By James Axler
Close to what used to be the Pacific Northwest, Ryan Cawdor and his roving band of post-holocaust survivors find a appealing valley untouched by means of the nuclear blast that modified the earth endlessly. Resisting the temptation to settle within the idyllic land, the crowd is captured and compelled deep underneath an extinct volcano to an remoted neighborhood of in-bred scientists who're blindly laboring to discover higher methods of genocide, unaware that the realm they're striving to slaughter has already died.
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If one saw a bigger paperthe Los Angeles sheets, or the Times or the Post , they would have carried it for months. Building international tension. Threats and promises. Folks up here in rural Oregon wouldn't have been that worried. There'd been the talk before. There was Cuba. " "I can read," interrupted Jak. "This here is 'bout librarianto do with books. Says got ban some foreign writers. " Doc Tanner peered at where the young boy was pointing. "Tolstoy. Chekhov. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. Dostoyevski.
Rice and stew, which looked good from the picture of a steaming banquet on the outside of the double-layer tin. Lori heated a can, waiting the approved three minutes, opened it and put it down on the floor. "Ugh. Looks like shit," she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Probably tastes like it, too," Ryan said, grinning. " "Tinned asparagus, Finn. , sure. " The side room where the cases of food were stored began to smell good, with the steam from the self-heats misting the cold air. Everyone ate their fill, regardless of the odd gastronomical mix.
B. also had a variety of hidden knives and other weapons about his person, perhaps under his leather jacket and nondescript pants. "My first jump I thought I was going to die," a woman's voice said. B. replied, managing a wan smile. Krysty Wroth scared the shit out of Jak. She was also tall, close to six feet, with a great body that fueled his adolescent fantasies. She had piercing green eyes and the brightest, thickest red hair the boy had ever encountered. Several times since their first meeting, he'd almost sworn the hair had had a bizarre life of its own, the vermilion fronds swaying gently in the breeze when there'd been no wind at all.
Deathlands 04 Crater Lake by James Axler