End Day. James Axler
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TIME WARPED
Ryan Cawdor and his six companions struggle to survive postnuclear America, a grim new world where hope for the future is lost amid the devastation.
APOCALYPSE REDUX
In pursuit of a hardened enemy—Magus—Ryan and the companions find themselves in a land more foreign than any they’ve encountered. After unwittingly slipping through a time hole, the group lands in twentieth-century New York City, getting their first glimpse of predark civilization. And they’re not sure they like it. Only Mildred and Doc can appreciate this strange metropolis, but Armageddon is just seventy-two hours away, and Magus will stop at nothing to make sure Ryan and his team are destroyed on Nuke Day...
“This isn’t Deathlands!
Where in nukin’ hell are we?”
J.B. stared up at the wall-to-wall buildings as if he’d never seen the like.
Ryan didn’t seem to notice the Armorer’s distress. He took stock of their surroundings, realizing that the companions had been there before, in the future, amid ashes and ruin. He focused his attention on the traffic, looking from one license plate to another.
“What year is this?” he asked Veronica.
“It’s 2001.”
Doc groaned. “We have jumped back in time.”
“You’re from the future?”
Ryan ignored her question. “What month is it? What day?”
“It’s January 19,” Veronica replied. “Why, do you have somewhere more important to be?”
“Any place but here and now would be just fine,” Ryan told her. “The world ends tomorrow at noon.”
End Day
James Axler
The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Table of Contents
Ryan Cawdor peered through the 2.5x telescopic sight of his Steyr Scout Tactical, index finger resting against the longblaster’s trigger guard. Behind the scope’s center post, through the heat shimmer rising off the desert floor, he tracked the five-wag convoy rattling over dirt the color of rust, down a string-straight track between clumps of dry sagebrush and scattered sentinels of saguaro.
At his side J. B. Dix said, “Got a shot on the nukin’ bucket of bolts?”
Ryan didn’t answer. The two wags in the lead, a camouflage-painted SUV and a three-quarter-ton, black-primered pickup, sporting a cabover-mounted machine blaster, raised billowing clouds of dust. If the patterns of the past held, Magus was lounging in the third wag—a big, steel-plate-armored Winnie. The half-human, half-machine monster liked to ride in style, with room to keep spare parts and unspeakable experiments close to hand. Although the drop-down, bulletproof metal shutters on the side