Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 1

Somewhere in the southern region of the Wasteland sits a quiet little town right on the beach named Port Town. Eerie silence creeps through most of the dilapidated streets except for Charleston Avenue, the first, and last, street out of Port Town. Two young boys take turns beating a decaying carcass with a stick. Any features that might identify the animal have been beaten away. All that remains is a puddle of bloodstained hair and organ soup. Each boy cheers the other on as he lifts the stick overhead, then violently slams it down.

Their parents, several yards away, are loading the remaining belongings into a rust coated pickup truck. The engine has long since died, and a long-haired ox acts as its replacement. The animal is standing in front of the truck, harnessed and grazing on the last bit of grass protruding from the cracked street. Port Town has seen better days, to say the least. The family is one of only a handful left in this once-beautiful seaside community. Even the trees scattered throughout the town have given up hope, sulking about, no longer producing any new greens.

The boys screech with each strike. Blood splashes across the striking boy's white shirt. Both are too enthralled with the activity to notice a cloaked traveler entering Port Town. The mother, with a box full of the family's remaining food, stops dead in her tracks at the sight of the figure.

"Tony, Curtis, get over here, now," the mother whispers furiously. Curtis looks back at his mother, then turns to the entrance and shoves Tony in mid-strike. Tony grunts at his brother, jerking his hand back to retaliate before he sees the terror in Curtis' eyes. He looks back to the figure, now only several yards from them. Dropping the bat, the boys rush to their mother's arms.

The figure pays no mind to the four and continues on to the first intersection of the town. He looks down both vacant streets before deciding to continue straight ahead. "Surely there's a bar in this shit-hole," the cloaked man mutters to himself. The sun, which has been pummeling his back for days, beats on Port Town as if it were an unloved child. He scans the street for any building that looks open, his stomach growling in agreement as he passes the intersection.

An old sign standing proudly above the other buildings catches the traveler's eye. He warily makes his way to the rotted building on the corner. He is close enough now to make out the sign: "Bart's Place."

Inside, the local barkeep tends to his vacant tavern. Meticulously, he wipes away the slightest speck of dust from the bar. His wrinkled hand reaches for a shot of whiskey, raising the tiny glass as he looks up to the lazily revolving ceiling fan. "For you Christoph," he laments before knocking the stout liquid down his throat. His mind often drifts to his father-in-law Christoph, for it was originally his bar.

The old barkeep goes to fill his glass again, remembering the words Christoph said to him before he married Catrina. "I expect the man who has shown such love and devotion to my bar, will show the same to my daughter." And the bartender did, all the way to her death, some five or six years ago. He devoted every ounce of his blood and sweat to his family and to this bar. He is preparing to raise the glass again when the hooded figure walks through the double doors.

The bartender seems to be somewhat surprised to have a customer. However, he brushes his thin white hair from his brow and gestures the figure over. "Come on in; we got plenty of liquor if you're thirsty," he yells over the squeaking ceiling fans.

The cloaked figure walks over to the bar then takes a seat. He pulls the hood back. The stranger is olive-skinned with deep blue eyes, short dark hair, and a goatee covering his small chin. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, with very few wrinkles across the stranger's face. Though his appearance is youthful, his eyes tell a different tale. He scratches his head and gazes at the old man with his deep blue eyes. "I'll take water."