Tales from the Wasteland | The No Leaf Clover

Chapter 18

Restless dreams cloud the hunter for yet another night. Dark foreboding images of loss and pain. Smog filled with hate and guilt rushes over Rod's moist body as he jerks up from his cot. The sweat from his night terror soaked through the gray sheets to the mattress. The warm putrid breath of Cerberus still hangs heavy over the blots of memory. Like most mornings for the hunter, it is a slow process to get out of bed. His joints crack and pop as he swings his legs over the side. He pushes off the cot and stands up, with pops cascading all the way down his spine, letting out a low, soothing moan in the process. His eyes take a moment to adjust before vividly seeing his surroundings.

Rod stands in a quaint room with a cot snuggled nicely in one of the corners under a dirt-smeared window. Just enough light is able to penetrate the grime to let the fog-headed hunter know it is roughly mid-morning. To his left is an old wooden desk and chair. His clothes are thrown over the dark oak chair with his belt and weapons sleeping on the desk.

Straight ahead is an improvised washroom, containing a small sink and mirror with a tiny tub to its right. Rod walks over to the sink and looks at the mess staring back. Several bandages wrap around his left shoulder, with his entire abdomen enveloped as well. Rod unravels the dressings. As his hand grazes over the scars, flashes of recollection roar up from his sleeping consciousness. His last thought was of Cerberus reaching in for the kill and then bright white light. Nothing else. He pushes the moments back into his mental filing cabinet to tend to the cleaning of his body.

Once complete, he dries himself off and reaches for a crude toothbrush. It is crafted from thin white bone, likely swine, with bristles threaded through tiny holes. Underneath the toothbrush is a small round tin, inside is a glop of dark greenish goo. He dips the brush into the paste and places it in his mouth. He takes several minutes brushing his teeth thoroughly as possible.

Rod continues his typical morning ritual of quick series of push-ups and light cardio to wake the rest of his dormant muscles. He walks over to the desk and grabs the folded clothes. He slips on a gray collared button-up shirt and rolls the sleeves to his elbows. The briefs and pants next, followed by thick wool socks and his dusty boots. He heads through his bedroom door and out into a hallway. Two doors sit on the opposite wall. The farthest is closed, with the other cracked. Through the opening, Rod can make out a toilet and part of a sink. Thank God, he thinks to himself as he rushes in, closing the door behind him.

He exits the lavatory, looking left he spots a door at the end of the hallway that is also closed. Rod feels calm here, at peace with himself like when he's back in Mercantile. He notices several skylights above the hallway ceiling. Its soothing natural light is helping with the pacifying demeanor. Pieces of copper pipes run parallel to the skylight, which branches out into each room. Sharp pangs in his stomach interrupt his curiosity. "I need something to eat," Rod mutters aloud.

He walks down the hallway to the right then into a twenty by ten open area. A larger skylight sits in the center part of the ceiling, casting more warm light into the living room. He smirks at the clutter all around. In the far corner, piled like a pyramid, are hundreds of ancient books and scrolls. To the untrained eye, it would seem that they are in no particular order, but Rod understands all too well. People at Alena's level of intelligence have set their clutter up by design. She knows where everything is at all times.

To the left of the structured books is a massive workbench with a series of scraps and devices. Each one in various stages of research and development. An engine sits smack dab in the middle of the room, also in apparent disarray. The gifted tinker at least had the mind to lay a ratty blanket underneath to protect the wooden floor from scuffs and filth.

As he turns to the kitchen, Rod spots an old dirty recliner across from the engine. He lets out a quiet laugh at the smaller matching recliner nestled next to the larger. No doubt Poppy's.