Disclaimer: I do not own the Indiana Jones license, or anything associated with it. I have written this story solely because I enjoy writing.
Trail of Memories
Winter nights in Chicago were known for there selfish disregard of life. The cold bit into the flesh and the slums rose up to the sky like the broken fingers of a condemned soul. Snow that had already fallen throughout the afternoon had covered most of the city in a thick blanket of sparkling white fluff by nightfall. Streets and alleys were unusually empty, as if the entire city had been abandoned and only a few lone figures were left to fend for themselves.
A beautiful woman wandered into a graveyard of lost dreams and broken promises. Her black boots crunched softly in the snow as she passed the shattered display window of a dilapidated clothing store. Staring into the bitter void of darkness she searched for any sign of redemption, narrowly catching sight of something slouched in the shadowy corner of the now lifeless building.
Old, frustrating memories suddenly flashed passionately through her head, her eyes focusing on a single male mannequin, leaning up against one side of the blackened wall. The woman's eyes quickly sank to the icy snow at her feet; she couldn't bear to face him again. To many times she had let him take advantage of her, pulling her from one corner of the world to the other, searching for worthless trinkets and artifacts that would only ultimately become lost again to the world.
She had tried to persuade him to stay, to fall in love with her again, to leave the world behind and watch as it unfolded around them. But he wouldn't hear any of it. He was stubborn like that she knew; once he made up his mind there was no way of stopping him. There was nothing she could do. He would continue venturing off into the unknown, rummaging about in old-forgotten corners of the world, for god knows how long before he'd give up; if he'd give up.
With a sigh she shook her head and turned her back on the adventurer. There would never be any room in his life for true love she knew, only a false dream of hope and ambition that would never come true. A gust of wind then blew through the tiny store, scattering crumpled loose papers and old tattered clothing. The mannequin in the far corner therefore abruptly slumped to the ground; an old battered brown fedora tumbled down after it.
She shivered, pulling her dark trench coat tighter. Her short wavy brunette hair fell limply down to her shoulders as the wind caught it and played with the honeyed curls. She had a set of short bangs and wore her hair loose, freely. Her nose was slightly crooked, a bar room brawl gone badly from days past, but she left it as it was and never lacked from admirers.
The snow flurries blew hard with the wind and stung her eyes while she headed down an ice-slick sidewalk, the glow of the street lights reflecting off its surface. She could taste the oxidized dust on her tongue.
"Can't believe I've lasted this long," she whispered to herself shaking her head as an old motto her father had once told her suddenly fluttered into her head: When you run out of luck, you'll end up back in Chicago.
It was a haven for all sorts of devils and fallen angels. After three months of running, after a year of gambling against the gods for resolve, she had finally run out of luck.
On a cold December evening in 1937 she had ended up in Chicago, the city that never sleeps; or so she'd been told.
The sounds of distant music filled the thick, murky night air. A nearby doorman, cowering inside the lobby of an insanely expensive hotel had told her of a nightclub where she could find a stiff drink and cool jazz. Just so that she could break away from the real world for a while and escape the nawing pain inside her heart.
The neon sign in indigo blue above the door read the Nest. The glittering S popped and fizzled. She shook her head with a smirk and then entered.