Addict of the Wasteland

  Addict of the Wasteland

  Wasteland, Volume 0.5

  Jon Cronshaw

  Published by No World Press, 2016.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Dedication

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  Want more?

  Author's note

  Introduction

  I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for downloading Addict of the Wasteland. This story is the prequel to my forthcoming novel, Wizard of the Wasteland, due for release in spring 2017.

  If you're on Facebook, please like my author page, for all the latest news. Twitter users can follow me @jlcronshaw and you can also be my friend on Goodreads.

  You can check out my other short stories at http://www.joncronshaw.com and follow along with my ongoing Ray Bradbury Challenge.

  Dedication

  For Claire.

  1.

  The addict takes the road east away from the Grid. This isn't his usual hunting ground, but pickings are thinning out west. He pulls his tattered cap down over his eyes as he walks into the rising sun, shielding his eyes from the burning glare. There's asphalt beneath his hardened bare feet. He'd sold his boots for plez.

  He passes dead trees and crawling vines, rusted road signs, and the foundations of long-gone houses poking through the lifeless soil. Blast craters pepper the land to the south. Everything is coated in a brownish-grey dust, probably swept across the wastes during the last storm. He heads towards the greenery.

  After two miles or so, the road gets steeper. He keeps watch, alert for movement. He grips the handle of his pistol and listens. A dog howls in the distance, too far away to be a threat. The pull of the plez is there; it's always there, nagging him, prodding him. He shudders, removes his cap, runs his hands over his lank hair and beard, and shakes away the withdrawal.

  The land around him is greener now, wilder. Grasses and mosses stretch across the asphalt, swallowing it, making it part of the land. He reaches the top of the hill, looks down, and puts his cap back on. The sky is clear and the air fresh up here. He sweeps his eyes along the horizon, scanning for a victim. In the east, he catches the glimpse of the dead city, a black smudge of shimmering filth. Nearer, there are cultivated fields and a road leading north to the settlement, Trinity. A river winds through a valley to the south. And there's someone on the road ahead.

  The addict takes cover behind a tangled thorn bush, watching as the person approaches. The woman is alone and walking with slow, ambling steps. She's wearing a headscarf and has dirty blonde hair. He looks around, knowing it could be a trap, knowing she could be bait for an ambush. She's straining against the weight of a backpack, leaning into each step as she climbs the road towards him. He waits and watches. Her clothes are made from thick wools and leathers. A hunting knife hangs from her belt. He pulls his cap down, obscuring his face.

  As she reaches the thorn bush, the addict confronts her, pistol in hand. "Hold it right there," he says.

  The woman stops and curses. "Don't hurt me," she says.

  "I'm not going to hurt you if you do what I say," he says, his eyes narrowing. He can tell she's not an addict.

  The woman's eyes are tired and sunken. "Okay," she says. Her voice is thin, resigned.

  "First, I need you to toss that knife on the ground," the addict says. He gestures with the pistol. "Then step away."

  He keeps the gun aimed at her while she unfastens the knife and places it on the ground. She stares up at the addict and steps back.

  "Easy now," he says. His eyes never leaving the woman, he steps forward, leans down, picks up the knife, and holds it in his left hand. "You alone?" he asks.

  The woman hesitates, looking around. "No," she says. "My man, he's armed."

  The addict smirks. "You're alone. That's good."

  "Please don't hurt me," she pleads.

  "I'm not going to hurt you. Drop your pack." He gestures with the knife.

  The woman slides the backpack from her shoulders, places it on the ground in front of her, and shakes her head.

  "Step back," he says. The woman takes three paces back and looks down. "Keep going," he says. The woman nods, takes five more paces, and stops.

  "Any plez?" he asks.

  "No," she says, folding her arms in front of her.

  The addict keeps his pistol fixed on her. He kneels, opens the top flap of the backpack, and drags its contents out. There's a water bottle, five tins of food, a coil of blue rope, a pair of books, socks, a box of matches, and a blanket. He grins, drops his backpack to the ground, takes the books, rope, and matches, and stops. He glances up at the woman, notices the bulge of her belly, and hesitates. "You pregnant?" he asks.

  The woman gives a terrified nod.

  "Damn it," the addict mutters. He drops the blanket, bottle, tins, and socks back into the woman's backpack. "I'm taking these things," he says, patting his backpack. "You keep the rest. It's hard out there."

  There's a confused frown on the woman's face. "What?" she asks.

  "Take your stuff. Go, before I change my mind."

  The woman nods, picks up her backpack, and runs west, away from the addict.

  "Damn it," he says, shaking his head. He stares down at his pistol, at his trembling hands, and shudders. He drops the knife into his backpack and lifts it onto his shoulders. He looks back along the road. The woman is still running. He lets out a long, deep sigh, turning his attention back to the road ahead. He can reach Trinity by sunset.

  2.

  Wheat fields wave against the breeze to the addict's left as the outer fence of Trinity comes into view. Reds and oranges from the setting sun shimmer along the edges of the approaching fence. The fence encloses the settlement in a ramshackle combination of corrugated iron, stones, wood, and sheets of thick plastic and metal. Here and there is a lamppost or a road sign. He recognises parts of cars. Rope and telegraph wires secure things in place. Away from the fence to the right looms a towering wooden crucifix.

  "Hello," he calls. He looks along the top of the fence and then down at his feet. The road ends where he is standing, but there is no sign of an obvious entrance. He hears the voices of people and the calls of animals from the other side of the fence.

  He cups his hands around his mouth. "Hello," he calls. A section of fence slides across with a rumbling scrape. A dark-skinned woman with black dreadlocks leans around the gap and eyes him with suspicion. "We don't know you," she says. "What do you want?" She wears brown robes and holds herself with a raised chin and straight back.

  "I hear you trade," the addict says. "I've got some things."

  "What sort of things?" the woman asks.

  The addict gives a half-shrug, scratching his beard. "A few books."

  "You armed?"

  "Yep," he says.

  "Wait here." She closes the fence behind her. He watches her disappear inside and waits. He's aware of the need for plez, the pull, the urge. A cold sweat spreads over his body; a prickling, tingling sensation stretches along his flesh, pulled taut like a snare.

  There's a harsh metallic roar as the fence is opened again, this time wider. A tall, skinny man with thin black hair and pale skin stands next to the woman and looks the addict up and down with a scowl.

  "Could you hand over your weapons to Jacob?" the woman asks.

  The addict frowns.

  "We'll return them when you leave," she says.

  The addict nods, takes his pistol from his jacket, and hands it over. He swings his backpack to th
e ground, retrieves the hunting knife, and hands it to Jacob.

  "Is that everything?" asks Jacob.

  "Yep," the addict says. "That's all I've got."

  "Good," Jacob says. He whispers something to the woman and then leaves.

  "You do this to everyone?" the addict asks.

  "Only to people we have no reason to trust. My name's Sal." She extends a hand to the addict. "We have a few rules at Trinity. We live by God's law here. We treat others how we'd like to be treated. We do not kill, steal, fornicate, cause harm, or lie. We are a community of friends, but we will not hesitate to banish anyone who goes against our rules. Is that agreeable to you?"

  The addict raises an eyebrow. "You're saying I need to keep my nose clean?"

  Sal folds her arms. "Precisely," she says.

  The addict gives a shrug. "Okay."

  Sal leads him into the settlement and closes the fence behind them. The addict stops and looks around with wide eyes. The settlement is nestled in a broad blast crater; he estimates it is a mile from end to end. A man lights torches sticking out from poles and fence posts with a flaming rod. A dirt track leads down a slope to the centre. Chickens run by, clucking at his feet. The sound of grunting pigs comes from somewhere to the left. Dilapidated buildings line the edge of the fence, some with glazed windows. Scores of people mill around. A two-storey structure towers above to the right. A wire fence houses a pair of cows and a goat. Green leaves sprout from vegetable patches ahead. There's a water tower off to the left, its long shadow stretching across the rooftops of the smaller buildings.

  "What's that weird humming?" the addict asks.

  Sal stops, listening. "That will be the bees. We keep them for honey."

  He sniffs at the air, taking in the aromas of cooking and wood smoke. "I'll be damned," the addict mutters.

  "What was that?" asks Sal.

  "Hell of a place you've got here," he says.

  "We don't like that word," Sal says.

  The addict nods. "Right," he says.

  He follows Sal to a single-storey wooden building. She opens the door and leads him inside. The building is a single room, gloomy and lined with tables. There's the smell of damp clothes and engine oil. The tables are piled high with goods, arranged in no real order. Next to him is a table littered with bottles, children's toys, sheets of plastic, and a roll of wire. Underneath are a few pairs of boots and shoes. There are car parts, clothing, cutlery, blankets, pots, plates, and items the addict doesn't recognise. Beeswax candles cast an orange glow across the wood-panelled walls.

  "You buy books?" the addict asks.

  "We certainly do," Sal says. She offers him a short smile. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

  He makes a show of looking around the room. "Anything I can trade back at the Grid. Nothing specific."

  Sal leads him over to an empty table. "Please, show me what you've got."

  The addict swings his backpack onto the table, takes out the books, and lays them side by side. Sal examines them, looks up at him, and frowns. "Where did you get these? And please don't lie to me."

  "From a woman on the road," he says.

  "You stole them, you mean." Her voice is calm, flat.

  The addict scratches behind his right ear and looks at the ground. "You've got to do what you need to if you're going to survive out there."

  "You robbed a pregnant woman," Sal says. "Is she still alive?"

  "I didn't hurt her." He opens his hands, meeting her eyes. "Honestly."

  Sal's eyes narrow. "You took her goods."

  "Only what's here. I didn't take her food. I didn't take her water. I saw she was pregnant.” He shakes his head. “That's the truth."

  "If she returns, I will ask her."

  "Right," he says. "No deal then?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Right. You'd better give them back to the woman next time she's here. I'll be on my way." The addict goes to leave. "Can you get whatever his name was to return my pistol?" He pulls on his backpack, walks over to the door.

  "Wait," says Sal. "The wastes are too dangerous to wander alone."

  He stops, looks back at Sal, and tilts his head in confusion.

  "I'll have Jacob prepare a room for the night."

  "You'd do that?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

  Sal nods. "Of course. You've shown willingness to change your ways. You had a choice to walk away, to trade those books elsewhere, but you didn't. You may live your life with sin, but there can be salvation."

  The addict doesn't say anything.

  "Are you hungry?" she asks.

  "Yep. Aren't we all?"

  Sal leads the way across the settlement to a large wooden building. "This is our communal hall," she says. "We all eat together here." Sal shuts away the darkness when they step inside to the warmth and noise.

  Three long pine tables and six benches fill the room. Men, women, and children sit in rows, eating soft breads, boiled potatoes, and roasted meats. A tray piled with boiled eggs is passed along the first table.

  "There's a seat over there," she says, pointing to the far end of the centre table.

  Smiling, the addict takes a seat. A tin plate makes its way down the table towards him and then a second plate when Sal takes her seat next to him. He looks up and recognises Jacob. "Jacob, isn't it?"

  Jacob nods, looking at Sal. She gets to her feet and scans her eyes across the other residents' faces. "Let us pray," she says.

  Confused, the addict looks around and sees the others dipping their heads and clasping their hands together. He copies the gesture.

  "Dear Lord, we want to thank you for this meal and for the protection you provide us. Please give us the strength to help those who need helping and to keep us safe in these final days. Amen." Sal returns to her seat.

  The addict feels a nudge against his side and raises his head.

  "You can stop praying now," Sal whispers.

  "Oh right, thanks." He lets Sal fill his plate with bread, roasted chicken, and potatoes. A woman to his right passes him a clay cup. A carafe of water is passed down the table. "This is an amazing place," he says, looking around. "Nothing like the Grid."

  Jacob scoffs. "Such a terrible, unholy place."

  "The Grid?" the addict says, surprised."It's alright."

  Jacob tilts his head and regards the addict for several seconds. "You don't look alright: your skin's practically hanging off you; you've got bruised eye sockets; you're pale and sweating."

  Sal places a hand on Jacob's and shakes her head. "Don't," she whispers.

  "You know how I feel about letting plez-heads in here," Jacob says, pulling his hand away.

  "We are all God's children, Jacob."

  Jacob shakes his head. "You're right, I apologise."

  "It is plez, isn't it?" Sal asks.

  "Of course, it is," Jacob snaps. "Look at him."

  Sal shoots a glare at Jacob before turning back to the addict. "Am I right?"

  The addict scratches his beard, takes a piece of bread in his mouth, chews, and swallows. "Yep," he says with a shrug. "You can't get off it. What can you do?"

  "That's not true," says Sal. "If you're willing, you can be free with faith."

  "Faith?" He rolls his eyes. "What's faith? You think God's going to help me off plez?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Look around us. Look at the world. If God existed, God died a long time ago. I respect what you do here, I really do. You seem to have got it figured out. Please don't start talking to me about God, about some guy in the clouds looking out for us. No one's ever looked out for me." He tears a piece of chicken from the bone.

  "We can look out for you," says Sal.

  The addict stops, the chicken raised halfway to his lips.

  "You can change," she says.

  "And what if I don't want to change?" the addict asks, placing the chicken back down on his plate.

  "Your decisions aren't your own," says Sal. "You're led by plez to steal, to lie. But even whe
n you do steal, you show compassion. You can live a good life."

  The addict waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not interested in this God stuff."

  "It's not about God. It's about doing right," Sal says, meeting his gaze. "You know what doing right is. I've seen it."

  The addict doesn't respond, grabs the piece of chicken from his plate, and eats.

  Sal leans forward, touching the addict's left hand. "You can be free," she says, looking up at him. "You can focus on finding something good."

  "There's no good in this world," the addict says.

  Exhausted, the addict lies back on a soft bed. He pulls the woollen blanket over him and sighs. To his left, there's a bedside table. At the end of the bed, his backpack leans against a wooden chair. A slight draught comes through a broken join in the wood panelling along the left-hand wall, next to the door. Wind whistles through the gap, making the flame of the beeswax candle on the bedside table flicker and dance, casting rippling shadows along the wall.

  He closes his eyes, basking in the comfort for several minutes before his mind shifts and fixates on plez. A cold sweat shrouds him and his teeth chatter. His head thunders with pain. Desperate, he leans over the end of the bed and rifles through his backpack with frantic, trembling fingers. Deep inside, he finds his pipe and a crystal of plez. He lets out a sharp breath of relief. He sits up, drapes the blanket over his crossed legs, and picks up the pipe.

  Taking the pipe in his mouth, he pushes the plez into the blackened end, moves it to the flame at the top of the candle, and inhales. Crackles of pleasure fizz through his body. He gasps for air as he descends into bliss for a moment. There's a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. He falls to his side, topples over the edge of the bed, and hits his head against the floorboards with a sharp smack, falling unconscious.

  3.

  Vomit erupts from the addict's mouth when he wakes. He tries to move, tries to call out, but he is paralysed, screaming from within. He's aware of voices around him and glimpses of movement, of shadows and colours through fog. Floods of fire and ice and electricity pulse through his body. His arms and legs convulse uncontrollably.