By James Axler
Ryan Cawdor and his band of warrior-survivalists discover a shelter from the horrors of the post-holocaust international at a marine study middle created to review dolphins, until eventually they realize that the dolphins are being informed as killers.
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44s. " Again, Ryan noticed a slight blur of movement from one of the myriad holes above the sec boss's head. "You'll let the rest of them go? " "Hell, why not? Blood feud's between you and me. Sure. " Coburn grinned. "Yeah. Life's a bitch and then you go to buy the farm. Real sorry. " "No. " "Sure. " The muzzles were like miniature railroad tunnels, aimed at Ryan's eye. Coburn held the gun granite-steady. The white worms boiled from the pitted walls all around him, like an eruption of albino death.
If the door locking system had collapsed on both sides, then it would be the devil's own work to get everyone up the sheer face of snow-coated rock. And past the white worms. The digital number code for closing the sec doors was still showing 2-5-3. Ryan pressed the reverse 3-5-2 and waited for a few breath-stopping moments. He was reaching out to press the numbers again when he caught the faint sound of movement from within the surrounding walls. Gears whirred and compressed air hissed, overlaid with an ominous grinding noise, as though grit had worked its way into the control mechanism.
Spilled liquor on the metal bar top. Fingers on the silver lion's-head handle of a cane. But not one of the flickering flames of the memory film would remain long enough for Doc to grasp them. Still, all things considered, it wasn't that bad a jump for the old man. RYAN CAWDOR WAS SHAVING, his face reflected in a polished convex mirror, distorting the room behind him, magnifying so that every pore gaped like a canyon and every hair was like a black cable. The deep scar that ran vertically from the corner of his chillingly pale right eye to the corner of his mouth puckered the top lip so that it looked as though he were always on the verge of smiling.