James Axler - Deathlands 22 Rider, Reaper

/* /*]] */ Axler, James - Deathlands 22 - Rider, Reaper The Navaho leaned down and peered into the darkness inside the wag

"Tell him to watch out," J.B. called. "Could be grens or anything in there."But the warrior was already climbing down, feeling with his feet on the steel ladder. "Tell my brothers I count the first coup," he said. Now only his head and shoulders were visible. "This is a good day to"With a startling violence, the young man disappeared, cut off in midsentence."Fireblast!" Ryan cocked the SIG-Sauer and stared into the dark interior of the war wag, helpless to do anything to save the young Navaho from what had seized him.Out of the stillness, floating up, to the listeners, came a bubbling laugh, gentle and loathsome."Nice trick, you 'pache butcher. Suck on this."They heard a cry of pain and two bodies struggling with each otherthen the voice of the warrior, sounding thin and strained. "He's got a gren. Pin pulled!"Ryan was stranded, literally sitting on top of the bomb. He kicked out at the open hatch, watching it fall in almost slow motion, and rolled backward into a clumsy somersault. When he landed on the ground, the breath was driven from his body.Life was suddenly measured in tiny splinters of time. 22 in the Deathlands series A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDETORONTO NEW YORK LONDON AMSTERDAM WRIS SYDNEY HAMBURG STOCKHOLM ATHENS TOKYO MILAN MADRID WARSAW BUDAPEST AUCKLANDIf 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."Nobody deserves a dedication more than Joe J. Sirak, Junior, so this is for him. With thanks for all the hours of reading he's put in over the years. And with every possible good wish.First edition August 1994ISBN 0373625227RIDER, REAPERCopyright 1994 by Worldwide Library.All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the 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.Happiness dwells within each heart, Until it's stolen by a thief. We all know well that villain dark, Whose wretched name is grief.From Lives of Quiet Desperation , by Mary Lynn Britton, Bishop's Press, 1888 Ryan opened his good eye and blinked up into the early-morning sky, a bright blue band etched between the high sandstone walls of the New Mexico canyon where he lay resting from the glare of the sun.The bird was a blur for a moment, its large wings flapping lazily. Then his sight cleared and Ryan recognized the creature as a snowy egret, rising from a bunch of cottonwoods a hundred yards to the south.At his side, Jak Lauren hadn't stirred.A light breeze brought the familiar scent of sagebrush from farther down the trail.A tiny lizard scuttled out from under a frost-riven boulder, looking for a moment toward the two motionless figures. It decided they represented no threat and moved out into the band of sunshine, vanishing into a patch of Indian rice grass.Ryan glanced at Jak, as the youth stirred in his sleep, his arm flung across his pink, light-sensitive eyes. The familiar mane of snow-white hair was markedly longer than in the old days when they'd ridden and fought together, spilled out over the dusty, cropped grass.The albino teenager had always been a hardened survivor, but the dreadful events of the past few days had etched fresh lines of pain around his deep-set eyes and thin-lipped mouth.The bottom of the canyon was cool, barely in the eighties. Out in the open it was way over the hundred-degree mark.The two men had come alone, drawn by a common purpose. By a remembering and by a sadness.The rest of the party of friends were camped among a bosk of aspens, by the clear stream that trickled steadily from the higher ground. The stream had become the main water supply for the spread where Jak Lauren had settled with his wife, Christina Ballinger, and where the recent joy of their marriage had been the bright little Jenny.A gopher snake slithered from its hiding place and coiled itself, its delicate tongue probing at the morning air, tasting the two human beings. It found the vanishing flavor of the small lizard, balancing caution against hunger.Hunger won and it moved out into the open, following the tiny reptile.Ryan watched it go.Time was passing. His wrist chron showed that they'd been away from the others for well over the hour. Krysty would already be worrying. J. B. Dix, the Armorer, would probably be checking his own chron every now and again.Mildred Wyeth, the black doctor they'd thawed in a cryocenter, would be resting, maximizing her strength for the ordeal that they all knew would be starting very soon.Dean Cawdor, Ryan's eleven-year-old son, might be throwing pebbles into the fast-flowing stream, or sleeping, or hunting for snakes to chill.Doc Tanner, the oldest of the group of companions, born in 1868 and time-trawled to the bleak postholocaust world of Deathlands, would likely be asleep, flat on his back, his eyes covered with the distinctive swallow's-eye kerchief he always carried. The massive gold-plated commemorative Le Mat pistol would be holstered at his hip, and the ebony sword stick with the silver lion's-head handle lying at his side.Jak stirred and sighed, then looked sideways at Ryan. "Time to move?""Guess so."The young man stood, stretching, showing the feline grace that made him one of the finest hand-to-hand fighters that Ryan had ever known, though he had to admit that Michael Brother had the edge on anyone for sheer combat-reflex speed."It's like time never existed.""How do you mean, Jak?""Like I'm still with you. Like quiet months were dream. Like dark's always with me.""Least you had them, Jak. Krysty often talks about us settling down like you and Christina. Says how she wants to stop the running and the fighting."Jak nodded. He took a long, slow breath, running a finger around the collar of his denim shirt. His right hand rested easily on the butt of the huge satin-finish ,357 Colt Python Magnum, with its six-inch barrel. Ryan and J.B. had used to tease the white-haired youth about carrying such an enormous cannon, but Jak had shown repeatedly that he was able to handle it.Christina had never liked the gun, and on their last visit she'd insisted that Jak put it away."Never really took to us," Ryan said."Chris?""Yeah.""She appreciated how you saved her.""By chilling her brothers and her father. Sure. Good way to become friends."They'd encountered the Ballinger family many months earlierR.G., the father, the triple-stupe, vicious brothers, Jim and Larry, and their sister, limping with a built-up boot on her crippled left foot. Her blue eyes would never look at anyone, in case she got a fist in the face for rudeness. The girl's brutal world had been low on childhood and love, and high on violence."Best say goodbye." Jak looked around the canyon. "Favorite place.""It's beautiful.""Others not want to come?""Don't think so, Jak. Not really anything left for any of the others to say.""Suppose not."The wind fell away, and the steep-walled canyon became totally silent.They walked together through the hot, deeply crimson sand, toward the three graves. Each of them had a marker, carved from wood, the letters burned neatly into the slab of beech.The two men stood side by side, silently united in grief.Two of the graves were large, the middle one much smaller. All three lay in shade, beneath a wall of red rock that rose vertically and vanished into the deep blue of the morning sky.It was a place of great quiet. Jak and Ryan glanced up as the ghostly egret floated above their heads and vanished away toward the ruins of an Indian cliff dwelling.None of the markers carried any date or age.One read Christina Lauren, Beloved Wife of Jak and Mother of Jenny. Murdered.The small grave bore the legend Jenny Lauren, Dear Daughter of Jak and Christina. Murdered.The third marker claimed Michael Brother. Good Friend from Another Time.That was all.Ryan laid a hand on the slim shoulders of the teenager and stood with him in the stillness while they both remembered everything that had happened in the previous few weeks, since the companions had arrived unexpectedly in New Mexico after the last jump. Next page