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

by Jon Cronshaw

  “Yep. Without hope, you've got nothing.” Abel kneels at his backpack and pulls out some fresh clothes for himself and the kid. “Here.” He tosses the kid a shapeless blue sweater and jeans. “Might be a bit big, but these should keep you going.”

  “Thanks.”

  18. Copper

  ABEL WAKES BEFORE DAWN. He shivers against the cold, fumbling to light a fire. He turns at the sound of the kid stirring. “You awake, kid?”

  “Huh?” The kid rolls over and faces away from Abel, pulling his blanket around him tight.

  “We should get moving after breakfast.” Abel checks the drying clothes hanging down the side of the trolley and draping over an A-frame next to the fire. He touches each item in turn. “I can’t tell if they’re still damp or just cold.”

  He rubs his hands against the fire until the numbness in his fingers dissipates and then turns back to the trolley and gropes around for a tin of something. Finding one, he opens it, placing it on the fire. He clambers inside the boat and watches the kid, the fire's orange glow rippling across his face.

  The kid rolls over and pushes himself up, rubbing his eyes as he yawns. “What's cooking?”

  “Ravioli, kid.”

  “What's that?”

  “It's like flat spaghetti stuffed with something that might be meat.”

  The kid looks confused. “I'll have to try it.” He coughs and yawns again.

  “How are you feeling, kid?”

  There's a long pause as the kid stretches and then meets Abel's gaze with his purple-rimmed eyes. “I'm alright. Having weird dreams again. It's like the plez is calling to me.”

  “You slept through the night. That's good.” He gets down from the boat, wraps his hand with a cloth, and takes the tin from the fire, leaving it to cool. Leaning down, he takes a stick and pokes the flames until they grow brighter, tiny sparks riding the smoke as it twists through the hole in the roof.

  “I could have slept for days,” the kid says. “I didn't get much rest with the Family.”

  Abel rubs his beard. “We need to be ready for the Family if they come back.”

  “What about your code?”

  “I'm not going to kill anyone — remember last time? I pointed a pistol and they went away. No one was hurt.” He takes the tin, warm in his hand, and passes it to the kid.

  “They know you've got that, though. Next time they'll bring rifles.” The kid scoops his fingers into the ravioli, holds one up in the firelight, rotating it in his hand. “I don't understand why they did this with food. At least beans are real.”

  Abel gives a half-smile. “Yep. But they still fill your belly.”

  “It's not so bad, actually,” the kid says, sucking the pasta into his mouth. “It's just bean juice anyway.”

  “You know, kid. I don't know what I'll do if the Family find us. All I know is you're not going back with them.”

  “I'd rather die than go back.” He passes the tin to Abel. “I’ll kill myself before I go back there.”

  “Damn it, kid. It's not going to come to that.”

  “You don't know what they're like.” The kid looks at his hands and then stares at Abel with teary eyes. “I've seen what they do.”

  Abel nods, takes a mouthful of ravioli, chews, and swallows. He lets out a long sigh and then stamps out the fire. “Let's get going, kid.”

  THE FIRST FINGERS OF sunlight tickle the sky behind them as Abel and the kid set off along the highway. A chill wind screams from the north, icy and biting. The kid walks on Abel's right, gripping the tyre iron. Abel carries the backpack, the helmet's curve pressing against the base of his spine.

  Wrecked cars litter the highway ahead, some of them scorched to blackened, rusting shells. A rabbit hops onto the road and stares at Abel for a long moment before jumping back into a twist of thorn bushes.

  “Pip would have caught that,” he says, turning to the kid.

  “She caught rabbits?”

  “Rabbits, rats, ferrets — you name it. She’d go off hunting for ages, and just when I wondered where she was, she’d come bounding out of the bushes with something squirming in her mouth. She’d bring it to me and we’d share it.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  Abel swallows. “Yep.”

  “She sounds great.”

  “My mum taught me how to trap when I was young. I’ll have to teach you. We could set some snares and catch some food.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Traps? Course it works. Not done them for a while, but without Pip...” His voice trails off.

  “I’d like that. I think I’ll be able to read and trade and catch things to eat.” He turns to Abel and smiles. “I’m glad you helped me.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. We’ve both got a lot to learn.”

  The backs of Abel’s legs pull and strain as they march along the gentle slope, the asphalt hard and relentless under his boots. He turns, looking back at the sun rising beyond the city, scanning for movement.

  The kid carries on ahead, tapping each lamppost with his tyre iron, letting the sound ring out, dust drifting to the ground.

  “Stop doing that,” Abel snaps. “If you want to draw the attention of the Family, you're going the right way about it.”

  “Sorry.” The kid looks down at his feet and kicks a stone. “I didn't think.”

  They match pace and weave through rough grass engulfing the highway. The only hints of the road’s existence are the gnarled trees drooping along the roadside in contorted wind-bent twists, grovelling like demonic servants.

  “Was that how they got you last time?” Abel asks.

  The kid scowls. “What you mean?”

  “I'm not surprised they took you if you go round banging things like that.”

  “It wasn't like that.”

  Abel scratches his beard, regards the kid, and stops. “Tell me, then. What happened?”

  With a half-shrug, the kid carries on walking. Abel follows after him in a jog.

  “I was asleep and heard voices,” the kid says. “You were gone. I kept quiet. I hid the rucksack under some coats, put a blanket over me, and waited. I waited for a long time, and then I needed a pee. I was really quiet, but they spotted me and took me.”

  Abel stops. “You hid the backpack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did they take it with them?”

  “No.”

  “So it's still there?”

  The kid shrugs. “Don’t know. Probably.”

  “Damn it, kid.” He pats the kid on the shoulder. “That's great. I can get our spoons, my torch, my goggles.”

  “Might not be there now.”

  “You got to keep hope, kid.” Abel shoots the kid a broad grin. “Let’s go see.”

  THE SUN SHINES HIGH and bright when they reach the curved bank of a river.

  Abel slices a piece of salt beef, hands it to the kid, and sits on a rock overlooking the water.

  “This is where you taught me to skim stones,” the kid says.

  “Yep. It's also the place the Family sneaked up on us.”

  With a flurry of movement, the kid turns, runs back onto the road, looks around, and then returns to the riverbank. “I think we're fine,” he says. “I'm going to look more.”

  “Good idea, kid. We don't want any trouble.”

  Abel leans on his backpack with his feet at the water's edge. He watches the kid searching for stones.

  “How's this one look?” the kid asks, handing Abel a round stone.

  “Looks good,” Abel says, turning the rock in his hand. He looks at the kid, smiling. “Give it a shot.” He hands the stone to the kid.

  The kid turns, leans low, and throws the stone across the water. It bounces in five broad arcs, hits a rock, and splashes into the river.

  “Good work, kid. You've still got it.”

  Grinning, the kid finds more stones. He skims them across the river — six, seven, eight bounces.

  “You're getting better, kid.” He
looks at the sun and then looks at the road. “We should keep moving.”

  The kid nods, skims one last stone, and then follows Abel back onto the highway.

  Abel watches the kid from the road and then crumples to the ground as a pair of dogs pounce on top of him, growling and snarling. “Get them off me,” he calls. He protects his head with an arm, kicking one of the dogs away. He lies pinned on his right side, trapped, fighting, right arm stuck beneath him, bent back against the asphalt. He kicks his legs wildly, frantically, dragging his arm from under him. He fumbles for his blade, elbowing the second dog in the head. The knife clatters to the ground, coming to a rest in a spin.

  The kid charges at the other dog with the tyre iron and strikes it across the ribs. The dog yelps and collapses in a heap.

  Abel fights, spears forward, charging the dog with his shoulder and grabbing his knife. The dog knocks him from behind and he hits the ground, chin-first. He tries to turn onto his back, but the backpack stops him.

  The dog barks and snarls and then rips at Abel's arm, tearing at him. He screams out. The dog buries its teeth into Abel's left forearm, twisting its head in fury. He swings the blade and misses. He hits the dog's head with the knife’s handle, bringing it down with as much force as he can, beating down again and again until the dog releases its grip, a trail of blood and drool hanging like string from its mouth.

  The dog gags out a yelp as the kid hits it on the side with the tyre iron. The kid swings again and the dog rolls along the ground until coming to a stop in the dirt, coated in dust and soil.

  “Where's the other one?” Abel manages through gasps.

  “They're dead. They're both dead.”

  Abel sits up, holding his arm. He looks down at the torn flesh and blood. “I've got some bandages in the backpack. Get them.” He feels the kid rifling through the bag. The straps pull on his chest, filling him with pain. Abel grits his teeth, holding back a scream.

  “What’s this?” the kid asks, tossing chunks of charred rotting meat to the ground.

  “Town,” Abel manages.

  “Town?”

  “Get the bandages.”

  “What you hurt?”

  “It's my arm.” He lets out a pained cry. “And my ribs. I must have landed badly.”

  The kid takes the backpack off Abel's shoulders, dropping it next to him on the road. He kneels before Abel, opening the sealed bags.

  “Use that one to clean around it,” Abel says, pointing at an alcohol swab. “Then wrap those around it. Make it tight. Try to stop it bleeding.”

  The kid ties the bandage around the wound.

  “Tie another over it. Make a sling.” The bandage turns crimson as blood seeps through.

  “What do you mean?” The kid flaps his arms, panicking.

  “Try to keep calm, kid.” He lets out another groan. “Tie around the wound then tie another one so it holds it up around my neck. I'll guide you.”

  The kid ties the bandage and watches as Abel shows him how to make a sling.

  “Think you'll be alright?”

  “I'll have to be,” Abel says, taking in a sharp breath. He gets to his feet and breathes with trembling exhalations. “At least it's only my left arm that's hurt.”

  The kid leans down, swinging the backpack onto his shoulders. “We can rest in that shack up there if you want?”

  “What shack?” Abel looks around.

  “The one up there.” The kid points north, to a hut a few hundred yards off the road.

  “You got better eyes than me, kid,” Abel says, favouring his ribs. “It's going to put us back, but let's do that.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  Abel looks around, eyeing the river. “We should leave them for the water to take.”

  “Can’t we eat them?”

  Abel shakes his head. “I...I can’t...”

  The kid nods. “Okay.”

  Abel watches as the kid drags the dogs and rolls them into the water. The corpses bob for a few moments, their legs pointing into the air as they sink below the surface. He looks east, following the road until it meets the city, no more than a black puddle on the horizon. A dust column churns smoky and ghost-like in the distance, an eddying tornado following the line of the highway towards them. “There's a dust storm coming, kid.”

  The kid says nothing but leads the way up the embankment towards the shack, taking exaggerated steps as he traverses the uneven ground and scattered debris.

  A hodgepodge of wood panels, corrugated iron sheets, and a grubby white plastic door make up the building. A veneer of moss and lichen camouflages the shack from passers-by.

  A shot of pain passes along Abel's ribs as he reaches for his hunting knife. “Knock the door, kid.”

  The kid knocks and waits. “Hello?”

  “Anyone in?” Abel asks. He nods and the kid turns the handle. As the door creaks open, the stench of rotten meat greets them.

  Abel enters first, looking around and gripping his knife. Thin lines of light penetrate the gloom, a spotlight for the dust swirls' aerial dance.

  “It's dingy, but it’ll do,” Abel says, coughing, as the kid enters.

  Scattered objects lie on an upturned crate. A filth-encrusted bathtub rests along the back wall, next to the ashes of a long-dead fire. Abel steps over to the crate, floorboards groaning with each step. “Damn it.”

  “What is it?” the kid asks. He removes the backpack and leans against the wall, next to the door.

  “Plez stuff.” He gestures to a length of copper pipe — an inch around and six inches long. Black and green scorch marks stain one end. The outer walls shake as the wind whistles outside.

  The kid bites his lip and gives Abel a nervous look.

  “It's nothing to worry about, there's no plez around, kid.”

  “No, that.” The kid points to the bathtub and turns away, covering his mouth.

  Abel steps over and looks inside. A pile of blankets, mouldy and covered in muck, surrounds a decomposed corpse, its eyes hollowed-out holes. The remaining scraps of flesh lie rotten and green, stretched over exposed bones.

  “I wonder who it was?”

  “Just some addict, kid.” There's an awkward silence between them. “I didn't mean...”

  “It's fine. That could have been me.”

  Abel pats the kid's shoulder. “You're past it now. This won't be you.”

  “It could have, though.”

  “Yep. It could have been either of us, but it isn't.”

  “I don't like it here,” the kid says, his eyes pleading.

  “We can't go out there until the dust storm breaks. We just got to wait it out, kid.”

  The kid trembles. “I can't stay in here with that,” he says, shaking his head. He opens the door to a wall of twisting dust. He closes it and slides down to the floor, dipping his head to his knees.

  “We'll be fine, kid.” Abel sweeps the upturned crate with a forearm. The copper pipe clatters on the floor, rolling until it jams between two floorboards. He sits on the crate and smiles grimly at the kid. “It's hard, but it's good to see that — to confront death like that.”

  The kid looks up. “What do you mean?”

  “You need to see what plez does to people.” He gives a vague gesture towards the bathtub. “This is what plez does.”

  “I’ve already seen what it does.”

  “Then you know.”

  “And what if I never get off it? They say you can't.”

  “Who're ‘they’?”

  The kid shrugs. “You know...” He looks around searching for the words. “People don't get off it.”

  Abel holds the kid's gaze. “I got off it,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper.

  There’s a long silence

  Finally, the kid raises his eyebrows, shaking his head. “I didn't know.”

  “Why would you? It's not something I like to dwell on.”

  “Why you telling me?”

  “I don't know, kid.” He rubs
the back of his head and looks up at the ceiling, blinking. “So you know where I'm coming from. So you know I'm not being preachy. So you know that when I say you can get off plez, you know it's true.”

  The kid nods. “Thanks.”

  Sitting up, Abel gestures with his free hand to the backpack. “We should eat. There's some salt beef wrapped up near the top.”

  The kid turns to the backpack and takes out the salt beef. Abel tosses him his hunting knife. The kid catches it, cuts the beef into two and gets to his feet. He passes Abel a slab of the meat with the knife and sits back down, his back against the door.

  “Thanks, kid.” Abel tears the beef with his back teeth, taking long slow chews as it softens in his mouth.

  “I didn't want to kill the dogs.”

  Abel looks up but doesn't respond.

  “I feel bad about it.”

  “You did what you had to, kid.”

  “I've never had to kill anything before.”

  “You feel bad because you're a good person. If you didn't feel anything, I'd be worried.”

  “But I took a life — two lives. I remember how upset you were when your dog died.”

  Abel nods. “But if the dog tried to kill someone, I'd have to kill the dog. I wouldn't want to, but...” He gives a half-shrug with his good arm.

  The kid takes the water bottle from the backpack, unscrews the cap, takes a swig, gets up, and hands it to Abel. The walls quake and judder against the winds. Something flaps and clatters outside, crashing rhythmically against a sheet of metal patched against the external wall. “How did you get off plez?”

  “Like you. I had someone looking out for me. You've got a while to go yet, but you're doing better than I did.”

  The kid nods. “Thanks.”

  DUST CARPETS THE GROUND like brown snow as the pair close the shack behind them the next morning. They skirt down the embankment and re-join the highway. Abel looks down the road as it snakes towards the city. The clouds droop, pregnant with dust.

  “Think the storms are gone?” the kid asks.

  “Let's hope so. You think they're getting more frequent?”

  The kid shakes his head. “Not sure. Maybe.”