Shadow Fortress (Deathlands) by James Axler

By James Axler

Forged from the Ruins

A planet ravaged by way of the apocalyptic blast of 2001 gave start to a brand new international of savagery -- and a brand new breed of hero. In a land the place violence ideas with absolute authority, Ryan Cawdor and his wayfarer survivalists roam the unusual, nascent twenty-second century, dwelling via their very own creed of honor as they proceed their look for a sanctuary they could name domestic.

Eternal Quest

In what used to be the nuclear checking out floor of the predark international, the Marshall Islands at the moment are the dominion of the ugly Lord Baron Kinnison. the following during this global of slavery and brutality the partners have fought a fierce conflict for survival, on land and sea -- but the artful baron nonetheless conspires to break those interlopers. Activating a twentieth-century scorching air balloon left untouched through the blast, they break out to the neighboring pirate-ruled Forbidden Island, with the baron's sec males in sizzling pursuit -- and turn into trapped in a conflict for overall supremacy of this water international.

Not even Deathlands can deny the human will to survive.

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Sample text

Agreed," Glassman stated, then bellowed over a shoulder. " came the prompt reply. "Mitchum here will be assuming your duties as my second in command. " Looking around the dirty windshield, Campbell stared at the two men talking down the road. Something was going on, but since he had no idea what it was, he'd best just obey orders for the present. " Campbell shouted, stepping into the rear of the vehicle to take a position at the big machine gun. " Glassman asked, staring the man in the face. "For the moment," Mitchum said, jabbing the sailor with the muzzle of his flintlock one more time, then holstering the piece.

Full stop, Henry Glassman yelled, and the convoy braked to a ragged halt. The thin commander of the lord barons navy, was dressed in loose gray clothing and sandals, the standard wide leather belt around his middle serving as a tool belt and holster for his flintlock and an even bigger predark revolver. A machete hung handle down in a shoulder holster. The navvies, as his sec men liked to be called, were heavily tattooed, displaying their ranks on their faces, and dressed in a similar way, making them easy to spot among the others in the wags.

Stepped into the cockpit, their faces tense with anticipation. The sunlight streamed in through the leafy-edged windows, casting odd shadows. The remains of the command crew were in the same positions, but now their clothing was starting to visibly decompose at the invasion of clean air. B. took out his compass and went to the dashboard. He flipped several switches until the needle stopped jerking. "It was their emergency beacon," he said, tucking away the compass. "The nuke batteries were almost drained.

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