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Ryan Cawdor never heard the swampies

One moment he was up and walking; the next he was rolling over on hands and knees, the G-12 pulled from his grip, someone’s arm around his throat, another attacker hanging on his waist, kicking at his legs. A stench of gasoline and sweat assaulted his nostrils as he grappled with the oily bodies.

There were three of them: two men and a woman. Muties, like the ones they’d seen on the day they arrived in Louisiana. All were about five feet tall, stumpy, squat and muscular, in torn pants and shirts, their feet in flapping sandals of hacked rubber. All three breathed noisily through open mouths.

Suddenly the woman raised a small crossbow, aiming it jerkily at Ryan’s belly.

The thought darted through his mind that this was a squalid and foolish way to die.