Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 7

The cold grip of the night still clings to Mercantile as Rod awakens from a restless sleep. Eagerness keeps the soothing dreams at bay. As much as he enjoys his trips home to Mercantile, it's the loving embrace of his mistress, the Wasteland, that he truly longs for. The desolate land is rife with death around every corner, and yet he feels a sense of guilt, as though he doesn't deserve any kind of happiness. This weight will only lift when he's moving. Crawling out of his wooden twin bed, he moves to the floor and begins doing his morning routine of push-ups and crunches. Rod needs his muscles awake and active. After thirty minutes of the exhaustive workout, he heads to the bathroom to freshen up.

Tippin was kind enough to leave him new clothes earlier in the evening. He slips on the pair of denim jeans, then a white cotton t-shirt, followed by socks and his leather boots. Quite awake now, Rod walks to a carved oak closet to the left of his bed. Opening it reveals his personal belongings. He grabs a duffel back and places it on the corner table.

One by one, he reclaims the equipment. First and foremost are his twin 1911 forty-five caliber pistols nestled in their leather holster. Unraveling the belt, Rod swings it around his waist, pulling the worn brown leather tightly before fastening the buckle. The holsters grip his thighs as he ties the leather laces above his knees. He pulls each pistol from its slumber and surveys them for any technical issues. The tips and triggers shine with smooth metal and the black ridged grips displaying a small four-leaf clover. A symbol of his past and present.

He releases the magazines and verifies that they are filled. Popping the magazine back in, he slides the first round into the chamber then nestles each gun back into its home. His belt is lined with small leather compartments. He feels each pouch with a quick review, knowing each artifact by the sensation of touch. He makes a mental note to himself.

His hands dive back into the bag of tricks. Another brown leather harness is retrieved. It is a short sword sheathed and attached to shoulder straps. He swings it around his shoulder blades. The blade lays across the entirety of his back, with the hilt just above his right hip.

Moving his right hand and gripping the hilt he pulls out the smooth silver sword. The handle wraps in hard dark leather with a very small hand guard. Light reflects across the silver weapon as the hunter runs his left thumb over the blade, testing its sharpness. He presses a small trigger at the base of the hilt, extending the rest of the blade.

"Well, looks like he was able to tighten the trigger mechanism."

Rod surveys the thirteen-inch blade for any deformities. Content with the workmanship, the trigger is pressed again, and the blade retracts back to the size of a long knife. He slides it into the sheath.

The final pieces are his brown scarf and black leather jacket with an in- line cotton hood. He folds the scarf several times, then wraps it around his neck. The cloth is primarily used as a filter during dust storms in the Wasteland. Next, he slips on his form-fitting leather jacket. The final remains in the bag are the essentials: ammo, extra magazines, rations, and his bedroll. The hunter makes his way to the door and as he opens it, takes one last look at the room. It was exactly how he found it upon arrival. He takes a deep breath and walks through the door, closing it behind him.

The twilight of darkness still colors the sky as Rod walks to the old wooden shed behind the town hall. He opens the shed doors then pulls the bulb chain dangling just inside. Light explodes across the shed revealing the motorcycle, which is still covered, and a couple of small crates. Walking over to the crates and kneeling down, he spots a folded piece of paper on top.

Here's part of the supplies from your contract. More will be provided on your return home. Be safe my friend.

~T.