James Axler - Deathlands 058 - Salvation road

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Ryan managed to stagger to his feet

"Leave him," Crow said softly. "He has every right to be angry. But he's no

danger to us now." The words became strung out and distorted as the drag took

effect. Ryan swayed on his feet, trying to reach for his SIG-Sauer, but every

movement seemed to take an eternity, and his numbed hand failed to respond.

He could see J.B. fumble with his Uzi, falling forward to the ground before the

blaster was fully in his hands. The world narrowed and darkened around Ryan.

The one thought that cut through his befuddled mind was why hadn't they been

chilled then and there?

Salvation Road

#58 in the Deathland series

James Axler

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •

HAMBURG • STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID •

WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is

stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and

neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped

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book."

The world is his, who has money to go over it.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882

First edition June 2002

ISBN 0-373-62568-5

SALVATION ROAD

of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or

other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography,

photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is

forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library,

225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the

author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or

names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or

unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are

registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade

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Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that

was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the

balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the

hawk and the tiger, true to nature's heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with

betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville's own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the

strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been

fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan's close ally, he, too, honed

his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896,

Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn't have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is

not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings

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twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and

danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan's young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows,

and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity's last hope…

Chapter One

The broken wheel weighed heavily on his chest, the sharpened and splintered

spokes beginning to feel uncomfortable as they poked into his flesh. He pressed

himself back into the ground, feeling the sharpness of the small rocks and

pebbles in the red dust as they formed a hard, compressed mattress beneath him.

He breathed in short, shallow gasps, trying to extract the maximum amount of

oxygen from the minimum movement of his chest muscles. He figured that the

axle of the wheel would keep it aloft enough to prevent it penetrating the cloth,

skin and flesh and breaking bone and mashing internal organs into a pulpy mess.

The balance of the wrecked wagon was delicate, but he hoped that the bulk of its

contents would stay on the far side, with just enough weight to lift the broken

wheel and prevent it from tilting slowly and inexorably into his all too frail

human frame. He would have tried to move, to wriggle out from beneath the

spokes, if not for the fact that they already had him delicately pinned, moving

almost with the breeze that blew dust and grit into his eyes, making him blink.

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Everything was otherwise still. The delicate swirl of the wind and the almost

whispered creak of the broken wagon as it shifted was all that could be heard.

He couldn't remember exactly how the accident had occurred. A vague blur of

action as the wagon hit the half-buried rock, the vast majority of its bulk being

hidden beneath the loose earth, the terrified cries of the horses as the reins and

harness pulled on their muscle and sinew, the wagon suddenly brought to a dead

halt by the obstruction. The arrested force pulled the animals back and snapped

the neck of one while the other tore free of the frayed leather and ran on,

disappearing from view behind an outcrop, the sound of its terrified flight fading

into the distance. His own flight, propelled by the force of the impact and pulled

forward by the momentum of the reins he had been loosely clutching, had been

too swift to recall.

He remembered the impact of his fall, the bone-crunching jarring of his spine on

the earth recording indelibly that journey into his memory. The wagon had

eventually rolled over the dislodged rock after balancing for a moment in midair,

poised to fall with the full weight of twisted and splintered spokes onto his body.

The weight inside the wagon, shifted to one side by the impact, had prevented

the descent of the deadly wooden stakes, and thus a swift oblivion.

But perhaps this was worse.

He moved again, shuffling beneath the pointed ends of the spokes, which

seemed to push back against him and pin him further, as if to emphasize their

mastery over his aching, pain-racked frame. The heels of his boots tried to dig

into the dust and push back, but found no purchase in the loose earth.

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d6Ryanmanagedtostaggertohisfeet"Leavehim,"Crowsaidsoftly."Hehaseveryrighttobeangry.Buthe's\nodangertousnow."Thewordsbecamestrungoutanddistortedasthedrag\tookeffect.Ryanswayedonhisfeet,tryingtoreachforhisSIG-Sauer,but\everymovementseemedtotakeaneternity,andhisnumbedhandfailedtorespo\nd.HecouldseeJ.B....

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James Axler - Deathlands 058 - Salvation road

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