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      Slavery as an institution that degraded man to a thing has never died out. In some periods of history it has flourished: many civilizations have climbed to power and glory on the backs of slaves. In other times slaves have dwindled in number and economic importance. But never has slavery disappeared.

      —Milton Meltzer

      1915–2009

      Slavery: A World History

      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….

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Moving low and fast, the six sweaty horses galloped across the blazing plain of the Great Salt desert, the grim-faced riders hunkered low in the saddles, their hands desperately reloading weapons.

      “We’re not gonna make it!” J. B. Dix shouted, glancing over a shoulder.

      “Yes, we are!” Ryan Cawdor yelled back, pointing straight ahead with his bolt-action longblaster.

      Squinting hard against the wind and the airborne granules, the six riders could only make out a blur in the distance. Then as they crested a low sand dune, an oasis came into view, a tiny patch of blue water smack in the middle of the scorched hell of the vast salt desert. A few palm trees grew alongside the shimmering pool of water, their abnormally long fronds bending all the way down to hesitantly touch the surface as if trying to sneak tiny sips when nobody was watching. Bizarrely, a predark mailbox jutted from the damp sand alongside the pool, the metal sandblasted to a mirror-like sheen over the long decades, but the shape was unmistakable.

      “Thank Gaia!” Krysty Wroth exhaled with a grin, reining in her mount.

      In the far distance, a large black cloud crested the horizon. Skimming low and fast over the salty sand, the cloud moved with singular purpose, heading straight for the six companions, as unswerving as a laser beam.

      “Here they come!” Mildred Wyeth yelled, bringing her horse to an abrupt halt alongside the pool.

      “Into the water!” Ryan commanded, sliding off his stallion and dropping into the water. The man grunted with annoyance as the water only reached the top of his combat boots. Fireblast, he thought, this wasn’t going to offer us any useful cover. No other choice, then.

      “Ace the horses!” Ryan shouted, firing a single 9-mm round into the left eye of his mount. The horse recoiled from the trip-hammer blow of the copper-jacketed lead and reared high on its hind legs, whinnying loudly. The big brown eyes stared accusingly at the man, then the horse collapsed onto the damp sand, twitched and went still.

      With grim expressions, the rest of the companions followed suit, arranging the bodies in a crude barricade around the small pool. Wary of where they put their boots in the shallow water, the companions put their backs toward one another to stand in a defensive circle. Now, they were covered up to their chests, which gave them a fighting chance for survival. That still wasn’t much protection, but it was better than nothing.

      Reaching out, Mildred took J.B.’s hand, and he squeezed back, the couple savoring the touch for a single precious moment, the gesture saying in volumes what no words ever could. Breaking free, J.B. slid the S&W M-4000 shotgun off his shoulder and passed it to the woman. Mildred nodded her thanks, removed a fat red cartridge from one of the loops sewn into the strap and slid it into the belly of the scattergun.

      “Never heard of stingwings hunting in a pack before,” J.B. stated, working the arming bolt on his Uzi machine gun. Short and wiry, the man was wearing a battered old leather jacket and a fedora that had seen better days. Wire-rimmed glasses were firmly tucked into place on his nose, at his side hung a leather satchel, home to various bits and pieces of munitions in addition to several sticks of dynamite.

      “If this is our