Jon Cronshaw - Knight of the Wasteland (Wasteland #2) by Jon Cronshaw

1. Burial

A BEL CRADLES PIP, ROCKING back and forth, whispering to himself as she lies dead in his arms.

With an arched back, he sighs and lifts her stiff body into the hull of his rowing boat. Layers of blue and white chipped paint cover its surface, grimy ropes securing it to a grass-stained trailer, no more than a metal frame and a pair of rubber wheels. He climbs up into the boat and sits on the single seat. A pair of oars, kept in place by rusted pivots, rests on either side of him.

He looks down at the dog and reaches into his leather jacket for his pistol. He turns it in his hand. Thin grey ripples glide along its barrel. He opens the cylinder and takes out the bullet. A tight, shuddering breath catches in his throat. He inspects the bullet for a long moment, takes in its shape, its potential, and sighs. Blowing on it, he places it back, and clicks the cylinder shut, hands shaking. His eyes stare back at him in the reflection along the barrel, cold and distant.

Thick concrete walls stand silent around him. A cracked window, held from shattering by rusted wire mesh, lets in a dull trickle of light. In the corner to his right lie the remains of a recent fire, blackened wood and grey ash. A pile of grey pine branches rests next to it.

The roof above the fire gapes half-collapsed, revealing the last flickers of sunset. A bundle of blankets lies along the right-hand wall, crumpled in a heap on top of his bedroll. A glimmer of light catches the corner of his shopping trolley and disappears. The garages steel shutters hang open behind him.

Abel turns and looks down at Pips body, shaking his head at her wiry legs and brindle fur. He looks outside. Grey clouds blot out the sky. The pines across the way lean gaunt and lifeless, thin twiggy things, the same grey as the sky. The other trees loom green and wild, their branches twisting and spreading along the ground, climbing the sides of his garage and obscuring it from the highway beyond.

The smell of damp fur and moss hangs in the air. He removes his tattered baseball cap and runs his fingers over his matted hair. A tremble courses along his spine. He considers his pistol again, bouncing it in his hands for several minutes before placing it back in his jacket. Getting to his feet, he steps out of the boat, and reaches into his trolley a cage on wheels filled with odds and ends. He leans in, pulling out a plastic sheet, green and stained with brown and grey patches. Dust slides from its surface. He unfolds it and drapes it over the boat, covering Pips body, protecting her from the approaching night.

He pulls down the steel shutters a hollow rattle followed by a crash as steel meets concrete. He flinches at the noise, his head tired and body sore.

Squinting in the dim light, he goes over to his bedroll and shuffles beneath blankets and old coats. He stretches out and lies on his back for a long time, staring through the hole in the roof at the emerging stars. Wisps of thick clouds eddy across the half-moon as the night grows darker and the clouds drift away.

Unable to sleep, he lets out a sharp breath and gets up. Stepping over to the boat, he pulls the plastic sheet aside and looks down at Pip.

She is still dead.

He strokes her fur, feeling her ribs beneath his fingers. You feel wrong, he whispers.

Chewing his bottom lip, he climbs up and sits in the boat, resting a hand against her cold body. His other hand wanders to his pistol again. He grips the handle and shivers at the cold air against his chest. Shaking his head, he gets down from the boat and crawls back onto the bedroll. He smells must, dirt, and the dog. Something crawls nearby, tiny, clicking.

Damn it, he mutters through gritted teeth.

C OLD DAMPNESS FILLS the air when the sun rises above the horizon, sending flashes of light across the floodwaters to the east. Abel gathers enough twigs to start a fire and looks at Pips stiff body, his lip twitching. He gropes through his trolley and pulls out a tin of something. Rust lingers around its edges. He pierces the tin with the tip of his hunting knife and works it around the lip, levering it open. Damn beans, he spits.

He sniffs at the tin, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rust and bean juice. Sighing, he places the tin on the fire, watching as the flames rise around it. He turns and steps outside.

Approaching a dead tree, Abel unfastens his combat trousers, and relieves himself against the trunk. He looks downhill towards the water, towards the city, and lets out another sigh before heading back inside.

The fire spits and crackles against the damp twigs when it finally takes. A trail of thick grey smoke rises up in splutters through the hole in the roof. He rubs his hands against the fires warmth. The beans bubble in the tin. He wraps his hands with a cloth from the trolley, snatches the tin from the flames, and lays it on the concrete to cool. He gets up and retrieves a teaspoon from his backpack.

He yawns and eats, smiling slightly as the beans fill his belly and warm him from within. He reaches for his water bottle, buried deep in his backpack, its black enamel surface chipped to expose the metal beneath. Kneeling, he unscrews the cap with trembling fingers and takes a swig, the water still cool and refreshing. He rubs the spoon on a filthy rag, rinses it with water, and then gets up and slides it into the trolley between a pile of books and a coil of rope.

With a sharp tug, he lifts his backpack, placing it into the boat, next to the dog. He arranges the backpack so it won't tip, rolling his shoulders into the weight.

He turns and stamps out the fire, kicking blackened twigs aside while fanning the smoke away from his eyes. Coughs tear at his throat. He steps over to the boat and pulls on his faded baseball cap, red and tattered. It clings to the top of Abels head, flattening his hair, its peak casting a shadow over his eyes.

He yanks the sheet off Pips body and looks at her, his lips held tight. A pale tongue droops from her mouth, pink and dry. He folds the sheet and drapes it over the trolley.

Turning back to the boat, he places his water bottle into his backpack. He lifts a harness fashioned from strips of webbing, cloth, and rope from inside the boat and attaches it to the trailers front. The trailer makes a dull thud when it drops from the concrete to the sunken ground. Looking around, he pulls down the shutters and wheels the trailer to the edge of the highway.

He glances at a tree to his left, sweeping his eyes along its top branch and then nodding to himself at the strip of faded red cloth a marker, a sign hidden in plain sight.