By James Axler
Pursuing a private quest with the aid of his son, post-apocalypse warrior Ryan Cawdor reveals himself scuffling with mutant existence types within the bayous sooner than he discovers an unsettling fact a few earlier new release.
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B. FOUND HIMSELF walking along a beach. The stones beneath his combat boots were of differing sizes, from duck egg to basketball. A thick mist drifted in from the gray sea to his right, which lapped at the edge of the beach with small, monotonous rollers, sucking at the shingle, rising and falling, advancing and withdrawing. To his left he could just make out vast cliffs of smooth, polished granite, rising vertically, their tops out of sight in the lowering clouds. The beach stretched ahead of him for about two hundred yards until it merged with the grayness.
He blinked his good eye, aware of tears streaming from it, across his stubbled cheeks. "Oh, does my hero weep? I see that he does. And I have only used about a quarter of my needles. " She was moving quicker, rising and falling, and he knew, through the fog of agony, that he was nearing a climax. Her gnarled hand, gripping a long steel needle, rested on his salt-slick cheek. The point, blurred in his vision, moved back and forth across his eye. "One eye good. No eyes better," she murmured. " Ryan blinked his good eye shut, feeling a tiny prickling as the point of the needle probed at the closed eyelid.
Ryan nodded. " He narrowed his good eye, sniffing. "You smell anything? B. concluded. " Chapter Two "Doing to us what we did to those bastard ants! " Life was measured in seconds. There was no point now in trying to close the exterior sec door. The gas could be ignited in a heartbeat. "Have to jump," Ryan said. " Keeping low, almost on hands and knees, the men splashed through the gasoline that had gushed into the area, reaching the closed door of the gateway chamber. B. said. "I know," Ryan replied irritably.