rubbing at me all the way. My shoulders are stripped.”

  Sal closes the fence behind them and signals for him to follow. “We can get Jacob to have a look at that later. You look like you could do with a drink.”

  “Yep. Too much dust.”

  They cross the settlement, passing crowds of wooden shacks and animal pens. Chickens dart past him, pecking at the ground as they go. A young man struggles with a hay bale, dropping it next to a black-and-white cow.

  “I've got to rescue the kid,” Abel says as they reach the communal hall.

  Sal pulls at the door and leads them inside. Three long dining tables stand empty and clean. A lemony aroma lingers in the air. He takes a seat at the end of the central table, the long bench scraping against the floorboards beneath.

  “Is he with the Family?” she asks, wandering over to a table in the corner of the hall.

  “Yep.”

  “You've seen him?”

  “Yep.”

  “I take it he's not there voluntarily?” She pours water from a carafe into two clay cups and walks back over to the table.

  “Unless they bind their people, I'd say he wasn't.” Abel taps the table impatiently.

  “Have you got a plan?” She places the cups down and takes a seat across from him.

  “Yep. I'm going to find him again, get him away from them and keep him safe.” He picks up the cup and takes a sip.

  She shakes her head. “You need more than that. Please don't do anything risky.”

  Abel laughs bitterly. “Everything we do is risky. Sometimes, you've got to put yourself out there to do what's right.”

  “Let's hope God is with you. I'll pray for you.”

  Tilting his cup, Abel watches the play of candlelight as it ripples across the surface of his water. “I've made some armour,” he says, looking up. “It should give me some protection if they take pot-shots at me again.” He drinks the rest of the water and places the cup down.

  “They shot at you?”

  “Yep. I don't think they were really aiming at me though. More of a warning to stay away.”

  Winding one of her thick dreadlocks with her fingers, she sighs. “I don't like this. There's risk and then there's recklessness.”

  He opens his palms and shrugs. “So, what? I should just leave the kid?” He shakes his head, clenching a fist. “I can't do that, Sal.”

  She sighs again, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Is there any way we can help?”

  He sucks in his bottom lip and meets her gaze. “I need the helmet.”

  She hesitates, the right side of her mouth twitching. “We've already been over this.”

  He raises a forefinger and reaches into his backpack. Wordlessly, he pulls out a bundle of cloth and lays it on the table between them, removing the cloths and sponges. He slides the black leather box towards her. “Open it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It's what I've got for trade.”

  “We shouldn't do this in here.” She looks around with an unsure glance. “This is a place for eating, for community.”

  “Just open it.” He leans back, smiling.

  She gives a half-shrug, opens the box, and gasps. “This is beautiful. May I?

  He nods. “Go ahead.”

  She lifts the pocket watch from the box and sets it on her open hand, holding it like a delicate flower. “Does it work?”

  “Yep.”

  She turns the winder and listens to the ticking clockwork, watching as the second hand sweeps around in a smooth circle.

  “Well?”

  “This is enough,” she says, placing the watch back in the box.

  Abel rubs his hands together, grinning. “Excellent. I had to hold out during a dust storm to get that. I'm glad it wasn't a wasted trip.”

  She takes his right hand in hers. “I do worry about you, Abel.”

  “What’s to worry about? I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You’ve come so far from where you were. Every time you leave here, I wonder if it’s going to be the last time I’ll see you.”

  He gives a grim smile and looks down at their hands. “You can’t think like that, Sal. What happened to that hope stuff? What was it you said? Keep hope in my heart?”

  She sighs and nods. “God must be watching over you.”

  WHEN SAL OPENS THE door to the trading house, Abel rushes straight over to the diving helmet. He takes it in his hands, feeling the stiffness of the metal. He slides it onto his head, his ears bending against the rubber interior.

  “How do I look?” he asks, his voice muffled.

  “Ridiculous. But if that's what it takes.” She shrugs. “You can probably have a few more items.”

  “Any new bottles come in?” His breath is warm against his face.

  She nods. “Another couple of plastic ones, there's a metal one too.”

  “I'll give you back this plastic one and swap it for the metal one if it's any good.”

  She steps over to a table piled with empty plastic containers and wooden boxes. She moves a few things aside and holds up a metal water bottle with a black cap. “How's this?”

  “Looks great. You tested it?”

  “Of course.” She gives him an annoyed look.

  “I’ll take it.” He looks around stiffly against the helmet, his peripheral vision limited as its weight presses down on his neck and shoulders. “Any spoons?”

  “Still no spoons.” She folds her arms.

  “Damn it,” he mutters. “That's fine. Should probably stock up on salt beef.”

  “We can do that. And I'll throw in a few more tins for you.”

  “That's great, Sal.” He lifts the helmet back over his head and cradles it under his right arm. “Actually had a bit of variety with the last few tins. Nice to have something that isn’t beans.”

  She wraps a pile of salt beef in paper and hands it to Abel. She drops a few tins into his backpack, patting it when she closes the flap. “Will you be needing a bed tonight?”

  He shakes his head. “Thanks, but I need to get back on the road. I'm itching to get to the city and get the kid back.”

  Sal leans forward and hugs him for a long moment, holding her face against his neck. She kisses his cheeks and takes his hands. “Please promise me you'll be careful.”

  “I'll try,” he says, looking into her dark eyes. He looks away, biting his lip. “Thanks, Sal.”

  IT’S LATE AFTERNOON the next day by the time Abel returns to his garage. Yellow leaves carpet the ground, mingling with traces of damp dust. The air hangs cold and still. Trembling, he drops his backpack into
the boat, pulls out his new bottle, and swigs back the last dregs of water.

  He looks at the dust motes swirling lazily in the half-light, his eyes fixing at the place where the kid slept. With a deep sigh, he lowers the shutters and heads back towards the highway, gripping his water bottle in his left hand.

  From the road's edge, he looks downhill towards the city, scanning the rooftops until he spots a thin tongue of dark smoke lapping at the sky. The floodwaters have returned to their familiar sheen, swallowing the dust below the black surface.

  Abel gathers sticks and drags a half-rotten trunk to his garage. He steps on the trunk, levering it against his boots until it gives and cracks in two, opening like the jaws of a snake.

  He makes a fire in the far right corner of his garage, building on ashes.

  After eating a meal of salt beef and baked beans, he dons his armour, takes off his hat, and pulls on the diving helmet. The trailer creaks as he climbs into the boat and sits on the seat. He sharpens his hunting knife while wearing the armour, getting used to its weight and feel against his body. He tries the oars, testing their movement, testing the armour. After a few minutes, he removes the helmet and the armour, steps down from the boat, and takes a deep breath.

  When he lies on his rug, he surrounds himself with blankets and stares through the hole in the roof at the eddying stars.

  16. Fire Escape

  THE WATER RIPPLES IN slow black waves as Abel pushes the boat forward. Shuffling into the centre of the seat, he grips the oars and dips them below the surface. The wind stings his hands with an icy chill in the pre-dawn light. He struggles to see behind him with the helmet, so he pulls the oars in and removes it and places it between his legs, next to his tyre iron and hunting knife. He coughs as the stench clings to the back of his throat.

  Buildings howl against the wind as they rise from the depths, standing like ancient watchmen. The rubber armour weighs heavy on his shoulders as he rows past the walls smeared with dusty streaks, mould, and slime. He passes the buildings he has visited before, his blue markings faint against the gloaming.