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

by Jon Cronshaw

  They look north along the water's edge, towards the Family.

  The kid tips the trailer forward as Abel drags the boat to the ground. “You going to be okay?”

  The kid doesn't respond, but he helps drag the boat to the water.

  “You can back out. We're not committed to anything.”

  “No,” the kid says, his voice small, nervous.

  “You okay to watch the way? Save craning my neck.”

  The kid nods.

  The floodwaters let out a deep gulp when the front of the boat hits the water. The kid jumps in first and scrambles to the front. Abel takes the seat, grips the oars, and starts to row.

  He watches as the shoreline moves farther and farther away. The stitches on his arm tug at his skin as he pulls into the oars. He turns his head anyway when the sound changes and he reaches the city's edge.

  The deep groan of creaking buildings and the wind's ghostly hum reverberate around them. The emerging mass of clustered buildings, standing in browns, greys and greens, blocks out the horizon. Filth and grime coat the walls in a blackish film.

  “What are those marks?” the kid asks.

  Abel turns his head and looks at where the kid is pointing. “They're mine.”

  “What they for?”

  “They're places I've searched.”

  The kid says nothing.

  As they move deeper into the city, the buildings grow taller, denser. The empty structures loom above them — monuments to a dead world. They pass by the stone statue of the bent man, cracked and straining against its iron spine. Ornate pillars, carvings in stone, decorative windows, and architectural flourishes stand redundant, useless.

  Abel lets out a quivering sigh when they reach the corner before the Family’s buildings. He lets the boat coast and looks back at the kid. “You okay?”

  The kid looks up at him, pale, trembling. He gives a frantic nod and turns away.

  Abel takes a breath in through his nose, holds it, and exhales. He follows the line of buildings until he spots the first bridge. “Damn it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just nerves, is all.” He takes up the oars and rows on, continuing east along the line of buildings.

  Reaching the next corner, he takes a left. Brickwork and stone buildings make way for concrete structures, all right angles and grey planes. A fire escape climbs vine-like between a pair of buildings to the left, fragile-looking steps twisted with age and rust. He lets the boat drift until it bumps against the steps. Flecks of rust rain down from above, landing on his tattered cap and in the kid's hair.

  Abel takes a length of rope and tethers the boat to the steps.

  “What we doing?” the kid asks.

  Abel glances up. “We're going to take a look.”

  The steps moan as they take Abel's weight. He climbs up to the rooftop and nods down to the kid. The kid follows.

  “Keep your head down, kid.” Stones and dust stretch across the rooftop. They move across it in a slow crawl, dragging their bodies along by their elbows, until they reach the western edge.

  Abel says nothing, his jaw gripped tight as he brushes sharp stones from his palms.

  “What can you see?”

  Abel turns his head and raises his finger to his lips, signalling for quiet. He turns back and looks down over the Family. There's movement all around as people go about their business, unaware they are being watched. He recognises a woman holding a rifle and a man shouting in the face of a child. Fires burn in steel drums as voices echo around them. The kid crawls next to him and watches.

  “Which one's the factory?” Abel asks. He follows the kid's finger as it traces along a line of wooden bridges until it stops at a building in the centre.

  “There.”

  “You sure?”

  The kid retraces the line and nods. “I'm sure.”

  With a grunt, Abel sidesteps along the rooftop to the right-hand corner, looks out over the Family's buildings, and then shuffles back into the centre.

  He sits up and draws a map in the dust with a forefinger.

  “What you doing?”

  “Damn it, kid. It's a plan.” He draws a circle. “We're here.” He moves his finger across the map. “We need to be here.”

  The kid nods. “How we going to do that?”

  Abel scratches his beard and removes his cap. “I’m not sure.”

  “We could wait until dark. They won't see us.”

  “Maybe,” Abel says, considering his map. He shrugs. “We won't be able to see though.”

  “What about if one of us stays here, keeps lookout, makes noises if someone's coming, causes a distraction?”

  Abel nods. “Good idea. I'll go in and you do what you can to keep watch. Can you whistle?”

  “I'll whistle if you're going the wrong way or if someone's coming.”

  “I can't believe I'm doing this.” He looks at the kid, his mouth twitching. “Keep me right.”

  The kid smiles. “Good luck.”

  24. Bridges

  ABEL DROPS INTO THE boat and takes his seat. He lifts the armour over his head, fastens it, and dons the helmet. He moves his head from left to right. His breaths become deep and wheezing. He looks out through the tunnel of the helmet. Sound comes soft, dulled as if heard through glass.

  He removes the tether from around the steps, pushing the boat away from the wall with his foot. Thick water splashes against the bricks as slow undulations mark the boat's movement. Taking the oars in his hands, he turns the boat left and heads north along the line of concrete buildings. His heart races in his chest as he turns left again and spots the first wooden bridge straddling the floodwaters.

  Biting down on his bottom lip, he drops the oars and pulls the boat close to the building on his left. People move around on an opposite rooftop. They move out of sight in a shadowy blur.

  Using his hands, he pads along the wall, keeping in tight as he moves the boat along. Above him, voices come muffled through his helmet. He doesn't look up.

  When he reaches the corner, he leans forward and looks between the buildings. There's more movement and lines of smoke. The voices grow louder.

  He stops when he catches a faint whiff of plez’s chemical bite. Trembling, he looks along the rooftops to his left, searching for the kid.

  Holding his breath, he lowers the oars into the water, leans back, and rows between the buildings. Deep ripples spread across the water's surface, shimmering as they reflect the glaring sunlight above.

  Fear pushes against his every breath, against his every motion. He reaches the corner of the opposite building — the Family's building — and exhales.

  A wooden bridge connects the rooftops above, a long plank, warped at its middle. Abel pulls in the oars and drags himself along the wall again. The boat scrapes against the concrete as he makes his way deeper into the Family's domain. He's out of the kid's sight here, alone.

  When he reaches the corner of the building, he jerks his head to his left. More bridges link the buildings. A man with a rifle paces along the edge of a rooftop with his back to Abel.

  A gust of wind blasts through the city, rattling drainpipes and whirling up dense clouds of dust. The man on the rooftop ducks for cover, burying his face in his arms as he runs out of sight.

  Abel grips the boat's side as a wave strikes against its side. He looks back at the bridge behind him, quivering with the wind.

  “Damn it,” he mutters, seizing the oars. He pushes again across the exposed water between the lines of the Family's buildings, sweating inside his helmet as the boat bounces over another wave. People shout with urgency over the wind.

  When he reaches the next building, Abel’s hands tremble, clammy with sweat. He turns to the wall as a thin whirlwind of dust brushes by, making its way south along the water's surface. He lets out a deep breath and then drags the boat along. A loud splash comes from behind him as someone takes down a bridge, its wood scraping against the brickwork as it is dragged onto the
rooftop.

  Abel listens to the voices, the slamming doors, the creaking buildings, and the panicked shouts. The waves knock the boat against the wall to his left as a long, drawn-out howl stretches out around him.

  Abel frowns and locks his jaw in a grim smile. He moves the boat to the corner of the building as the last voices fade. He turns left and drops the oars back into the waves.

  The bridges have all been pulled in. A pair of frightened, purple-rimmed eyes watches him through a window.

  The smoke from dead fires billows in confusion above as he crosses over to the right, reaching the factory. He pulls the boat against the wall and draws it into what would have once been an alleyway to its right. He looks between the buildings to the west, catching a glimpse of the kid huddled on the edge of the rooftop in the distance. He turns his attention to the side of the building, looking for a surface, but the wall rises flat and vertical.

  Cursing, he pulls the boat along to the end of the alleyway and looks around. To his left, at the far end of the building, he spots a hole in the brickwork.

  He waits and listens. The smell of plez fills the air around him — that manifestation of pleasure and pain condensed into a crystalline form. He exhales, laughing bitterly to himself.

  Shaking his head, he pulls the boat along the wall until he reaches the hole in the brickwork. He looks around as the boat wobbles on the waves. His left hand grips the edge of the brickwork as he reaches for his backpack. He feels inside and takes out the metal box.

  He removes the dynamite gingerly, hesitantly, unravels the length of fuse, and attaches one end to the dynamite sticks.

  Keeping hold of the fuse, he piles the explosives into the wall and lets out a nervous breath.

  As the water grows rougher, he pulls himself around the next corner. He drapes the fuse over the window sills to his left, taking care not to drop it into the water. When the fuse grows taut, he loops it around a drainpipe.

  He reaches into his backpack again, pulling out a box of matches. He takes out a match and strikes it. The flame goes out in an instant. He tries again, cupping his hand around the match, protecting against the wind. “Damn it,” he says as the flame flickers out.

  The kid’s whistle echoes around him.

  He tries another match — it lights. With trembling hands, he leans towards the fuse and then fumbles, watching helplessly as the match summersaults into the water with a hiss. “Damn it,” he grunts. “Last one.”

  An urgent whistle comes from the kid. Abel turns and sees movement on the opposite building. He panics, drops the matchbox, grabs the oars, and rows forward, shouts coming from all directions. He ignores them and turns left.

  A bullet skims the water next to him. Another bullet ricochets off the boat's side, sending splinters of wood into the air.

  A wild gust of wind tips the boat, shaking it against the waves.

  At least three people prowl along the rooftops, but he keeps rowing. The boat drifts against the waves as he fights to keep it close to the right-hand wall.

  An eddying dust cloud hits him from behind, filling his helmet and burning his eyes. He blinks through the tears, coughing.

  He points the boat towards the corner of the building on his right and pushes out into the open. Another bullet speeds by and sends a chunk of concrete flying from a wall.

  “Damn it.”

  A black hump of water splashes against the side of the boat, pushing it off course. With frantic movement, he rights the boat and rows on ahead. A harsh gust of wind pushes against him when he turns the corner, dust scraping against his exposed fingers.

  He mutters curses to himself as he skirts along the buildings, heading back towards the kid. He takes the second right and sighs. He drops his oars, slamming a fist against the boat. “Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it.”

  Resigned, he lowers the oars back into the water and heads towards the fire escape. The kid's waiting for him at the top of the rusted steps when Abel pulls the boat in.

  Without hesitation, the kid traverses the first flight of stairs, vaults the railing and drops into the boat. “You okay?” he asks, steadying his hand against the wall.

  Abel shakes his head and looks down at his peeling flesh. “It didn't work.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn't have time. I couldn't light a match.” He takes off his helmet and drops it in his lap. “I'm sorry, kid.”

  The kid pats his shoulder. “You tried. I should have come with you.”

  “It would have made no difference.” He looks at the sky. “Let's get some shelter before this storm really picks up.”

  25. The Urn

  TENSION STRETCHES BETWEEN them as Abel rows away from the fire escape. The buildings drift by at a gentle pace while the wind whistles around them. Above, the sun pokes through the pillows of dust and cloud, casting a brownish light over the choppy waters.

  They reach a stone carving of what might have been a burial urn and bring the boat to a halt.

  “We’re going in there?” the kid asks.

  “Yep.” Abel attaches his rope to the carving and gives it a tug. He wobbles to his feet, gripping the rope with a trembling right hand as he lifts his backpack over his left shoulder. He switches hands, shifting his weight, and pulls himself onto a windowsill. The kid gives him a boost from behind, and he flops belly-first over the window frame onto a scrunched-up pile of drapes. He gets up and coughs. The dust lies thicker than last time. Grabbing the kid's hand, he pulls him into the dimness.

  The kid looks around. “What's this place?”

  “Not sure. I'd say it must have been some kind of museum.”

  “What's that?”

  Abel gives a shrug. “It's from before. People used to make things or find things other people had made and show them off.”

  The kid wrinkles his brow. “Why?”

  Abel gives another shrug and sighs. “Beats me, kid.” He steps over to a leather chair and drops his backpack. Removing his armour, he takes a seat. The chair creaks as it takes his weight, its back bending as Abel slumps.

  “What now?”

  “Now, we eat.” Abel reaches into his backpack and takes out a slab of salt beef. He unrolls its paper wrapping, slices the meat with his hunting knife, and hands half to the kid.

  “We can't leave this,” the kid says, sliding his back down the wall next to the window as he sits.

  Abel lets out a sigh. “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We wait for the storm to die down. Then, we’ll go back.”

  “Then, what?”

  “Damn it, kid.” He slams his fist on the chair's arm. He looks down and shakes his head, lowering his voice. “I don't know. I had a plan, and the plan didn't work.”

  “You still got matches?”

  “I’ve got a match.”

  “We can still do it.”

  “And what if it goes out again? I was lucky not to get shot.”

  The kid frowns, running his hand back over his matted hair. “We’ve got to do this.”

  “You think this is easy, kid?” His eyes narrow, fists tightening. “You think this is easy?”

  The kid holds Abel’s gaze for several seconds but doesn't respond. He looks down at the half-eaten strip of salt beef draping over his hand and shakes his head.

  Abel purses his lips. “Well?”

  “Of course, I don't. Still doesn't mean we give up.”

  Abel raises his hands, hesitates, and then drops them. He slouches back into the chair, tearing off a chunk of meat with his teeth. “I'm not giving up, kid. It's just hard.”

  They eat without speaking for several minutes. The kid gets up and leans out of the window. “The storm's breaking.”

  Abel takes his water bottle from his backpack, unscrews the cap, and offers it to the kid. The kid turns, takes a swig, and hands it back.

  “I'm sorry I shouted.”

  “It's okay.” The kid gives a half-shrug. “It's hard.”
/>
  “Yep.” Abel takes a sip of water and replaces the cap. He slides the bottle into his backpack, walks over to the window, and looks outside. “I think you're right.”

  Returning to the chair, he pulls on his armour and backpack. “You ready?”

  The kid nods.

  26. The Raft

  THE KID HELPS ABEL down from the window, taking his hand while he steps into the unstable boat.

  “You need me to row?” the kid asks.

  “I'm good.” Abel brings in the tether rope and drops the backpack between his legs. He turns and places the helmet over the kid’s head. “You wear this, kid.”

  “What about you?”

  Abel thumbs his chest. “I’ve got armour. If anything happens, at least you've got some protection.”

  “Thanks. It’s really heavy.”

  Abel grasps the oars and starts to row.

  The kid crouches on bended knees at the front of the boat. “Which way we going?”

  “Same way. The other way leaves you too open for too long.”

  They turn left, gliding between a row of concrete buildings and past the fire escape. They reach the end of the street without a word and take another left turn.

  “You alright, kid?”

  “Yep. Bit scarier when you're down here.”

  Abel looks over his shoulder — the bridges are still down. He scans the rooftops for movement. “You let me know if you see anything, kid.”

  “Okay.”

  Faint voices travel with the gusts of wind, creating strange disjointed fluctuations and echoes, fragments of words, snippets of conversation. Abel brings in the oars, letting the boat drift to the left as foul water drips into the hull. Reaching the wall, they pull the boat along, their hands gripping bricks, metal hooks, and window ledges — anything to give them purchase.

  At the corner, Abel signals for them to stop. The voices increase in their intensity, louder, more urgent. He looks left and lets out a sharp breath.

  A fire burns on the third building down. The blurry outlines of a few people pushing wood into the fire flicker into focus. One of them raises a fifteen-foot-long plank of wood and drops an end on the next building along, sending up an explosion of dust as it lands.