Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 11

Black smoke blankets the sky as Rod nears a gas depot tucked away in a rocky alcove. These depots are peppered throughout the Wasteland. Small little communities with a handful of resources, their sole purpose is to provide a haven for travelers. A small respite from the planewalkers.

In the earlier days of the apocalypse, these communities were isolated. The people who dwelled within them cared for nothing other than themselves and hoarded what few supplies they had. Often the smaller depots banded together to overthrow more prosperous communities. Those that weren't killed during the battle where divided among the victors. The women and children were kept but the men were executed. Any other goods such as food, livestock, and materials, were divided equally.

The cycle of infighting went on for years, until the Lykan War. An alliance between Orgrimdeare, Merchant's Guild, and the Wastelanders ushered humanity to a more unified front. As the war drew to an end, Orgrimdeare positioned itself as humanity's new capital. The ruler of the Walled City, along with a council voted upon by its citizens, helped set governing laws. It was an illusion of freedom. A freedom for all humans within the alliance. But not everyone is able to enjoy the comforts that Orgrimdeare offered. Within its dark alleys and dank sewers, a resistance started to brew. The alliance's next course of action was to keep its influence within the more secluded settlements across the Wasteland. Claudius stationed soldiers at each depot. They were the governing arm for Orgrimdeare and enforced all laws issued from the council. The Dragon's might extended with each passing year. The Merchant's Guild, for their part, taught citizens agriculture. For the citizens to thrive so far from the more densely populated and advanced cities, they had to become self-sufficient.

The Wastelanders took a more nomadic stance. Like salesmen, they traveled throughout the Wasteland, persuading smaller settlements to join The Alliance of Three. This was the term given to the Dark City, Merchant's Guild, and Wastelanders during the Lykan War. This treaty between the three civilizations was considered the pinnacle of human existence. Those words were spoken by Claudius right before the death of Agzenthoth at the Battle of Oasis.

The depot, Anigrin, is the source of the rising black smog. It was the closest settlement to Midland, just about thirty miles southwest of the City of Steam. Rod follows the dirt road to the entrance. The pungent smell of burnt flesh is quite apparent when he brings Stacey to a stop.

Ah, that aromatic aroma of barbeque sure does get the belly rumbling.

"That's not the rumbling of hunger," Rod grumbles as he climbs off the motorcycle. He slowly makes his way to the gated entrance. His right hand hovers closely to his 1911. The fence, about twelve feet high, is fastened together by various pieces of metal. "Not a good sign," the hunter whispers. The gate is unlocked with no sign of forced entry. He opens it just enough to slip through.

Maybe they're expecting us. Maybe it is a surprise party!

"I doubt that."

Rod creeps inside the depot. The stink of scorched hair hangs thick in the air as he passes the first building. The buildings, like the fence, were erected with all manner of materials. Nothing was wasted. This particular building's walls are pieced together by old signs. Any color has long since slid off and fallen back to the earth. The adjacent building is brick with many patches filled with whatever was on hand at the time. Right underneath the window is a faded green piece of scrap with equally faded text. It reads, "Avenue next right." Rod pulls his scarf over his nose as he continues. He reaches the middle of the depot and stops. The sight of the black smoke's origin is more unsettling than he anticipated.

"My God."

Someone took their time with this. Such love, such an imagination. The Dark One cackles at the sight.