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

by Jon Cronshaw

  The kid emerges a few seconds later, snapping leafy branches from trees.

  “Don’t pull those ones, you’ll blow the cover,” Abel calls, shaking his head.

  The kid looks up and nods. “Right.” He gathers a dozen or so branches from farther along the road and then takes them to the boat. When he returns, they make their way up the track.

  Abel leans on the kid, limping as he struggles to traverse the rough ground.

  “Keep hold on my shoulder,” the kid says. “I won’t let you fall.”

  They follow the trail round to the right, and the sound of drumming fills the air around them.

  “What's that?” the kid asks, looking around, fear flickering across his face.

  Abel grins. “Sounds like a hootenanny.”

  “A hooter-what?”

  “You'll see.” Abel limps between a wall of wrecked cars and waves at the sight of Big Ned dancing, his belly wobbling in broad undulations as a group of young men beat on plastic oil drums and others stand around him clapping.

  Without stopping, Big Ned gestures for Abel to join him, but Abel points down at his crutch and shrugs. Big Ned points to the kid and beckons him with a curling finger. “Best go dance, kid.” He pats the kid’s back, grinning as the kid reluctantly joins in with the celebrations.

  Second Bob approaches, arm-in-arm with a young woman, identical in every way, except for their sex. Matching blue polythene sheets hang as ponchos around their necks. They wear half-rotten jawless dog heads as hats, flies buzzing around them.

  “You here, mister,” Second Bob says, smiling. “This is wife. She Edna. We will have lots of babies.”

  “That’s fantastic. When did you get married?”

  “Now, mister. You just missed.”

  Abel smiles. “I wish I could have seen it.”

  “You like our wedding critters?” Edna asks, gesturing to the decapitated dog heads.

  Abel forces a smile. “They’re lovely. Very becoming.”

  “You not miss hootenanny,” Second Bob says, grinning with his blackened teeth.

  “So I can see. Congratulations,” Abel says, joining the circle, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “I'm sure you'll be very happy together.”

  “I'll get moonshine,” Second Bob says. “You drink to us.”

  Abel watches Big Ned manhandling the kid to dance, shaking his head and smirking.

  Second Bob hands Abel a petrol can brimming with a volatile hum. “Drink,” he says.

  Abel sniffs at the moonshine and wrinkles his nose. “Damn it, Bob. That’s stronger than last time.”

  “Pa made it special.”

  Abel brushes his brow and takes a swig. The alcohol’s strength dulls the pain in his legs and collarbone, numbing his mouth and throat. “Definitely stronger,” he gasps.

  He smiles as the kid dances with the men and women late into the night and through to the early hours, his awareness growing fuzzier with each swig of the moonshine.

  30. Honking

  SUNLIGHT POURS THROUGH the open shutters, filling the garage with a soft yellow glow. Abel leans back against a car seat thumbing through his copy of Great Expectations. To his right, an upturned crate makes an improvised table. The kid leans in next to him, squinting at the page. “What's that say?” the kid asks, pointing at a word.

  “Take your time.” Abel moves the book towards the kid.

  “Suf...” the kid says, hesitating.

  Abel nods, gesturing for him to continue.

  The kid runs his finger along the line. “Suffering has been stronger than all other teac...”

  “Teaching.”

  The kid nods. “Teaching. Right. That's a 'ch' sound. Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has tau...” He frowns.

  “Taught, kid.”

  “Has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but — I hope — into a better shape.”

  Abel pats the kid on the shoulder. “You're getting it,” he says, looking at the kid with pride. “You've come a long way.”

  The kid shakes his head. “We both have.” He gets to his feet and walks outside.

  Abel closes the book, places it on the crate, and follows after the kid. “You know, kid. You never did tell me your name...”

  An unfamiliar honking sound fills the sky all around them, and the kid looks up and points. “Look.”

  Abel’s mouth drops open as a flock of geese pass overhead. “I'll be damned.” He scratches his beard, smiling as their wings flap against the breeze.

  “What are they?” the kid asks.

  “They're hope, kid.”

  THE END

  Author’s note

  Thank you. I can’t express how much it means to me that not only have you taken a chance on my second novel, you’ve also made it to the end. And now here you are, reading this.

  When I released Wizard of the Wasteland, I didn’t expect to get much of a response from readers. I’ve had so many kind reviews and emails from readers — it really means a lot.

  One thing that came out in some of the emails was an annoyance that I’d ‘killed-off’ Pip. I felt it was necessary for the story to give Abel the sense that he had nothing left to lose — the wizard was gone, he’d lost Pip — he was alone.

  At the time I was writing these books, I had to say goodbye to my guide dog, Watson. I mentioned at the end of Wizard of the Wasteland that I’m visually impaired and so having a guide dog to help me get around changed my life and gave me my independence.

  He was a big black Labrador who loved running around with oversized branches and chasing other dogs. Watson was with me for seven years, and when he had to retire, I knew I would never see him again. That was hard.

  The relationship between a guide dog and its handler is very deep — you’re literally trusting them with your life. Watson was a friend, a companion, and a member of the family. When Guide Dogs took Watson away for his retirement, I mourned, and a lot of that sense of loss and grief was poured into this story.

  I wanted Pip’s death to be meaningful — I didn’t just ‘kill-off’ a character for a cheap dramatic pop. I wanted to do something more with it, something that resonated — I really hope that came through in the writing of this story.

  Like with the last book, I wanted the main theme to be about finding hope in a hopeless world. Abel lost everything, but he found new things to give him hope, and through his good deeds he became stronger.

  I grew up in a rough area of Wolverhampton in the Midlands, UK. There was a lot of deprivation and poverty, and the only ways to escape were through boxing or education — I chose education and was the first person in my family to attend university. In the area I lived, drugs were rife. People I was friends with as a child died too young because of heroin.

  I’ve never been an addict, but I’ve seen the damage addiction can do to families, first-hand. Addicts are treated in many countries as scum. For me, things are more complicated than that. I wanted to deal with the theme addiction in a compassionate way, and show that when addicts are treated with love and given a purpose, there is the possibility for change.

  After I started writing about addiction in my stories, I listened to a TED Talk that encapsulated what I was trying to say. A series of experiments were performed on lab rats to determine why people choose to take drugs. In the first set of experiments, solitary rats were left alone in a cage without stimuli and were given two sources of water — one was clean, the other was laced with heroin. The rats went for the heroin, over and over again, eventually overdosing and dying. A different set of rats were given the same choice of clean water and drugs, but these rats weren’t solitary and they were given things to do. These rats rejected the drug-laced water in favour of a fulfilling social life.

  The speaker concluded that addiction to anything — drugs, alcohol, pornography, gambling — all stem from a lack of meaningful social bonds. Those results blew my mind.

  Please, i
f you enjoyed this book, take a moment to leave a rating on Amazon. Your kind words and encouragement keep me motivated and focused on writing the next story.

  Want to comment on your favourite scene or event in the novel?

  Please join me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/joncronshawauthor.

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  Thank you.

  Jon Cronshaw, August 2017.

  King of the Wasteland

  1. The King

  The rabbit kicks its legs with frenetic jerks, eyes flickering against the sunrise as the snare tightens around its ankle. Abel reaches down and grabs its throat, snapping its neck with a sudden flick of his wrist. “You did it, kid,” he says, grinning. “You caught your first rabbit.”

  The kid brushes his hair out of his eyes and takes the rabbit from Abel's hand. Staring for a long moment, he considers its grey fur and dead eyes, its open mouth revealing a pair of chipped front teeth coated with the pinkish tinge of blood. He glances up at Abel, swallows, and nods. The rabbit’s body lies slack and heavy in his hands. He places it back on the ground, its leg still tangled with the twine. “What should I do with the trap?”

  Abel unravels the length of nylon line from around the rabbit's foot and puts a hand in the dry grass for balance. “You reset it, kid.”

  The kid gives a confused look. “You mean, do it again?”

  Abel gets up, swinging the rabbit’s limp body over his shoulder, its head resting against his chest. “Yep. Just do what you did last time.”

  The highway spreads out ahead of them as rusted cars extend in a line, their shells picked and empty, like dead crabs on a beach. An uprooted pine lies against the highway’s edge, its branches coated with a glistening, tar-like fungus. Vines corkscrew onto the asphalt, wrapping around the central barrier, their rotting purple flowers rocking with the breeze. Poplars and apple trees stand sentry along the roadside, branches bare, their shed leaves lying cracked and withered around exposed roots.

  “I was thinking we could use the fur for the winter,” the kid says, looking the rabbit up and down as he ties a knot in the snare, resetting the trap. “We could make a hat or something, keep our heads warm.”

  Abel nods. “Sounds like a good idea, kid. I think we'll be right. Just need to make sure we've got enough food to last.”

  The kid looks down at his trap, standing back to examine his work. “How's that look?”

  Abel reaches down, letting the snare tighten around a forefinger. He pulls it a few times, feeling the tension, and then smiles. “Looking good,” he says, patting the kid on the shoulder.

  “I was thinking we should clear some ground around home. We could plant stuff. We could get some potatoes growing, maybe some carrots.”

  “Sounds good, kid.” Abel looks around and frowns. Listening, he raises a hand, gesturing for silence.

  “What is it?” the kid whispers.

  Abel cups a hand to his ear and tilts his head at the high-pitched ticking sound heading their way. “Hide,” he snaps. The kid nods and they step off the highway’s edge, scrambling over the trap.

  Abel leads the way, shielding his eyes with a forearm as he ducks and weaves through the branches. Something crashes behind him and the kid cries out in pain. He looks around to find the kid curled up on his side, holding his stomach, groaning.

  Starting at the sound of a second, higher-pitched moan, Abel gapes at the spinning back wheel of a pink and white bike. A scrawny girl, no older than eleven, lies next to the bike. Blood spreads across her split lip as she stares up at Abel with sunken, fear-filled eyes. He freezes for a second, staring wide-eyed at the three rifles and countless bullets spread out across the ground.

  “Don't be afraid,” Abel says, holding out a hand to the girl. “I think we've met before.”

  The girl sits up, wipes her mouth, lets out a quivering breath, and nods. Layers of sweat and dirt cling to her pale flesh. Something crawls in her hair. “King coming,” she whispers, her eyes darting towards the road.

  The kid rolls over and regards the girl for several seconds. “I'm David,” he says, catching his breath. “This is Abel. He's good.”

  Abel raises an eyebrow at the kid. “David?”

  David doesn't respond.

  The girl rights her bike and frowns. A woman’s leather jacket hangs heavy across her bony shoulders, its waist reaching to her knees. She takes the front wheel between her legs, wiggling the handlebars, straightening them. “Last name I got was Sis. Becca call me that. Now she dead.” She leans the bike against a towering chestnut tree and gathers up her bullets, dropping them into the bike’s grubby pink basket. “King coming,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Not safe.”

  Abel shakes his head and picks up the girl's rifles, handing them to her. “You ready for winter, Sis?”

  Sis sucks at a cut along the side of her right hand and shakes her head, lowering herself onto the saddle. “King coming.”

  Abel and David share a confused look.

  “Hide.” Sis drops to her belly, gesturing through the trees to the remains of a road leading south from the highway.

  A group of thirty or so men and women march behind a man riding a dusty brown horse. Scarlet drapes hang from the rider’s shoulders, a silver plastic crown balancing on his head. He moves forward with his head held high, one hand on the reins, the other gripping a shotgun.

  A man with black, slicked-back hair and a flak jacket guides a push-bike, freewheeling at the horse’s side. A spike, topped with a half-rotten severed head, extends from his left hand. A couple of men pull hand-carts, while another pushes a wheelbarrow, piled high with red and white striped material.

  Abel squints at the plume of black smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe of a box truck, its engine rumbling and spluttering as it rolls forward. A few men hang from its sides, scanning the area with rifles.

  A deep frown wrinkles across Abel’s brow. “What the hell?”

  “What's that?” David asks.

  “It's a truck, kid. Be quiet.”

  David points to the smoke. “I can see that, but how's it moving on its own?”

  “They must have got it working.” He shakes his head, mouth gaping. “Who knows where they got fuel.” He turns to Sis. “You know these people?”

  “It's the King.”

  The rider mounts the highway, bringing his horse to a stop. He looks towards the city, the floodwaters catching the rising sun’s shimmering light. He stares ahead for several moments and exchanges a few words with the man on the bike. Picking up his reins, the rider signals westward, moving forward with his back to the city, his scarlet cape rippling with the wind.

  2. The Chain

  David gets up first when the truck disappears behind a dip in the road, its exhaust smoke still thick in the air. He grabs Sis by her wrist and pulls her to her feet.

  She glares at him. “Don’t...”

  “It’s okay,” David says, opening his palms. “We’re not like that.”

  Abel gets up, brushes dirt from his long leather coat, and picks up the rabbit. “You okay?”

  Sis nods, trembling. She holds her bike up with one hand, cradling the rifles as she arranges them in the basket. Nodding to herself, she sits on the saddle and pushes down on a pedal. The chain unravels beneath her, falling to the ground like a shed snake skin. “My...”

  Abel looks at Sis and shakes his head. “I got some tools back home. We might be able to fix that.”

  Sis stares down, biting her lip. “It broken.”

  “You hungry?” Abel asks.

  Sis looks up, nodding. “Always hungry.”

  “Kid caught this.” Abel pats the rabbit and gestures for her to follow. “Bring your bike.”

  David takes the chain from the ground and drops it into Sis's basket. “Here,” he says, offering her a smile.

  Sis flinches, staring at
David with sunken eyes.

  “We're not going to hurt you.”

  Abel leads the way onto the highway as Sis pushes the bike behind him.

  David catches up to Abel, matching his pace. “Did you say you met her before?”

  “She was holed out in some abandoned town,” Abel whispers. “It was back when I was running with that wizard guy. She shot some people from the Family who were after me.”

  David looks back over his shoulder at Sis. “She's a killer?”

  Abel sighs. “She's a survivor, kid. I think she did what she had to.”

  “She's got guns.”

  “Yep.” Abel stops and turns to Sis, waiting a few moments for her to catch up. “We're not too far. My friend here is a little worried about those rifles.”

  Sis brings her bike to a stop and meets David's gaze. “I won't shoot you,” she says in a cold, flat voice. “You wouldn't know if I shoot you.”

  David shrugs and shares a glance with Abel.

  “Nearly there,” Abel says, spotting his tattered red marker hanging from a dead pine. They turn right off the road, pushing their way through brush and trees until they reach the garage.

  Abel looks around and then raises the steel shutters. He offers a reassuring smile when Sis starts at the clattering metal. The smells of home drift from inside—ash, wood smoke, cooking, blankets, and old books. “It's safe here. We're well-hidden.”

  Sis looks around, swallowing. “Okay.”

  “Just stand your bike next to the trolley,” Abel says, pointing along the righthand wall. “Just be careful. Watch your back on the boat.”

  Sis wheels the bike into the gloom and rests it against the trolley, the right handlebar tilting as it leans against the steel bars. She stands and looks down at her feet, shuffling.

  “You can sit down if you want,” Abel says, gesturing to the back seat of a car resting against the far wall. “Just watch out for the spring on the left.”