James Axler - Deathlands 063 - Devil Riders

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"Describe him," Ryan demanded

The one-eyed man's heart was pounding in his

chest. It was impossible. This could not be happening.

The brothers exchanged a glance. "The Trader? Hell,

I dunno," Sparrow said. "Never saw the guy. He was

always inside a big-ass tank, stays behind a blister of

the mil glass."

"How many wags?" J.B. pressed him. "Describe

them!"

Sparrow scrunched his face. "Well, there were three,

one big wag and two others, each plated with metal

and covered with blasters. Big stuff. Baron Gaza was

scared to death of the guy. Hell, who wouldn't be with

all his weapons?"

"More," Ryan said through clenched teeth.

Fumbling for a reply, Jed scratched his head. "Well,

I heard Kate call the big truck War Wag One. That help

any?"

The universe seemed to go still at those simple

words, as if it were breaking apart and rejoining in a

new pattern, reorganizing itself on a most basic of

levels.

"He made it," Ryan said quietly. "trader's alive!"

Devil Riders

#63 in the Deathlands 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 book."

For my buddy, Rich Tucholka

First edition September 2003

ISBN 0-373-62573-1

DEVIL RIDERS

reproduction or utilization 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 Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

The sun and the moon and the stars would have

disappeared long ago…had they happened to be

within the reach of predatory human hands.

—Havelock Ellis, The Dance of Life (1923)

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 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

As muted thunder rolled across the grassy field, a

group of people burst from the bushes, running for

their lives.

Many carried bundles of possessions, but most had

already thrown away the packs for greater speed.

Death was coming fast, and every second counted.

Their convoy had been ambushed at a water hole, and

most of the mercies hired to guard them from

coldhearts were aced already. Now there was nothing

else to do but run.

"The Devils are here!" a burly man shouted, pulling

a rusty blaster from within his ragged shirt and

thumbing back the hammer. "Head for the trees!"

Some of the fleeing people did as ordered. Others

ran mindlessly across the open, ground. A few fell

weeping to the ground in surrender. Only two others

pulled weapons and turned to face the onrushing

enemy. The man held a homemade scattergun, the

woman a crude crossbow built from car parts. As the

man cocked back both of the hammers on the shotgun,

the woman pulled a razor-tipped arrow from the quiver

on her back and nocked it.

"Aim for the front," the first man commanded,

licking dry lips. "With luck the rest will be close behind

and they'll crash into the one we ace."

"We ain't gonna ace nobody," the woman growled.

"Nothing can stop the Devils."

Constantly wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers,

the man with the shotgun said nothing and tried to

control his breathing.

High above the screaming people, sheet lightning

crashed among the purple and orange clouds, while

black velocity streamers sliced through the sky like the

slashes of a knife. Suddenly from out of nowhere, an

arc of fire streaked across the polluted atmosphere as

another predark satellite descended too low and was

caught by the gravity to be disintegrated in a fiery

reentry.

On the ground, a wave of black-and-silver

motorcycles bounded into view from over a ground-

swell, the riders carrying nets and clubs to take their

prey alive. Each rider had a human skull, painted red,

attached to the yoke of the handlebars. Some had a tuft

of hair still in place, but most were missing teeth, or

entire jaws, the grisly remains of their victims saved as

trophies to adorn their machines. The Blue Devils,

coldhearts of the Panhandle.

"Ace 'em!" the leader of the convoy shouted, then

fired his blaster twice at the oncoming motorcycles.

A spray of sparks leaped from the handlebars of the

lead Harley as a slug ricocheted off the chromed steel.

The bikers paid no attention to the incoming lead and

spread out after the sprinting people.

Tracking her target, the woman released the arrow,

which hit a bald biker in the leg. The man cursed as his

machine swerved, then the rest of the gang were

among the defenders, the heavy nets filling the air.

A spread of net caught a woman, dragging her to the

ground, and as she tried to rise another rider slammed

her with his club, knocking her unconscious. Rising

from the thick grass, an older man shoved a wooden

spear into the spokes of a passing Harley, but missed

completely. However, the attack was noticed and the

lead coldheart sharply changed direction and revved

the bike's big engine. The front of the vehicle raised off

the ground to then slam down on the attacker,

crushing his chest with the horrible sound of

splintering bones.

More nets flew through the air and people fell

tangled in the ropes, tiny hooks woven into the mesh

catching skin and clothing alike. The leader of the

convoy fired his blaster at a nearby biker, but there was

only a spray of sparks from a misfire. Jouncing over

the irregular field, a fat biker covered with tattoos

swung the barrel of a scattergun toward the leader's

skull. But the man ducked just in time and pulled the

trigger again, this time a roar sounding from the

blaster. Blood sprayed from the biker's arm, and he

swung the scattergun about to pull both triggers. The

double explosion caught the leader full in the face,

blowing off his head in a frothy eruption of bone,

brains and blood.

More lightning flashed across the sky as the big

engines roared, the bikers circling their prey, driving

them closer together while they pulled more nets from

bulging saddle bags. The woman let fly an arrow from

her crossbow again, hitting nothing, and then was hit

from behind by a net. She dropped squirming to the

ground, then pulled a knife and buried it into her

chest, bright blood gushing from the mortal wound.

Dropping the empty scattergun, the older man

raised his hands in surrender. A Devil biker slammed

into him from behind, spinning the white-hair, who

crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Soon, the

roar of the engines mixed with the cries of the trapped

people. Another blaster discharged, and a biker

smashed a young man across the back with a thrown

club, sending him sprawling to the ground.

With the blasters empty, the battle was over in

minutes and the captives were freed from the nets.

Hands tied behind their backs, the prisoners were

kicked and shoved into a line before their grinning

captors.

This close, the old man could see that the biker gang

was dressed in rags draped over their thick leather

jackets to hide their wealth, but were armed to the

teeth with more blasters than any two villes worth of

sec men. The machines they rode were old and

patched, draped with saddlebags bulging with supplies

and a few precious cans of slick, grain alcohol cut with

traces of gasoline to fuel the big Harley engines. Every

member of the pack was armed with some kind of a

blaster, mostly scatterguns, yet only three of the bikes

had an intact headlight, and only one had a windshield.

The machines were battered, but still powerful, able to

go places that no heavily armored war wag could ever

reach.

"What's the total?" Cranston asked, the lead biker

leaning over the handlebars of his purring machine.

The man was a craggy giant with closely cropped

blond hair. His nose was flat and wide, but whether

that was a natural mutation or a very old injury was

impossible to discern. The handle of a knife jutted

from each boot, a big bore handcannon rode on his

right hip and a longblaster wrapped in dirty rags was

strapped across his back. The stock was deeply carved,

and feathers dangled from below the muzzle of the

weapon. The old man knew what that was for. To test

the direction of the wind when he was placing a long

shot.

"Ten people, four corpses," Krury announced,

running a hand across his bald head. "A pretty fair

haul."

"Not bad." Cranston grinned, killing the engine on

the bike, then using the edge of his boot to force down

the stand. Stepping off the Harley, he walked over to

the line of prisoners. Ignoring the men, he checked the

women, separating the very old and the one pregnant

girl from the rest.

"You boys can fuck these," he said. "But no broken

bones. We want them fresh for the market. Start a fire

going and jerk the corpses to smoke the meat."

"Cannies!" the old man gasped. "You're not slavers,

but nuking cannies!"

In a blur of speed, Cranston slapped the man across

the face, driving him to the ground. The prisoner

looked up with open hatred in his face, blood trickling

from a split lip.

"Don't back talk me, wrinklie!" the biker snarled.

"We don't eat people, but we know folks who do, and

they pay us in plenty of slick for our wheels in

exchange for the long-pig meat. So it's the mines or the

stew pot, take your choice."

Slowly, the prisoner stood in a surprising display of

strength for a man with so much gray hair. "How about

a third choice?" he said, hawking to spit the blood from

his mouth. "Bet that I can chill any one of you cannie

coldhearts with my bare hands."

At that, the bikers roared with laughter.

"Black dust, but the wrinklie's got balls!" Cranston

smiled, then his eyes went as hard as broken glass.

"Well, we got enough to spare one for some

entertainment. Okay, slave, if you win, you take the

place of the stud ya chill. Never have enough men with

real guts."

"And if I lose?" the old man asked, standing

straighter.

The rest of the prisoners stayed motionless and

silent. Their doom was sealed; this madness had

nothing to do with them.

Hooking both thumbs into his leather gun belt,

Krury sneered. "Then we deliver ya to the cannies

alive," he said in an edged voice. "They got a ceremony

called the Blood Dance. Starts with taking off your skin

and feeding it back to ya. Something about sweetening

their food."

"Then they get creative," another biker added,

rubbing his crotch. "And guess what ya eat next?"

The old man swallowed with difficulty, but said

nothing.

"Still game, old man?" Cranston demanded, resting

a hand on his blaster.

A stiff breeze from the stormy clouds overhead

ruffled the prisoner's gray hair as he nervously flexed

both hands.

"The name's Denver Joe," he said softly. "Denver

Joe Sinclair, although I'm really from Indy." For some

reason this seemed to be important to the old man, a

source of pride.

"Be smart, old timer!" Another biker laughed. The

man had long dirty red hair tied off in a ponytail that

reached his waist. "Choose the mines and live.

Anything's better than being a toy for the cannies."

One of the women prisoners burst into tears at that,

and the others merely trembled. A man on the end of

the line looked as if he were about to be sick.

"Yeah, I should work in the mines," Denver Joe shot

back. "But then a gutless feeb like you would suck

scabbies in a gaudy house to stay alive. I'll go down

fighting, ya mutie lover!"

Vastly amused by the unexpected display of

rebellion, the bikers laughed even louder this time.

With a snarl, the redheaded rider started forward,

drawing a hatchet from his belt, but Cranston stopped

the man with a stiff arm across the chest. The two

stood there for a moment, like a breed master holding

back his prize bloodhound.

"Whatcha think, Larry?" Cranston said, glancing at

the skinny old man and then the muscular biker. "You

missed twice with your net and killed a slut we could

have ridden tonight. I think you owe the pack some

entertainment."

"Anytime," the biker snarled.

"Winner take all?" Denver Joe added as insultingly

as possible. "My life against your place in the gang?"

"Done!" Larry growled, starting to strip off his

leather jacket and spare weapons. Kneeling as if in

prayer, the old man took some dirt and rubbed it into

his palms.

Cranston narrowed his eyes at that. Dirt in the

palms was a fighter's trick from the arena of a baron. A

person did that so the sweat wouldn't make him drop

his knife. But the wrinklie didn't have a blade. Was this

some sort of trick, or worse, a trap? It almost seemed

as if the whitehair was trying to goad the biker into a

fight right then and there. But that made no sense.

Larry was twice the old man's size, and there wasn't a

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摘要：

"Describehim,"RyandemandedTheone-eyedman'sheartwaspoundinginhischest.Itwasimpossible.Thiscouldnotbehappening.Thebrothersexchangedaglance."TheTrader?Hell,Idunno,"Sparrowsaid."Neversawtheguy.Hewasalwaysinsideabig-asstank,staysbehindablisterofthemilglass.""Howmanywags?"J.B.pressedhim."Describethem!"Spa...

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James Axler - Deathlands 063 - Devil Riders

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