By James Axler
While a military of mutants, led by way of a charismatic and strong lord, is going on a rampage throughout the wastelands, Ryan Cawdor and his warrior survivalists search the way to unite the infighting baronies.
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Don't get your hopes up, though. B. into the room. It was a scientific laboratory, with its own mainframe computer and a row of automated chemical-analysis machines. The walls were lined with metal shelves, bearing hundreds of stacked, labeled, sealed glass jars. Similar jars rested on the workstation counters and the floor. Ryan scanned some of the labels. The dates printed at the tops went all the way back to the days immediately after the nuclear holocaust. The room contained thousands of jars.
Not their puke, Them. In his life the one-eyed warrior had killed many stickies hand-to-hand, face-to-face, but never before had he noticed that particular smell. Then he remembered the source of the olfactory cue: it had come from the nightmare. Trapped in a mutant dream-body, he had recognized his fellow stickies by the distinctive scent they left behind. Now that he was wide-awake and fully rematerialized, the telltale stench shouted at him tike a pile of fish guts left three days in the sun.
With each second that passed, the other car gained ground. It was clear that it would overtake them before they reached the top floor. No one had to spell out the danger: if the stickies got above them, the creatures had the tactical advantage. They could jump down and overwhelm Ryan and company by sheer force of numbers. B. stated. It was an announcement, not a question. And even as he made it, he had the frag in hand and was separating the explosive from its grip safety. He lobbed the bomb into the midst of the stickies below.
Deathlands 36 Skydark by James Axler