Jon Cronshaw's Blog, page 45

7 Sure-Fire Signs You’ve Landed in an Assassin Fantasy Novel

We’ve all been there, right? You’re going about your daily routine when all of a sudden, you realise you’re not in Kansas anymore.

But no, it’s not some delightful fairy tale land filled with talking animals and magical trees. You’re stuck in an assassin fantasy novel.

And here’s how you know…

1. Everyone You Meet Has a Ridiculously Dangerous Profession

You’re chatting with the local tavern keeper, and she casually mentions she’s a retired necromancer. The postman is a former dragon-slayer. The greengrocer? Oh, he’s a part-time shape-shifter. It seems like everyone has a side hustle in some perilous profession or other.

2. There’s a Suspicious Amount of Leather and Cloaks

Gone are the days of jeans and T-shirts. Now, it’s all about the leather and cloaks. And don’t even get me started on the abundance of hooded figures. If you’ve started suspecting that the local fashion designer is a Dungeons & Dragons enthusiast with a penchant for the dark and dangerous, you’re probably right.

3. You’ve Developed an Unnatural Affinity for Sharp Objects

Suddenly, you’re finding yourself admiring the craftsmanship of daggers and swords in shop windows. You’ve started frequenting blacksmiths instead of supermarkets. You’re suddenly critiquing the balance and grip of a steak knife at dinner. It’s not normal, I assure you.

4. Your Food and Drink Taste…off

Ah, the classic poison trope. If your tea tastes like it has a hint of nightshade or your steak has the subtle aftertaste of hemlock, you might be in trouble. And no, it’s not just because you’ve been eating out too much.

5. Your Love Interest is Alarmingly Good at Hiding

One minute you’re walking hand in hand, and the next they’ve disappeared into the shadows. They reappear seconds later, having taken out a group of bandits single-handedly. It’s not your typical love story, but then again, who wants normal when you can have danger and excitement?

6. The Local Wildlife is Suspiciously Deadly

If you’ve noticed that the local pigeons have been replaced by fire-breathing hellhawks, and the cute bunnies in the park are now sabre-toothed moon rabbits, you might want to reconsider your daily stroll. And if you spot a unicorn, don’t be fooled. Those things are lethal.

7. You’ve Become Unusually Good at Not Dying

Despite the constant attempts on your life, you seem to be thriving. You’ve dodged arrows, escaped from dark magic, and survived more poison attempts than you can count. If you’re still alive, it’s a sure sign you’re stuck in an assassin fantasy novel.

So, there you have it. If more than one of these signs rings true, you might want to start sharpening your swords and polishing your armour.

And remember, in the world of assassin fantasy, trust no one. Not even the comedic sidekick. Especially not the comedic sidekick.

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The post 7 Sure-Fire Signs You’ve Landed in an Assassin Fantasy Novel first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

The Ten Best Zombie Movies: From Gut-Wrenching to Gut-Splitting

Let’s talk zombies, shall we?

Those rotting, stumbling, voraciously hungry-for-human-flesh cinematic icons that just won’t die—no matter how many times you shoot them (well, you need to aim for the head, you see).

Here’s a definitive list of the ten best zombie movies that span genres, eras, and varying levels of gore, all the way from gut-wrenching horror to gut-splitting comedy.

1. Dawn of the Dead (1978)

George A. Romero’s ‘Dawn of the Dead‘ is the grandfather of all zombie flicks. Set in a shopping mall, this gem captures the very essence of ’70s America—capitalism, consumerism, and cannibalism. If you haven’t seen it yet, what in the rotting flesh are you waiting for?

2. Shaun of the Dead (2004)

If Jane Austen penned a zombie flick, this would be it. Okay, perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch, but ‘Shaun of the Dead’ is undoubtedly the ‘Pride and Prejudice’ of zombie movies—witty, British, and full of unspoken feelings (and the undead). It’s not just a comedy; it’s a ZomRomCom.

3. Bio-Zombie (1998)

Ever wondered what a Hong Kong mall would look like during a zombie apocalypse? Neither did we, but ‘Bio-Zombie’ gives us a hilarious yet grim picture nonetheless. This hidden gem is a testament to how zombie lore can transcend cultural barriers and still be a bloody good time.

4. 28 Days Later (2002)

This Danny Boyle-directed flick took zombies from lumbering loafers to Olympic sprinters. Gone are the days when you can leisurely escape from a zombie—these ones will chase you down like you’re the last piece of meat in the deli. Horrifying and groundbreaking, ‘28 Days Later’ changed the rules of the game.

5. Train to Busan (2016)

South Korea’s entry into the zombie arena comes with the kind of emotional weight that most Western zombie films lack. It’s zombies on a train—what’s not to love? Except maybe for the fact that you’ll be sobbing by the end.

6. Night of the Living Dead (1968)

Another Romero classic that started it all. This black-and-white film is not just a milestone in zombie cinema but also a potent social commentary on race and class in America. A must-see for any self-respecting zombie aficionado.

7. Zombieland (2009)

This American comedy does for zombies what ‘Scream’ did for slashers. It’s meta, it’s funny, and it has one of the best Bill Murray cameos in film history. Plus, it offers useful tips for surviving a zombie apocalypse. Double tap, anyone?

8. The Return of the Living Dead (1985)

Ever wondered where the whole “Braaaaains!” zombie trope came from? You have this 80s classic to thank for that. Part horror, part comedy, and all parts awesome, this film is punk rock in cinematic form.

9. [REC] (2007)

This Spanish found-footage horror isn’t for the faint of heart or those with motion sickness. But if you can get past the shaky camera work, you’re in for one of the most intense zombie experiences of your life.

10. World War Z (2013)

Love it or hate it, this big-budget Hollywood extravaganza took the zombie genre to global proportions. It’s like ‘The Amazing Race’, but instead of clues, you get zombies at each pit stop.

So there you have it, a smorgasbord of the very best in zombie cinema, guaranteed to keep you entertained during even the bleakest of apocalypses.

From slow-crawlers to sprinters, from comedies to tear-jerkers, the zombie genre is as alive (or undead?) as ever.

And let’s face it, in a world as unpredictable as ours, a good zombie movie is the perfect comfort food for the soul—no brains required.

If you’re a fan of zombie fiction, check out my ongoing serial, Punks Versus Zobmies!

Read Now!

The post The Ten Best Zombie Movies: From Gut-Wrenching to Gut-Splitting first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

Lord Sidebottom and the Awesome Airship Mystery – a steampunk adventure

The clock above my workbench struck seven. I rolled up my designs for what can only be described as the most awesome airship ever conceived—not in that vulgar sense uttered by those young people they have nowadays to refer to anything even vaguely of interest. No, this airship was awesome in the truest sense.

I stowed the blueprint in my wall-safe and locked the front door behind me as I stepped into the cold. It was time to meet the beautiful Lady Elizabeth.

I shovelled coal into my Segway. The machine rumbled to life, steam jets hissing from its exhaust vents. My feet stood firm between its wheels as the vehicle rolled forward.

The sands extended towards the sea’s distant glimmer as the Segway hopped onto the promenade. Seagulls eyed me from their gas lamp perches.

The beautiful Lady Elizabeth would be waiting for me. I had taken it upon myself to court her and prove I was a man of means and keen perception.

Approaching the pier, I spied a commotion around our usual place of meeting. I recognised Detective Jones, as tall and impeccable as ever with his black uniform and airman’s moustache. “Detective,” I called, drawing to a stop.

“Lord Sidebottom.” Lamplight caught the flicker of anguish in his expression.

I followed his gaze and my mouth gaped. An emerald green dress lay draped across twisted limbs. The beautiful Lady Elizabeth stared at nothing with dead eyes. I stepped from my Segway and knelt over her body.

“Do you know this woman?” the detective asked.

“It is the beautiful Lady Elizabeth. We are…we were courting.” I turned to him. “Who could have done this? Who could have snuffed out the life of such a wonderful woman?”

He removed his hat and dipped his head. “I am dreadfully sorry.”

“That is not an answer,” I spat. “Are there no clues?”

The detective licked his lips and gave a slight nod. He handed me a brass plaque, no bigger than my palm and no thicker than the brim of a cheap top hat.

I rose to my feet, tilting it towards a nearby gas lamp. The etched image of Mad Frank winking back at me caught the light. “It is Mad Frank’s calling card—my arch nemesis. Curse that—“

The emerald dress burst open as a dozen or so clockwork crabs launched themselves towards me, nipping and tearing at my flesh and hair and clothing.

I frantically pried them from me, hurling their metal shells to the ground, stamping them down beneath my boots.

The detective lunged forward, swinging at one of the damnable things with his truncheon, screaming out when the creature snapped at his face, lopping off a chunk of his moustache.

We looked around, dazed and breathless as gears and brass shards lay spread across the flagstones.

“Are they gone?” he asked, straightening his hat.

I stared down at my ragged shirt, and wiped my bloodied face with a handkerchief. “What the devil were they?”

“I believe they were Mad Frank’s attack crabs.”

A shuddering breath left me and I knelt next to Lady Elizabeth. Holes in the dress revealed a construction of wood and rubber beneath—nothing more than a container for those mechanical mockeries. I ran my hand towards her face and prodded rubbery flesh. “This is not a murder, detective. This is something else.”

“Then no murder has been committed. It is a closed case.”

 “I was supposed to meet the beautiful Lady Elizabeth. If she’s not here, then where is she?”

He met my question with a blank expression.

I tipped my hat and mounted the Segway. Deflated, I returned to my workshop. 

I came to a stop outside and rummaged for my keys, my fingers brushing Mad Frank’s calling card. Why had he sent clockwork crabs? Where was the beautiful Lady Elizabeth?

None of it made a lick of sense.

My workshop door flew open and three robot monkeys charged from inside. Steam poured from their ears. Alchemical light glowed behind their eyes.

I jumped to one side as they swung from trees and lampposts.

The first of them leaped towards me. I gripped the creature around the throat, slamming it against my garden wall, its skull shattering on impact.

I sidestepped the second and stood back as it tumbled into a thorn bush. I ran towards it, my boots crashing down on its chest, oil and coal spilling across the cobbles.

I turned swiftly as another mounted my back, its claws tearing at my already ragged shirt. Grabbing its ears, I flipped it over my shoulder and shoved it against the wall. It thrashed for a moment then dropped face-first to the ground.

I examined its head—it was coated in the same rubbery material as Lady Elizabeth’s false visage.

I drew my fists up and shouldered my way into the workshop. Lengths of rubber hose and copper wire lay across the counter. Brass gears and cogs stood in haphazard piles. My gaze shifted towards the wall-safe. Its door hung at an awkward angle. Scorch marks ran along its hinges. I marched over and thrust my head inside. “My designs!”

A glimmer of something caught my eye—an etched sheet of brass, Mad Frank’s calling card.

I snatched it as a low droning hum filled my workshop. I bolted outside, skidding to a halt as Mad Frank’s airship loomed above.

I threw a handful of coal into my Segway and fired up its engine. The airship turned slowly towards me as I raced ahead. A salvo of missiles burst from the airship’s cannon.

Charging headlong towards the first missile, I pushed my Segway beyond its limits, its frame rattling as the wind rushed by my ears. With a swift kick, the Segway rose from the ground and slid along the missile’s edge.

Teeth gritted, I hopped to the next missile, and the next and the next, climbing towards the airship as more of the rockets rained down. I glanced over my shoulder to see my workshop in flames far below. Bouncing from the final missile, the Segway cracked beneath me, its wheels falling to Earth. With a burst of strength, I leaped towards the airship, crashing through a window and clattering onto its deck.

Gasping, I forced myself to stand.

A fiendish masked man stood before me, his black cape rippling against the wind. He twiddled his moustache. “Lord Sidebottom. We meet again.”

“Mad Frank! Gah! What have you done with the beautiful Lady Elizabeth? And what have you done with my designs for the awesome airship?”

He let out a cold laugh. “I do not have time for your games, Lord Sidebottom. You may have destroyed my clockwork crustaceans and mechanical macaques, but you will be no match for my robot-crab-monkeys.”

He clapped his hands, summoning a trio of robot-crab-monkeys. The vile brutes ducked and weaved around me, steel claws snapping, fangs glistening.

I swung at them with kicks and punches, but they moved with swift, unpredictable flourishes.

Overwhelmed, I yielded.

Mad Frank clapped again. “Lock him in the cell.”

The robot-crab-monkeys dragged me along an unlit corridor and threw me into a metal-walled room, locking the door behind me with a thundering clunk. I slumped to the floor, hopeless as darkness pressed around me.

I rifled through my trouser pockets, searching for tools or lock picks. The evening had meant to be a walk along the promenade and a hotpot supper followed by some gin and dress-up, if all went well.

My fingers brushed against the edges of two brass sheets, the etching of Mad Frank bringing a curl to my lips. My sneer turned into a smile as I rammed the calling cards between the door and its frame, shifting them until the lock finally gave way.

Flinging the door open, I grabbed the heads of the two robot-crab-monkeys standing sentry, smashing them against one another with all the force I could muster. Steam gushed from the tops of their craniums, arms flailing wildly.

As the guards fell into a heap around me, a third robot-crab-monkey bounded towards me and pounced. I swivelled, striking the monstrosity with a sharp jab of my elbow. Searing pain tore through my arm as it drove deep into its chest. Hot oil squirted from its frame as it collapsed next to its fallen brethren in a plume of billowing smoke.

Holding my scalded right arm close to me, I crept towards the bridge and kicked open the door.

Mad Frank looked up at me with a start. “Where are my robot-crab-monkeys?”

I shrugged and offered him a broad grin. He charged at me, throttling me with fists.

I nudged him backwards with a shoulder, knocking him into the airship’s control wheel. The craft lurched sharply to the right. We lost our footing and tumbled to the deck. Sliding across the polished oak, I swung at him to no avail. “Gah!”

“You fool!” His wild laughter stopped abruptly when the airship crashed into the sea, a shockwave hurling our bodies to the deck with an almighty thud.

Cold sea water lapped around us, pouring in through the cracks in the ship. I dragged Mad Frank through the nearest window and swam to the shore.

The detective ran over to us as the airship ignited in a tower of flames. I offered him a weak smile and gestured to Mad Frank as we lay coughing and spluttering, sand and seaweed coating our bodies.

Mad Frank pulled something from inside his cape—my designs for the awesome airship. The sodden paper turned to pulp in his hands. “It is ruined! The sea has destroyed your blueprints.”

I rushed to the detective and pointed a finger at Mad Frank. “That man burgled my workshop and attacked me with an assortment of clockwork and steam-powered attack robots. He also blew up my home with missiles, took me prisoner, and, worst of all, he tried to steal the designs for my awesome airship.”

Mad Frank let out a cackling laugh as the detective heaved him to his feet. “You are ruined, Lord Sidebottom. Your awesome airship is no more.”

“What you stole was but a mere copy. I always make duplicates.”

Mad Frank’s eyes widened. “No! All my work was for nought!”

The detective cuffed Mad Frank and led him up the steps towards the promenade. “I’m arresting you in the name of the law.”

“Wait!” I called, chasing after them.

The detective turned to me. “We will interrogate this criminal and then I vow we will find Lady Elizabeth.”

I shook my head and reached up to Mad Frank’s face. I tore off his mask, then pulled away the layer of rubbery flesh. “Oh, Lady Elizabeth. How could you?”

THE END

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The post Lord Sidebottom and the Awesome Airship Mystery – a steampunk adventure first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

Wyverns in Legend and Lore: 10 Fascinating Facts about These Mythical Creatures

Wyverns have been present in folklore and fantasy literature for centuries.

These winged beasts have the body of a dragon and the head of a reptile, and are often depicted as fierce and powerful creatures.

Here are ten fascinating facts about wyverns:

1. The word “wyvern” comes from the Old English word “wivern,” which means “serpent” or “dragon.”

2. In medieval heraldry, a wyvern was often used as a symbol of strength and ferocity. It was also associated with military power and often used as a crest for soldiers and warriors.

3. In many fantasy stories, wyverns are portrayed as fierce predators that can breathe fire and are immune to most weapons. They are often used as a formidable enemy for the hero to defeat.

4. In some legends, wyverns are said to have a venomous bite that can kill their victims almost instantly.

5. Wyverns are often depicted as having two legs, but some legends describe them as having four.

6. Wyverns are often portrayed as being smaller than dragons.

7. In some legends, wyverns are intelligent creatures and able to speak with humans.

8. In medieval bestiaries, wyverns were often described as having the body of a dragon, the head of a reptile, and wings.

9. In fantasy literature and role-playing games, wyverns are often used as mounts for characters, allowing them to fly and access hard to reach places.

10. Wyverns have been featured in a number of popular fantasy series, including those set in my Ravenglass Universe.

Click HERE to claim your free Ravenglass Universe starter library.

The post Wyverns in Legend and Lore: 10 Fascinating Facts about These Mythical Creatures first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

Fight! – a dark science fiction short story

Welcome to the world of “Fight!”—A Dark Sci-Fi Audio Story That Will Take You On A Journey To Alpha Centauri!

Plot Summary
In a spaceship bound for Alpha Centauri, we meet Seth—an augmented human who believes he is the ultimate force on the ship. As the Director announces a brutal fighting tournament to reduce population and conserve resources, Seth jumps at the chance, convinced of his easy victory. But sometimes, even the mighty fall—listen to unravel Seth’s cunning plot that brings catastrophic consequences for an entire sector.

What’s Inside?
A world of advanced human augmentations
A merciless tournament designed by a calculating Director
Seth, the arrogant antihero you’ll love to hate
Themes of hubris, moral ambiguity, and societal disregard for life
A plot twist that’ll leave you questioning your own moral compass

This story is perfect for adult readers who revel in complex characters and ethical dilemmas, set in the backdrop of a dystopian sci-fi universe.

Why Listen?
A cautionary tale about unchecked arrogance and the dangers of experimental human augmentation.
Engaging storytelling that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat.
Explores the complexities of living in an amoral, survival-focused society.

For More Captivating SFF Stories
Subscribe to our channel and ring that for the latest gripping science fiction tales that’ll challenge your worldview!

Disclaimer
This story contains elements that some listeners may find disturbing. Listener discretion is advised.

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Jon’s author diary – October 6, 2023

Hello from rainy Morecambe!
Welcome back to another Author Diary entry. This week has been a rollercoaster of emotions, to say the least.

Struggles with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)

I’ve been struggling a bit with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and it’s had its toll on my productivity and mental well-being. However, I’ve managed to keep my nose to the grindstone and make progress despite the obstacles.

Guild of Assassins – New Chapter Alert!

I’m excited to announce that a new chapter for ‘Guild of Assassins‘ is complete! It’s been an emotional journey, but the chapter is now ready to go live on my Substack this Sunday. Visit: joncronshawauthor.substack.com

Punks Versus Zombies Audiobook Episode 1

In other news, the first episode of ‘Punks Versus Zombies‘ is now available as an audiobook right here on YouTube. It’s been an exhilarating project, and I can’t wait for you all to hear it.

Audiobooks with ElevenLabs Text-to-Speech Engine

To make my content even more accessible, I’ve been using ElevenLabs’ Text-to-Speech engine to create audiobooks of my short stories. I’m uploading these to YouTube for free, so everyone can enjoy them!

Subscribe for More!

If you enjoy my content, please consider subscribing to the channel. Your support helps me overcome the odds and continue doing what I love—writing stories for all of you.

See you in the next video, and as always, thank you for your support!

Subscribe to Jon’s YouTube channel.

The post Jon’s author diary – October 6, 2023 first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

Punks Versus Zombies Ep. 1: Punk Rock Survival in a Zombie Apocalypse

Welcome to the first episode of Punks Versus Zombies!
Dive into the journey of Tommy and his punk band as they traverse a zombie-infested America.
With their dream gig at 924 Gilman Street in Berkeley now a haunting memory, survival is the setlist, and home in Philadelphia is the ultimate venue.
Will they make it back to Tommy’s wife and son?
Loyalty and resourcefulness take centre stage in this heart-stopping, ear-blasting audio serial.

Why You Can’t Miss This Series:
1⃣ A unique blend of punk-rock culture and zombie apocalypse.
2⃣ Realistic characters you’ll cheer for, set against a nightmarish backdrop of undead terror.
3⃣ High-octane storytelling that’ll leave you on the edge of your seat.

Read It First!
Can’t wait for the next audio episode? Read the text version before anyone else by subscribing at https://joncronshawauthor.substack.com.

Like what you hear? Hit that ‘Like’ button to help us keep the amps cranked to 11!

Subscribe & Ring the Bell!
Never miss an episode; click “Subscribe” and ring the notification bell for weekly episodes that’ll leave your ears craving for more.

Inspired by classic zombie films and laced with the essence of punk-rock, Punks Versus Zombies is more than just a survival story.
It’s about a band’s quest for home in a world turned upside down, where the undead might not be the biggest obstacle.

Keep your headphones on and your exit strategy ready; you’re about to enter the world of “Punks Versus Zombies.”

The post Punks Versus Zombies Ep. 1: Punk Rock Survival in a Zombie Apocalypse first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

When Zombies Met Punk Rock: A Match Made in Post-Apocalyptic Heaven

Ah, the screeching guitars, the guttural screams of punk rockers, and the unintelligible groans of the undead.

Two subcultures—punk rock and zombie fiction—that could not seem more disparate at first glance, but upon closer inspection, are as perfectly matched as fish and chips.

The Anarchic Underbelly

Punk rock is, by definition, a rebel’s playground.

It’s where societal norms go to die a quick, loud death, only to be resurrected in a distorted, angrier form.

Zombie fiction isn’t far off the mark either.

The general premise typically involves a world that’s been turned upside-down by an unstoppable wave of undead creatures.

Governments have fallen, society as we know it has collapsed, and it’s every man, woman, and zombie for themselves.

In both punk and zombie worlds, the established order has disintegrated, and the underdogs must fend for themselves with DIY weapons—be it a spiked bat or a battered guitar.

It’s chaos, anarchy, and mayhem, all set to a soundtrack of power chords and human desperation.

Disenfranchised and Dismembered

Punk rock arose in the 1970s as an answer to political apathy, disillusionment, and a general feeling of being ostracised by mainstream society.

Zombie fiction often reflects similar themes.

The protagonists are usually everyday people, struggling to adapt to a world that has left them disenfranchised and dismembered (quite literally).

So, what better soundtrack for hacking through hordes of zombies than the rebellious riffs of the Sex Pistols or the Ramones?

Punk’s angsty lyrics offer the perfect counterpoint to the existential dread that permeates the post-apocalyptic landscape.

After all, when society’s on the verge of collapse, why not go out in a blaze of three-chord glory?

Individualism or the Lack Thereof

Oh, the irony! Punk rock is all about individualism, about bucking the trend and being yourself, no matter how many spikes, tattoos, or questionable hair choices that entails.

Zombies, conversely, represent the antithesis of individualism.

They’re a mass of shambling, flesh-eating conformists, all following the same instinctual drive to consume and destroy.

This fascinating contrast makes for an excellent narrative device.

The clash between the rugged individualism of punk and the mindless conformity of zombies serves as a darkly humorous commentary on the human condition.

The Medium is the Message

Both punk and zombies have infiltrated a range of media—from books, films, comics to even fashion.

Punk has given us iconic moments like the Sex Pistols’ anarchic TV interviews and God Save the Queen.

Zombie fiction has its classics too, like George A. Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” or Robert Kirkman’s “The Walking Dead” comic series.

Each in their own way critiques society and its discontents, whether it’s through politically charged lyrics or flesh-eating monsters.

So there you have it, a match made in post-apocalyptic heaven or a chaotic hell, depending on your perspective.

The next time you find yourself donning a studded leather jacket or binge-watching a zombie TV series, remember that these two seemingly different worlds are more intertwined than you’d think.

 And honestly, if you’re not interested in a punk rock soundtrack to your zombie apocalypse, then you might as well just let the undead bite you now. Because what’s life without a bit of anarchy, eh?

If you’re a fan a punk, or zombies, or punk and zombies, you might enjoy my ongoing serial, Punks Versus Zombies!

Read Now!

The post When Zombies Met Punk Rock: A Match Made in Post-Apocalyptic Heaven first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

Prisoner of the Wasteland – a post-apocalyptic story

The filthy bedroll slips beneath him when David sits up. He squints at the thin lines of sunlight seeping between the gaps in the boarded-up windows, the damp glistening along the concrete walls.

“You awake?” he whispers, shaking the shoulder of a dark-skinned boy curled up next to him. “Mike?”

The boy glares at David through purple-rimmed eyes, cringing as he grabs the back of his head. “What is it?”

“I was thinking,” David whispers, looking over to the locked door. “We need to get off this stuff.”

Mike laughs, shaking his head, his mouth twisting. “This is it. There ain’t no getting off this.”

“That’s just what they tell you. Bree was say—”

“What does Bree know?” Mike spits. “Tell us, Bree.”

David leans over to the girl lying next to him and shakes her shoulder. “Bree?” He looks up at Mike. “She’s not breathing.”

Mike scrambles over and looks down at Bree, her long black hair matted into knots, and shakes his head. “She’s just high.”

“I tell you, she’s not breathing.”

Mike puts a hand near her mouth and waits. He drops his arm and shakes his head, slower this time.

David gets up and stumbles over the other sleeping children, sweating as he hammers at the door, calling out for help.

A couple of the kids groan and swear. The lock clicks and a bolt shifts across. David steps back as the door swings open.

A tall man, with a grizzled beard and scarred face, eyes David from the doorway. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s Bree. She’s dead.” David sucks in his bottom lip and nods towards her body, unremarkable among the other death-still children.

“Which one?” The man asks.

“Bree.”

The man wraps a leather strap around his hand and barges through the door, shoving David aside, his eyes darting around the room. “Which one?”

David scrambles across the prone bodies of the sleeping children and crouches next to Bree. “Here.”

The man stands over him and stares at the corpse. “What you waiting for? Get her up. Get her out of here.”

There’s a long silence, and David exchanges a glance with Mike, who shrugs.

“Come on, then,” the man snaps, clearing a path to the door with his kicks.

Struggling, David hooks his arms under the dead girl’s armpits and drags her across the room, straining against her weight as he struggles to get her through the door, her ankles catching against the frame.

“This way,” the man says, marching ahead along the corridor.

David holds back tears as he stares down at her grubby feet dragging along the concrete.

The man knocks on a steel door at the end of the corridor and waits.

Sunlight pours in as the door creaks open. “We got another one,” the man says, nodding back towards David.

A woman looks around the man and shrugs. “Sling it over there,” she says, gesturing behind her. David follows where she’s pointing and takes in a sharp breath.

“Well, come on. We’ve got a busy day,” the man snaps.

David steps outside, the stench of the floodwaters stronger in the open air. He looks around at the buildings looming above him, starting when he’s prodded in the side by the woman’s rifle-butt. “Get rid of it,” she says.

With a deep sigh, David nods and drags Bree’s body to the building’s edge. He glances back at the man, hesitating.

“What you waiting for? Get rid of it.”

David looks down at Bree’s knotted hair, the purple rims around her eyes, her sunken cheeks and bony shoulders, and shakes his head. “I…I can’t.”

The man curses and storms over to David. He grabs Bree around her neck and flings her into the water, her body bobbing on the surface for a minute, her inflated clothes sagging before sinking beneath the blackness. The man wipes his hands and turns to David, prodding a forefinger into his chest. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Otherwise you’ll be next.” He points to the tiny white bubbles, the only visible marker of Bree’s grave. “We clear?”

David looks down at the flattening surface, and nods. “Yes, sir,” he manages, turning his attention to his feet. “Sorry.”  

David sits cross-legged on his bedroll, staring down at a stale piece of bread.

“You going to eat that?” Mike asks.

“I can’t believe she’s dead,” David says, still staring.

Mike sniffs and snatches the bread from David’s limp grip, stuffing it into his mouth. “We’re all dead. I said you shouldn’t get close. If it’s not plez, then it’s the Family.”

“But Bree was a good person.”

“She was an addict and now she’s not.” Mike shrugs and brushes a crumb from his chin. “If you ask me, I’d say she’s better off.”

David sighs and shakes his head, starting when the door crashes open.

“Everyone up,” the man with the grizzled beard says. “Follow me.” He turns and marches out of the room. The other children look at each other, confused, and get to their feet, filing out of the room.

David follows the stream of kids as they meander outside. “What’s happening?” he asks, turning to Mike.

“Shut up,” Mike growls under his breath. “It’s probably about Bree.”

The children are lined-up at the edge of the building, the floodwaters still and silent behind them. David looks down to the place where Bree’s body was thrown and holds his breath for a few long seconds.

Three women stand guard with rifles as the man with the grizzled beard paces in front of the kids, stopping when a small boy, a head shorter than David, emerges flailing with a collar and chain around his neck. “Look at the face of this boy,” the man says. “We found this boy trying to steal plez. Do you know what we do to people who steal from us?” He makes a gesture to one of the women. “Pull him up.”

David and the other children watch in silence, not daring to move as the chain around the boy’s neck tightens and lifts him three-feet off the ground, his feet flailing uselessly.

“Watch,” the man says, pointing. “Any of you kids turn away from this, and you’ll be next.”

David turns in the direction of the kid, his eyes focused on something in the distance, the last few spasms of movement blurring at the edge of his vision.

A long tense silence hangs in the air before the chain is released, dropping the boy to the ground like a pile of dead meat.

“Get rid of it,” the man says, pointing at David.

“What?”

“Get rid of it. Put him with your friend.”

“But—”

“Disobey me again and see what happens,” the man says, narrowing his eyes.

David swallows and dips his head with a single nod. He staggers over to the dead boy and looks down at his vacant eyes. Shuddering, he unfastens the collar digging into the dead boy’s neck and tosses it aside. He drags the body to the building’s edge, gets to his knees and rolls it into the water, turning away before he sees the splash.

“We’re going to need a new cleaner,” the man says. “Someone who’s not going to steal from us. Any volunteers?”

David glances over to the other kids, all of them looking at their feet.

“No one?” the man says, shrugging. He turns to David. “You’re small. You’ll do.”

David squirms against the electrical wire wrapped around his wrists, binding his hands together as he’s led across the plank of wood extending between rooftops. He stares ahead, trying not to look down at the floodwaters as the wood wobbles beneath his bare feet.

The man with the grizzled beard directs him through a door, one hand firmly clasped on David’s shoulder.

An expansive factory floor opens out before them. A thick chemical odour penetrates the stench of the floodwaters. Steel vats stand in rows along the concrete floor. Twisted copper pipes spread out in all directions. A purple haze lingers in the air. 

The man turns to David and unbinds his wrists. “You need to keep this place clean,” he says. “Whenever there’s a new cook, you need to get under those and get rid of the gunk.” He gestures beneath the vats. “Try not to get burnt, those things get very hot.”

David looks around and nods. “You want me to get under those?”

The man ignores the question. “If you steal, you’re dead. Same goes if you try to escape, if you’re late, if you don’t do what whoever is in charge says.” There’s a pause. “We clear?”

David shrugs. “Okay.”

A prod to the shoulder brings David from his sleep, the last fragments of plez pulling at the edge of his consciousness. He looks around in the gloom as the others sleep around him, and starts at the sight of a man, dressed from head-to-foot in yellow plastic, standing over him, a carbine hanging at his side.

“Come on,” the man says. “Time for work.”

David staggers to his feet, confused. “Okay,” He follows the man outside, across the bridge, and to the factory.

“Wait there,” the man says, pointing to a patch of floor near the door. He returns a minute later carrying a sweeping brush, a gasmask obscuring his face. “Clean,” he says, his voice muffled through the rubber and glass.

Sucking in his bottom lip, David takes the broom. “What’s the mask for?” he asks, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Speak up,” the man says.

“What’s with the mask?”

“Cooking fumes are bad for you.”

“Can I have one?”

The man lets out a laugh and shoulders his way past, shaking his head. He stops and looks back. “You keep your questions to yourself. Get cleaning.”

David spends the next few hours sweeping the room, wiping down vats, and tipping trays filled with ash into the floodwaters. He stands on the water’s edge, looking down, and then heads back inside, his stomach rumbling.

The factory heats up as a roaring fire burns at the far end. A purple-grey haze fills the room as steam rushes from the joins of copper pipes along the ceiling. David wobbles as his feet grow light. He taps the man on the shoulder. “Can I eat?”

“Don’t talk to me,” the man says, his voice distant. “You can eat when you’ve cleaned up this batch.”

 David nods and watches as the man pulls a tray of gleaming purple crystals from beneath one of the vats, biting his bottom lip as he takes in their twinkling forms.

“Don’t even think about it,” the man says, shaking the crystals. He picks one up, turning it in the low light. “You saw what happened to the last one.”

“Looks like a good batch.”

The man pulls off his gasmask and wipes his sweat-soaked forehead with a sleeve, frowning. “Don’t be friendly.” He hangs the mask from a hook descending from the ceiling and gestures to a crate. “Bring me that.”

David runs to the corner and drags the battered wooden crate to the man. “Here okay?” he asks, looking up.

The man nods. “Hold it still.” He pours the crystals from the tray, letting them cascade into the crate, filling it halfway. “Put the lid on it.” He looks around, rubbing his chin. “Still not enough.”

David gives a confused look. “What?”

Raising a hand, the man’s eyes flicker with rage. “Take the crate back to where you got it and cover it up. We need another batch.”

Flinching, David looks over to the corner and nods. “Okay,” he whispers, dragging the crate backwards. When he reaches the corner, he rummages around the other crates until he finds the right cover. He places the sheet of wood over the crate, adjusting it until it slots into place.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get rid of the crap.” The man gestures to the tar-like substance clinging to the underside of the vat.

David picks up a cloth and bucket, runs over and crawls underneath, scrubbing at the gunk. He calls out in pain when his hand brushes against the metal, still hot from the cook, and rolls out, clutching it.

“What is it?”

“Burned my hand,” David says, tears filling his eyes.

“Let me see,” the man says, grabbing at his wrist.

A bright-pink oval stretches from David’s little finger to his wrist, his skin frayed where the flesh peeled off against the metal. The man turns away and shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

“But it hurts.” Cross-legged, David leans forward, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Get up. Do your job. If you can’t do your job, you’re done. You understand?”

David swallows and nods, his left hand throbbing. 

Streams of dying light punctuate the gloom as David sits hunched over on his bedroll. He looks up, forcing a smile as Mike hands him a slice of hard bread. “Thanks,” he says in a whisper.

Mike scrunches a blanket into a ball and sits down next to David. “Weird without Bree, huh?”

David looks at the area of bare floor where Bree used to sleep, and sighs. “Just life, I guess.” He tears a chunk of the bread away with his teeth, moving it around his mouth as he chews, licking his lips against the dryness.

“What happened to your hand?” Mike asks, gesturing to the long blister.

“Got burned on one of the plez vats.”

“Looks bad.”

“It’s okay.”

Mike nods. “Plez will sort you out. Hit of that, and boom! You’re out.”

Shuddering, David takes another bite of bread and stares down at his hands.

“Did you see them make it?”

David nods and swallows. “My head really hurts.”

“You get any?” Mike whispers.

“And get strung-up?” He looks down at his burns and winces.

Shaking his head, Mike makes a wide smile. “Man, if I was in there, I’d just get as much as I could…” His voice trails off at David’s glare. “What?” 

“I’m done with it. I wasn’t kidding. I’m getting clean. It’s bad.”

Mike smirks and lies back onto his bedroll. “I’ll have yours when they bring it round.”

David looks up when the door opens. A woman and man enter, both with rifles over their shoulders. The other kids jump to their feet. “Don’t move,” the man says, patting his rifle. “She’ll bring your plez.” He shakes his head as the woman hands out crystals to the other children. The kids scurry back to their bedrolls with their drugs, some lighting-up without hesitation.

Mike bolts to his feet when the woman approaches, and she hands him a single crystal. “What’s up with you?” she asks, looking down at David, still on his bedroll.

“My head hurts.”

The woman tosses a purple crystal, no bigger than a thumbnail, onto the blanket to David’s left. His mouth twitches as he grabs the crystal, watching as the woman moves away.

Mike lets out a snort and grins at David. “You let me have your plez?”

David doesn’t respond, his hand squeezing around the crystal.

“Thought not.” Stuffing the plez into a finger-length steel tube, Mike lights a candle and leans down to it with the pipe in his mouth. He turns to David and smiles. “See you on the other side.” Turning back to the candle, he pushes the crystal into the flame, holds it for a few seconds, and then inhales. A shudder spreads across his back and up along his neck. The pipe flops from his mouth and he slumps to his side.

The chemical tang hangs in the air. David cringes. He looks around at the others, many of them now in a stupor, and sighs. The burn on the side of his hand itches and throbs.

Leaning back, he stares at the ceiling, listening, breathing. He loosens his grip and lets the plez roll from his hand. Closing his eyes, he takes in a breath, holding it in until his he hears his heartbeat. He exhales and snaps to an upright position, his hand shooting towards the crystal and his pipe as his mouth turns desert dry.

A flood of tears catches him off guard when he looks over to the bare space where Bree used to sleep. He holds his breath, chewing on his fist. Cold sweat gathers along his back, seeping from his forehead. Dry heaves contract in his stomach, tearing at his throat and chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drives the plez into his pipe, leans towards the candle, inhales, and fades. 

Shadows stretch beneath the vats as David scrubs the dull metal surface, taking care not to burn himself again. He slides from underneath and looks up at the man standing over him.

The man’s breath clicks and wheezes through the gasmask, his yellow plastic suit crackling with movement. He gives David an unsure look then glances over to the door. “I’m going for a pee,” he says, his voice muffled. “Stay here. Don’t move.” He pulls of his mask and hangs it from a hook.

David gives a nod and rubs the sweat from his brow as the man leaves. He looks towards the crate of plez and bites his lower lip for several seconds. The gush of foul air from the open door clears the lingering chemical fumes. He goes over to the door and leans outside, the light fading from the day.

Scanning the rooftops, he sees no signs of other people, no movement. The man stands on the edge of the rooftop with his back to David, urinating into the floodwaters below.

David looks towards the sunset, to the blotches of purple and orange smearing the sky. His eyes rest on the shoreline. He follows it south, tracing its shape with his finger, his gaze lingering on the end of the highway that winds its way west, fading into the hills.

“What you doing out here?”

David takes in a sharp breath and swivels on his heels. “I need to pee.”

The man eyes him for a second, and then nods. “Be quick. Nearly done anyway.”

Hesitating, David steps past the man and heads over to the building’s edge. He looks over the side and into the water as it sloshes against the bricks below. The rooftops around him stand empty. Firelight pours from a window in an opposite building. He flexes his burnt hand and looks over his shoulder, shivering at the chill wind, listening as it blows around the buildings in a low ghostly hum. He looks back down towards the water, staring for several seconds before sighing and heading back inside.

The man stands leaning against the doorway, waiting. “You took your time. We’ve got to get this shipment out first thing. Let’s get cleaned-up and get these crates out.” 

“I think I can escape,” David says in a hushed voice, rolling on his side.

Mike stares back at him for several seconds, his face contorting into a smirk, and then a laugh. “We got it good here.”

David leans on his right elbow and sighs. An empty bowl of sour-tasting soup rests on the floor between them. “Good? You think this is good?” He waves a hand and Mike shrugs. “We’re going to die here.”

A sharp breath shoots from Mike’s nostrils. “We get beds, we get plez, we get food. I mean, yeah, the work’s bad, but we’re alive.”

“For how long?”

“You think things are better in the wastes?” Mike lies on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “No dogs, no raiders, no scavenging.” He counts the points on his fingers. “If you think being out there is better, you go ahead.”

“I want to be free.”

Mike sits up and looks back at him with purple-rimmed eyes, his face etched with deep creases, sweat glistening along his forehead. “So you can swim?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what’s your plan?”

David shrugs.

Another laugh splutters from Mike as he lies back on his bed. “Keep dreaming. Plez will be here soon. That’s when I’m free.”

The next morning, a man with a rifle strides into the room and sweeps his gaze across the children’s faces. “We’ve got a shipment to prepare, so you all need to stay in here.”

“What about work?” a boy asks.

The man turns and glowers at the boy. “Are you thick? I just said you all need to stay in here. That means no work.”

Mike rests his hands behind his head and leans back, grinning. “Happy days.”

Leaving the room, the man closes the door, bolting it behind him.

David frowns. “I need to pee,” he says, getting to his feet. He steps over the other children, his feet finding tiny islands of concrete among the sea of bedrolls and limbs. When he reaches the door, he knocks it and waits.

“What?” a voice asks after a few seconds.

“I need to go.”

“There’s a bucket.”

David glances at the bucket in the corner overflowing with urine and faeces, and wrinkles his nose. “It’s full. Please, I really need to pee.”

David staggers back as the door opens. A man leans in, looks at the bucket, and eyes David up and down. “You know where you’re going?”

David nods.

“Be quick.”

David slips past the man and makes his way to the roof. He looks over the water as the sunrise flares across the sky. He steps to the building’s edge and goes to pee, watching as a pair of dealers walk around a canoe, checking its hull for damage.

He goes to the other side of the roof and relieves himself. When he’s finished, he glances over to the shore, the shape of a campervan just visible at the end of the highway.

Looking around, he takes in a deep breath then jumps into the water. A shock of cold runs through his body as the water hits.

His head drops below the surface and he takes a mouthful of the foul water. He bobs up, gasping, kicking his legs frantically. The water covers his head again, stinging his eyes and filling his ears. He claws and scrambles, reaching towards the wall, trying to pull himself up, trying to breathe.

“Help,” he calls out, his words obscured by the water filling his mouth. Reaching out, he grabs a metal bracket jutting out from the wall and calls out again. The water pulls at him, tugging him down. “Help!”

With weak muscles, he tries to pull himself up, his arms bending halfway before giving out. His head falls below the water again, and he kicks his feet against the wall, trying to gain purchase. He reaches for the bracket again, gripping it with trembling fingers, his biceps throbbing with the cold. “Help. Anyone.”

“You,” the man calls down from the roof. “What you doing down there?”

“I…I fell in.”

The man lets out a mirthless laugh. “You tried to escape, didn’t you? You can’t even swim, can you?”

“I tripped.” David looks around, gasping. “Honest. I fell in.” He looks over his shoulder at the water. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Right.” Nodding, the man steps away from the edge, returning a few moments later with a length of blue rope. “If you’re lying…”

“I’m not…I didn’t…I wouldn’t…” David manages between coughs.

With narrowed eyes, the man lets down the rope until its end dips below the surface. “Grab on.”

David takes the rope, flinching as it takes his weight.

The man groans above, heaving the rope, bringing David up to the roof. Breathless, David rolls onto the roof, soaked and shivering. The water’s stench fills his clothes.

“Get up,” the man says.

David turns and vomits, the sick bursting from his mouth like black lava. Sweat and tears streak through the filth.

“Get up,” the man repeats, his voice colder, lower.

“I…I can’t.“ An explosion of vomit erupts from David’s mouth, and he flops onto his side. The man yanks him by the arm, dragging him to his feet.

“You’re lucky I don’t string you up.”

David swallows, trying to focus, trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears. “I didn’t mean to fall.”

“Get inside.”

Hesitating, David looks down at his clothes, sopping wet and coated in filth. “I’m too dirty.”

“You addicts are all dirty,” the man says, spitting on the ground. “Get inside.” He prods David with the rifle-butt.

“Okay.” David dips his head in assent then shambles forward, making his way back.

“This isn’t over. I’ll deal with you properly later.”

When the man closes the door behind him, David squints at the gloom as the other children stare up at him, wide-eyed. He stumbles over a few bodies on his way back to his bed-roll.

“Damn, what happened?” Mike asks.

David tears off his clothes and huddles into his blanket, still trembling. “I tried to escape,” he whispers.

Mike lets out a loud laugh. “You’re good,” he says, shaking his head. “You nearly had me there.” He slaps his thigh. “No, really. Why you wet?”

“Seriously.”

Mike sits up, raising his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“I thought I’d be able to swim, but I can’t.”

“So, what? You just jumped in the water?”

David nods. “I figured it couldn’t be hard.”

“How far did you get?”

“I didn’t. I just went under. The guy outside sent down a rope.”

“They know you tried to escape?”

“No.” David shrugs. “I said I fell in.”

“When you were having a pee?”

David smiles. “I think he believed me.”

Mike shakes his head. “If they knew you were trying to escape…”

“I know.”

 “Get up,” a man’s voice growls in David’s ear.

“What?”  David looks around, confused as the other children lie sleeping.

“Get up.” The man drags David to his feet, yanking him free of his blanket. “Come on. We’ve got to load the shipment.”

David rolls his shoulders, bones clicking in his neck. He follows the man outside, rubbing his eyes through the fog of sleep and plez. It’s still dark when he gets outside.

The man leads the way with a flaming torch, stopping when he reaches a stack of crates. “I need you to lower these onto those boats,” he says, pointing.

“It’s too dark. I can’t see.”

The man looks the kid up and down, his torch held out at arm’s-length to the side. “You saying you’re not going to follow orders?”

David sucks in his bottom lip and takes a step back, shaking his head. “It’s dark. What if I mess-up?”

“If you mess this up, you get strung-up. Is that clear?”

Swallowing, David nods and goes over to the crates, a coil of rope resting on the ground next to them. Among the crates, he places his hand on a blue plastic barrel. “Do I need to send this? It’s empty.”

“Does that look like a crate?”

There’s a long pause and the kid nods. “Just the crates?”

The man gives no response, only watches.

With fumbling, trembling hands, David takes the rope and secures it around the first crate. He looks back at the man, still standing over him, the torchlight providing the only source of light. “Where do I take it?”

 “Lower them onto the boats. It’s not that difficult.”

David rubs sweat from his brow as the first hints of sunlight reveal themselves. “Sorry. I’ve just woke up. It’s the plez.”

The man stares at David for a long moment, a curl creasing the left side of his upper lip. “Addicts,” he spits, shaking his head. “Just get on with it.”

Taking the first crate in his arms, he ambles slowly to the roof’s edge and looks into the black waters. His eyes linger on the rippling of the waves, the tiny shimmers of reflected gloaming, before shifting them to the boat. A woman looks up at him, staring impatiently. “Well?”

David looks around. “Here.” He lowers the crate, the rope rubbing against his blister when the woman tugs at it with a sudden jerk.

She unfastens the rope from the crate and looks up at him. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Get the rest.”

David runs back to the crates, secures them with rope, and lowers them one-by-one to the woman, now distributing the shipments between four different boats. “Is that the last one?” she asks, after a while.

“That’s it,” David says.

“Good. Go see your boss.”

David looks around but sees no signs of the man. He wanders back to the blue plastic barrel, leaning his hand on it as he waits. After a minute, he yawns and looks down at his drumming fingers. A few of the Family’s dealers drop into boats, pushing out on the water towards the shore. He watches them for a minute or so, then turns back to the barrel, considering its shape, its hollowness.

The rising sun sends red light flooding across the rooftops. A breath catches in his throat as he takes the barrel, rolls it over the edge of the rooftop, and follows it into the water.

The cold shock hits him. He scrambles wildly, gasping as his head bobs beneath the water, its acrid foulness filling his lungs and burning his eyes. The barrel bobs on the surface, just out of reach. He leans forward and plunges beneath the water, kicking his legs and flapping his arms.

Turning, he grabs onto a rusted bracket and pulls his body against the wall. With a thrust of his legs, he shoots forward, grabbing around the sides of the barrel. A shout comes from above, echoing around him.

The barrel sinks low into the water when it takes his weight. David waits, and the barrel holds. The voices come again, louder, more urgent. He ignores them and kicks his legs, moving forward, cutting a course through the freezing water.

He grabs the opposite wall with one hand, his other clasped to one of the barrel’s handles. A bullet whizzes by, the gunshot’s snap deafening. But he keeps going.

By the time he reaches open water, his legs move with slow, jellylike kicks, his muscles seizing against the effort and cold.

Teeth chattering, he smiles as the sun grows warm, its light soothing against the back of his neck. He heads northwest, away from the direction of the Family’s campervan, now no more than a speck in the distance.

A few gunshots ring out from the direction of the dealers’ boats, but he keeps pushing, keeps swimming.

He cries out when something sharp catches his left foot. Kicking weakly, he feels the land beneath the water.

A minute or so later, he reaches the shore, drags the barrel from the water, and flops to his side, exhausted. 

It’s dark when David stirs. He looks around at the jet black sky, squinting as hunger and plez pull at his thoughts. His clothes hang damp and tattered from his body as he hugs his arms around his knees.

The need for plez pushes away the hunger. Sweat seeps from every pore, coating him in a layer of cold. He coughs and cries, looking back out over the water towards the Family.

Getting up, he wanders along the water’s edge, shingles clattering beneath his bare feet. He picks at long-dead bushes, sniffing their branches. His mouth grows dry and the need for water is almost as strong as the need for plez.

He wanders aimlessly until long after sunrise, coming to rest among the stones, curling into himself, sweating and crying as he rocks himself to sleep.

Grasses with stringy yellowed stems rest flat against the ground. David picks at them, sucking at their moisture, chewing them before spitting them onto the dirt.

Following the shore north for a few days, he staggers in a daze, stopping at the edge of the water to feel its wetness against his lips as the hunger tears through him.

He turns south, retracing his steps along the shore, heading towards the highway.

The smoke from the factory rises in black curls against the morning sun. David wipes the sweat from his brow, shivering, cold, hungry.

Crouching next to the floodwaters, he cups his hands and dips them below the surface.

“I wouldn’t drink that water if I were you, kid,” a voice says.

David stiffens and looks around. A man stands over him. A long leather jacket hangs past his knees, his face obscured by a kerchief, goggles, and a tattered red baseball cap. “It’s okay, kid.”

The man removes the goggles and kerchief, offers David a smile, and reaches out, offering him a water bottle. “I’m Abel.”

THE END

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The post Prisoner of the Wasteland – a post-apocalyptic story first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.

From Materia to Grisha: The FFVII Influence in Contemporary Fantasy

The roaring ‘90s saw not only the birth of slap bracelets and Tamagotchis, but also the dawn of a gaming icon: Final Fantasy VII (FFVII) on the PlayStation.

The tale of Cloud, Aerith, and the metropolis of Midgar wasn’t just content with conquering our gaming consoles; it subtly wormed its way into the heart of modern fantasy literature. Here’s how.

Midgar and the Megacity:

Midgar, a city divided between the haves and the have-nots, feels eerily familiar.

Think of the multi-layered metropolis in China Miéville’s “Perdido Street Station.”

The gritty, mechanical feel, the sense of a world both ahead and behind its time.

A reflection of Midgar’s gleaming topside and shadowy slums?

Eco-Conscious Narratives:

Shinra sucking the life out of the planet with Mako reactors is a bold eco-warning.

Paolo Bacigalupi’s “The Windup Girl,” set in a biopunk future, delves into the consequences of unchecked corporate greed on the environment, echoing the struggles between AVALANCHE and Shinra.

The Amnesiac Hero:

Cloud’s tangled memories and mysterious past have become something of a trope in fantasy literature.

Scott Lynch’s Locke Lamora from “The Lies of Locke Lamora” has a similarly clouded (pun absolutely intended) history, creating an intricate dance between what’s real and what’s forgotten.

Sephiroth’s Shadow:

The chilling, silver-haired Sephiroth set the bar for antagonists.

His influence might be traced in characters like the Darkling from Leigh Bardugo’s “Shadow and Bone” series.

Charismatic, with unclear motivations and a penchant for the dramatic?

Sounds about right.

Materia Magic:

The delightful system of materia in FFVII, gems granting abilities, isn’t too far off from the ‘grisha’ powers in Bardugo’s Grishaverse or the skill rings in Joe Abercrombie’s “The First Law” series.

The magic system, once a tool, now becomes a character in itself, defining hierarchies, personalities, and plot twists.

Unlikely Group Dynamics:

FFVII’s motley crew, from the fierce Tifa to the wise Red XIII, is reminiscent of the band of unlikely heroes in ensemble cast novels.

Think of Kaz’s crew in “Six of Crows.”

They’re all from different walks of life, united by a common goal, leading to an interplay of quirks, past traumas, and, of course, humour.

By weaving in the essence of FFVII, modern fantasy hasn’t just borrowed aesthetics or plot points but embraced its soul.

The journey from Midgar to the Northern Crater is more than a game—it’s a legacy.

And just like Cloud on his Hardy Daytona motorcycle, this legacy speeds forward, blurring the lines between pixels and print.

The post From Materia to Grisha: The FFVII Influence in Contemporary Fantasy first appeared on Jon Cronshaw.