Her desire for vengeance was an unwavering flame
But even if Krysty had known beyond doubt her bullet would split that dark-haired skull, she wouldnât have taken the shot. Yes, the captain had to die. She had to kill him, or at least be the cause of his death even if her finger didnât pull the trigger or her hand plunge the blade.
But he was just one among many. A significant one, but merely one. To claim his life would risk throwing her life awayâwith her friends still unrescued and the bulk of her blood debt unpaid.
Krysty wouldnât do that.
So she watched them drive off out of sight, unmolested. Intuition told her they were heading back to the massacre site, to the rim above Ryanâs unmarked resting place a mile toward the center of the earth. Why they might be bound there she couldnât say. It didnât matter, and speculation was no part of her nature in any event. She let all thought of whys and wherefores slip from her mind.
There could be only her quest. Worry, fear, anticipationâthese could only weaken the resolve Krysty needed to keep her weary legs driving her relentlessly on.
Like to the Pontick sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Neâer feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellspont,
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall neâer look back, neâer ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up.
âWilliam Shakespeare,
Othello, III, iv, 454
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 endureâin the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to natureâs 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 villeâs 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 Ryanâs 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 couldnât 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: Ryanâs 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 humanityâs last hopeâ¦.
J. B. Dix chewed a dust-dry blade of buffalo grass and leaned back against the wag, its sun-heated metal pinging as it cooled in the breeze. Beneath the low-tipped brim of his fedora, he watched a little girl named Sallee, scabbed legs splayed in the dust by the track, as she played with a flop-eared, vaguely humanoid bundle of rags.
âWhat do you reckon that thing is, anyway, Jak?â he asked his companion, who perched on the wagâs hood walking a short leaf-bladed throwing knife along the backs of his bone-white fingers. âRabbit or mutie?â