By James Axler
Whilst a military of mutants, led by means of a charismatic and strong lord, is going on a rampage during the wastelands, Ryan Cawdor and his warrior survivalists search the way to unite the infighting baronies.
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Dreams, mat-trans or otherwise, weren't real. He shook his head to clear it of still-lingering jump ghosts. B. protested, firmly seating his fedora back on his head. "No way could they have jumped on purpose. 's right," Mildred agreed. "None of the stickies 36 DEATHLANDS we've ever crossed paths with has shown much in the way of practical intelligence. Nine times out of ten they don't even use simple weapons, like clubs and rocks, for their killing. I find it hard to believe that a bunch of gibbering idiots could organize themselves to do anything like this.
His tone was quick, decisive, commanding. And familiar. The sound of her lover's voice was a lifeline, pulling her back toward his world. Their world. The wraps of psychic silk loosened slightly, and Krysty could feel the hard floor under her legs, the wall at her back. The insistent pull of gravity reconnected her to the source of all her mutie powers, Gaia, the Earth Mother. She called on that feminine force, drawing it into herself. Her strength returned in a rush. She used it to drag herself from the clinging vestiges of the dream.
She reacted and had her blaster up and tracking before she realized what it was. Despite her quick reflexes, the stickie was halfway out of the hatch by the time her brain-to-finger message was received, and the weapon barked and bucked in her fist. Angling her shots down and away from her friends, she punched a pair of slugs through the stick-ie's smooth forehead. It dropped back through the opening, out of sight "Good one," Ryan said. The doors to the next floor loomed just overhead. "My turn," Jak said, picking up one of the new G-12s.