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

by Jon Cronshaw

  The damp ground sags beneath his boots when he drops from the highway. Towering trees whisper around him, their dying leaves clinging to branches on thin, brittle stems. Twigs shatter under his boots as he clambers down the embankment, one hand held behind him for balance.

  Tents and bonfires emerge through the trees. People walk around, no more than shadows in the night. Abel presses against a twisted trunk and watches the camp below, pulling his eyes away when they’re drawn towards the flames.

  The king’s tent stands centre, its red and white stripes reaching up to a point, colours dulled to greys. A bulky man emerges from inside the tent, looking around before speaking to the man with slicked-back hair.

  Abel slumps down, resting his head against the tree as he watches for a long time. After several hours, the fires dim, and many sleep in shelters and beneath blankets. He gets up, brushes himself down with his hands, and works through the trees, towards the camp.

  Heart pounding, he starts at the snort of a man’s snoring and bolts behind a tree, holding himself against the trunk until his breathing slows. Moving forward again and keeping in shadows, he creeps past a man and woman curled up together on a bedroll and finds himself behind the king’s tent.

  Reaching into his jacket, he takes out his hunting knife and drives it into the canvas and pulls it downwards, dragging it through a red stripe. He cringes at the tearing sound and waits. Nothing happens, so he leans inside.

  Abel can just make out the king’s shape beneath a mound of blankets. He stands over the king and looks around. They are alone.

  The king stirs, mumbles something, and then stares up, wide-eyed, as Abel pulls his pistol.

  “Don’t you dare call out.”

  Swallowing, the king nods and holds out his hands in a helpless gesture. “What do you want?”

  “I need you and your people to move on.”

  “And leave that settlement?” The king smirks.

  “You need to leave Trinity alone.”

  The king nods to himself. “I’d have to change that.”

  Abel flexes his fingers, gripping the pistol’s handle as sweat seeps from his palms. “Change what?”

  “That name,” the king says, brushing something from his shoulder and getting to his feet, wobbling over his left leg.

  “Stay where you are,” Abel growls. “It’s over.”

  The flicker of a smile passes across the king’s face and he limps a few steps forward. “You are as bad as the other raiders in this disgusting place. When the lawless zone is under my rule, I will crush people like you and your precious Trinity like the worthless bugs you are.”

  “They’re good people, damn it.”

  The king shrugs. “We’re good people. We are bringing order to a world in chaos. What could be more virtuous?”

  Abel licks his lips and narrows his eyes. “You’re killers.”

  Examining his fingernails, the king sighs. “We execute those who stand in the way of progress. It is natural and necessary. I’ve seen the addicts, the pushers, the slavers—we are putting an end to that.”

  Abel lets out a bitter laugh. “Is that why you kidnapped those women? Very virtuous.”

  “Those spawn of sin and incest?” The king gives an indignant, pitying look. “Those women were victims, forced to interbreed with their father and brothers. We saved them.”

  There’s a long silence and Abel looks down at his trembling hand.

  “See,” the king says, grinning. “We’re working for the good of everyone. Can’t you see that?”

  The pistol shifts in Abel’s hand.

  “You’re hesitating. That means you have the capacity to think, the capacity to comprehend my vision.”

  “No. If you care so much, then move on. Leave Trinity alone.”

  The king snorts and lets out a mirthless chuckle. “That is not up for negotiation. I need that settlement. I sent an envoy with a fair offer, and he was unceremoniously ejected. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I tried to speak to them in person, one of their thugs shot Binky. We are beyond the point of negotiation. They can only resist for so long.”

  Abel closes his eyes for a short moment. He pulls his pistol’s trigger and opens his eyes at the high metallic click. He pulls the trigger again, and again, and again. He looks down, mouth gaping.

  “And you call us killers?” The king shakes his head. “You should join us.”

  “No,” Abel growls, swinging his pistol and connecting with the king’s jaw. The king staggers back a few steps, eyes rolling back in his head before crumpling to the ground.

  Abel looks around, sweat pouring from his forehead, and slides his pistol back inside his jacket. Staring down at the king, his hand creeps towards his hunting knife. “Damn it,” he mutters. He takes a few steps backwards and ducks outside.

  Seized by adrenaline, he scrambles through the brush, not looking back as he makes his way up the embankment. He stops by a tree and catches his breath, resting his head on a forearm, heart racing.

  “Damn it,” he spits, punching the trunk. He reels back with the pain and yanks a splinter from a knuckle.

  Taking a deep breath, he gets back onto the highway. His eyes shoot towards the truck, scanning for the guards. He races forward, hopping the central barrier to meet the trail to Trinity, boots pounding on the asphalt.

  He weaves through the first set of barricades—twisted steel sheets and piles of bricks. A fire burns low in a trench to his right.

  Looking back across the highway, he shudders at the stillness. A cool breeze whips around him, picking up a swirl of dust and clattering junk. A bullet fizzes past him, ricocheting on a barricade to his left. He follows the noise of the gunshot and waves his hands towards the crucifix, its black shape just visible against the night. A tiny iridescent flash comes from the cross as a chunk of dirt flies up to his left, the gunshot echoing around him.

  Abel freezes as another gunshot rings out. “Damn it, Sis,” he mutters, sliding behind a barricade. He looks over his shoulder towards Trinity and then stares ahead at the king’s camp.

  He waits.

  After several minutes, he gets up and runs forward. Another bullet lodges in the ground to his left. He drops and crawls to the trail’s right until his elbow slips into an irrigation ditch, his chin hitting the dirt with a dull thud, an explosion of purples and whites filling his vision. Almost breathless, he crawls to the shelter of ferns nestled beneath a large tree, nettles brushing across his face.

  He lies on the damp soil, staring up at the stars. Sighing, he sits up and shuffles backwards until his back reaches the trunk, face throbbing with stings. With trembling hands, he reaches into his jacket and takes out his pistol, shaking his head. The cylinder clicks open and he drops the bullet onto his palm. Taking it in his fingers, he breathes on its surface and wipes it on his sweater. He blows into the barrel, his breath resonating with a low moan, and replaces the bullet, clicking the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist.

  Leaning away, he pulls the trigger. Again. And again. The cylinder rotates with each pull, hammer snapping down. Nothing.

  Abel drops the pistol and buries his head in his hands. Tears fill his eyes and his body shakes with sobs. He looks up at the stars and lets out a long, deep sigh.

  11. Killer

  Abel rolls over, flinching as fern leaves brush against his face. The first flickers of sunlight illuminate a shroud of mist with a ghostly white. Cold and damp, he gets to his feet and yawns, rolling the stiffness from his joints and licking the dryness from his lips.

  Shivering, he rubs his eyes and looks around, bits of dirt and crawling bugs dropping from his jacket. Trinity stands at the trail’s end, obscured by the icy haze. He hops across the irrigation ditch and makes his way towards the fence, weaving through barricades and stepping over the corners of trenches.

  When he reaches the gate, he looks up at the crucifix, its wood slick with dew, glistening. There’s no sign of Sis. “Hello?” he calls, banging on the gat
e. “Anyone?”

  After a minute or so, he sinks to the ground with his back against the fence. When he hears movement from inside, he calls out again.

  The fence slides across and Sal peeks through the gap, bleary-eyed. “Abel? You look terrible. What happened?”

  “I...” His voice trails off. “Can we talk?”

  Sal gives a concerned look. “Of course.” She steps across, gesturing Abel inside, shutting the fence behind them. “Breakfast is being prepared. We should have a little time alone.”

  Abel follows Sal wordlessly, his head hunched over as they amble between huts and animal pens. They reach the church and Sal gives him a long look. “I’ve not seen you this bad since you first came here.” She picks a leaf from his hair and opens the door, leading him inside, taking a seat next to him on the front row of benches.

  Abel looks away when Sal takes his hand, blinking away a tear. He stares ahead, eyes fixed on the oak cross.

  “Talk to me,” Sal urges in a low whisper.

  “I went to speak to that king.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I snuck into his camp.” Abel takes his hand away and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “You spoke to King Omar?”

  Abel nods. “He was saying how all this killing is for the good, how he’s trying to make things better. He said he was going to take Trinity. I pointed my pistol at him and pulled the trigger...” His voice cracks.

  “You killed him?” Sal’s eyes widen.

  Abel looks back up at the crucifix and sighs. “No.”

  “Is he injured?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know,” he says, raising his hands, his voice filled with helpless frustration. “The pistol didn’t work right or the bullet’s a dud. Either way, nothing happened.” He removes his hat and rubs the back of his neck, picking at a sore.

  “So, you didn’t kill him?”

  “Nope.” He leans forward again, raking his fingers across his hair, jerking when he catches a knot.

  “So, he’s still alive?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did he follow you?”

  “I chinned him with my pistol. He was out cold when I left. But I nearly killed him...I wanted to. I went through with it, Sal.”

  “Right.” Sal folds her arms, biting her bottom lip. “I’d suggest prayer, but I know what you’d say.”

  “I try to do right, Sal. I try to live by a code. I’m just like them. I could have killed him...I tried to.”

  Sal raises her chin and gives Abel a chiding look. “I wish you had.”

  Abel frowns and sits up, meeting her gaze, staring at her in silence, his forehead creasing. “What happened to ‘thou shall not kill’?”

  “The Bible also says ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. King Omar is not an innocent. While he lives, innocent people suffer.” She waves a hand.

  “This is why I can’t be doing with this God stuff—too many contradictions.”

  “The contents and interpretation of a holy text has no bearing whatsoever on God’s greatness. I don’t think God would approve of stoning adulterers, or cutting off the hands of women...but those things are there.”

  “So, what? You just pick and choose.”

  “I suppose. I’m a Christian. I follow the teachings of Christ. He taught us to love and be loved, to hope and to serve. He wanted us to care for people, especially those in need...the other stuff is just...” She shrugs. “It doesn’t figure into what I believe.”

  Abel looks at the cross and then down at his hands. “You don’t need God or Jesus for any of that. I have a code...at least, I had a code,” he sighs.

  “Did you go to King Omar’s camp with evil intentions?”

  “I didn’t set out to kill him, if that’s what you mean,” he says, shrugging.

  Sal nods. “I’ve said this before. I believe you are doing God’s work on Earth. He has a plan for you. Your actions are His.”

  Abel lets out an incredulous laugh. “So, what? I’m some kind of prophet now? I tried to kill someone. I can’t live with that.”

  “You are a kind and loving person, Abel.” She takes his hand and looks into his eyes. “I know what you’ve been through and the person you’ve become. You know in your heart what is right. And when you tried to kill that so-called king, you were on the side of right.”

  “I don’t know. It just—” Abel looks up with a start as the church bell chimes, the rings reverberating around the walls. He covers his ears and gets up. “Is that the alarm?” he shouts.

  Sal nods. “They must have returned.”

  Abel runs outside into the fog, the church bell ringing out across the settlement.

  “What's happening?” Sal asks, running at his side.

  “I can't see through the mist. I need to find the kid. I’m going to try his room.” He makes a right along a winding dirt track towards the traders’ huts.

  “Wait,” Sal says.

  Abel stops and meets her dark eyes.

  “Good luck.” She leans forward, embracing him. She kisses him on the cheek and takes his hands in hers. “Please, be careful.”

  Abel nods. “You too. I need to go.” He turns and runs past shacks and buildings. Chickens squawk around him. Cows and pigs grunt and snort. The muffled sounds of shouting and panic follow the breeze. He runs over to the traders’ accommodation and bangs against the doors. Sis steps out first, three rifles slung over her back, a sagging bag of bullets tied to her waist. He looks around for David. The other rooms stand empty.

  “Stick with me,” Abel says, turning to Sis. “We need to find the kid.”

  “David?”

  “David,” he agrees, as if trying the name out for the first time.

  Sis takes his hand and they follow the path down to the crater’s middle. Men and women with bows and spears run past, some of them heading towards the gate, others fleeing from the fray with empty hands.

  Gunshots ring out around them. Sis yanks at Abel’s arm. “What?”

  “It’s David.”

  “That's good.”

  “He's over there,” she says, pointing towards the gate.

  Abel grits his teeth and nods. “Come on.” He reaches into his jacket with both hands, retrieving his pistol and knife. They follow the slope up towards the gate, the sounds of shouting and screaming growing louder. Figures emerge through the fog. A spear flies past them.

  The glow of a burning shack appears through the mist, the flames softened and distorted. A few more gunshots ring out. Another person screams.

  Sis tugs on Abel’s sleeve, dragging him by the arm to take cover behind a shack. “We keep back.”

  Thunderous bangs come from the fence’s other side, followed by a deafening split. “They’re breaking through,” says Abel.

  With a smooth motion, Sis takes a rifle from her back, holds it against her shoulder as she tilts her head, lining her right eye up with the sight. “I can't see through fog. I can't tell who people are.”

  Abel runs forward, reaching the crowd as they push against the fence, trying to hold back the gate as it heaves and throbs.

  Shudders pass along the ground as the raiders ram the gate from outside. A split courses like lightning along a broad wooden fence panel. When it falls, a dozen or so men clamber inside, letting off shots and calling out commands.

  The king limps up to the gate, rubbing his bruised chin as a smile creeps across his face. “Round them up,” he calls. “We gave them a chance.”

  The residents raise their hands, some of them placing them on their heads.

  Armed men line the residents along the fence, making them kneel and face away. The king paces back and forth, surveying the people. “Where is your priestess?”

  Abel and Sis crawl backwards, hiding behind the blackened remains of a hut, burnt-out during the last raid.

  “Where is your leader?” The king asks. He grabs a woman by t
he shoulders, turning her around. “Well?”

  The woman shakes her head, her eyes widening with panic as she cries out.

  “Take her out,” the king says, gesturing with a flourish.

  A single bullet rips through her skull, spraying blood across the fence before she slumps to the ground in a lifeless heap. A few people scream. Others sob. The rest stiffen in silence, waiting to die.

  “I will ask again. Where is your leader?” The king steps over the woman’s body and looks past the gate along the road towards the highway. “Do not ignore me,” he says, turning back.

  “I'm here,” Sal says, breathless. “Let my people go. Please.”

  “Are you the priestess? Are you their leader?”

  “Please. You've won. Let us leave.”

  The king lets out a cold, mocking laugh and squares up to Sal. He grabs a handful of her dreadlocks, twisting her head at an awkward angle, dragging her to her towards him and leaning close to her right ear. “I sent an envoy, and you turned down a deal. I cannot have my subjects defy me.” He lets go, pushing her back with a jerk.

  “Give me one of your rifles,” Abel whispers.

  “They're mine.”

  “Damn it, Sis. There’s no time for this. You can't use all three at once.”

  Sis gives him an unsure look, then nods. She sits up and takes a rifle from her back.

  “Is it loaded?”

  Sis nods.

  “Good.” He takes aim with the rifle and squeezes the trigger, letting off a shot. The king jerks back as the bullet ricochets off the shack to his right. “Damn it, that’s loud,” he says, cringing.

  Getting to his feet, he point the rifle at the king, and clears his throat. “Hey!” he calls. “King.”

  The king shifts his gaze, his eyes darting around until he spots Abel through the fog. “You again?”

  “Get your men to put their weapons down. I’ve got another three rifles on you. Try anything and you die.”

  The king nods as he glances at Sis, squinting as he scans for the others. “More of my men are on the way. There's no way you can win.”

  “We can still kill you,” Abel says.