Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 17

The rays of mid-morning slice through the quiet city skyline as Sandman gimps through the back alleys of the ruined city. He stops to catch his breath and tighten the tourniquet around his left thigh. Not even the king of the ruined city escapes unscathed. The whole ordeal left him drained, summoning Cerberus took a heavy toll on his body.

The book's written knowledge is just as much a curse as it is a gift. This ancient tome with no name is devised and created in the theory of equivalence of exchange: you receive what you put into it. For each action taken in this reality, there must be an equal price to pay. And to Sandman, it is a cost he accepts to unlock the mysteries of the universe.

Life and death are devised through balance, one cannot outweigh the other. The pendulum must rest at absolute zero- complete harmony. For every kind act, there must be an equal act of evil, and vice versa.

Sandman knows this all too well as he fights off his body's desire to succumb to unconsciousness from the loss of blood. He is almost there, only a little bit farther to go. His adrenaline spikes as his body pinpoints another injury. He lifts his right pant leg and finds a gash along his calf. Another cause of his sluggish demeanor.

He produces a knife sheathed on his right hip and cuts a section of his trench coat. Sandman wraps it around the wound and secures the knot forcefully. He grunts in pain and drops the pant leg back down. The fallen king checks his satchel again, making sure the book is still in his possession. Over time, the book bound itself to Sandman. Another aspect of the balance. For each inscription read or verse recited, Sandman relinquished a piece of himself over to the book. The book, in essence, is feeding on his soul and he knows this. He accepts this fate. His curiosity far outweighs logic. This inquisitiveness will indeed one day kill the cat.

Finally mustering enough strength, Sandman pushes onward through the shadowy alleyway toward the next intersection. He comes to the edge of the building and kneels down, scanning the foliage-filled juncture. The morning sun has yet to cast its warm rays over the street. His destination is the adjacent alleyway, but two ghouls block him from proceeding. One of the transparent ghouls hangs on the face of the neighboring building.

The ghastly apparition is shrouded in a bluish mist. The ghouls let out weak moans, but high pitched enough for Sandman to hear. Ghouls are imprints of a living being that went through a tragic experience before death, thus leaving a kind of timestamp of the event. Over time the sliver of energy merges with the force it is surrounded by, fusing into a peaceful presence or something darker. A kind of copy of someone's soul that gives life unto itself.

These two imprints have long succumbed to the evil that dwells in the ancient city, sucking the life force from any living organism that they come in contact with. Ghouls are typically nocturnal. These two are safely concealed in the building's shadow.

The occultist has no time for these lesser beings. He reaches for his knife and picks up a chunk of pavement next to him. He slices his left palm open then sheathes the blade. Using his right index finger as a brush and the blood as paint, Sandman writes several runes on the crumbled piece of pavement. As he completes the dark arts and crafts activity, he brings the painted rubble to his lips and recites an incantation. The excess blood from his palm is then smeared across the crimson runes.

He looks for the two apparitions. One still hanging on the building while the other has picked up the scent of fresh blood. Before the ghouls spot him, Sandman tosses the rubble down the street to his right. The blood rock takes several generous bounces off the asphalt, mimicking the sound of a crying child running down the street. The ghouls will take it as easy prey.

Both ghouls sense the iron in his blood. The hanging ghost leaps off the building and glides down, next to the other. Like rabid hounds, they knock each other side to side as they give chase to the distraction. Giving ample amount of distance before he proceeds, Sandman takes the opportunity to slice another bandage from his dusty coat. He dresses the wound on his palm and staggers back to his feet, using the wall as support.