By James Axler
Suffering for survival one of the is still of a post-nuclear usa, Ryan Cawdor, the chief of a band of warrior survivalists, unearths his authority challenged by means of his former mentor as the band treks around the wasted kingdom.
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A rich stew simmered slowly on the stove, great chunks of meat, so sinewy that they all agreed it had to be buffalo, with carrots and pieces of unidentifiable root vegetables. There was fresh bread in the larder and a crock of butter. Jars of preserves and pickles lined the shelves in the cool walk-in pantry, and a smoked ham dangled from an iron hook. "Never seen such a tidy house," Abe said. "Curtains are clean and there's spotless sheets on the beds. " There was a stripped-pine dresser that looked at least two hundred years old, with a set of matching crockery.
All right. " There were several earthenware pots of lamp oil stored in a closet off the kitchen. Ryan took them and sprinkled it liberally all over the first floor of the house, smashing the last two containers in the front hall. " he muttered. "Bastard nice place. " But he was already finding that the old, ingrained habits died hard. IT WASN'T QUITE SO COLD, the wind having eased down, meaning that some of the lying snow was just beginning to thaw. The hearse handled easily once they got onto the blacktop toward the dark ruins of Seattle.
Sure brought him up to date," Abe said, grinning eagerly and wiping moisture off his mustache. "How did the message get through to you? " "Bet it was that big black guy with one ear missing," Trader said. Ryan bolstered his blaster. "No. Little ville called Patriarch Springs. Something like that. Drummer was called Friedman. " Abe punched his right fist into his left palm. "Damn it! He was about the last we asked to carry the message to you, Ryan. B. asked. Trader laughed. "Pay! You been away from the war wags too long, Armorer!
Deathlands 24 Trader Redux by James Axler