Led by Blade, they were seven hand-picked members of the Freedom Federation. Each was a volunteer because no one had the guts to order them to go anywhere; each alone was worth an army—together, they couldn't be stopped.
Sanitize the Outlands of Oregon, which were under the rule of a vile race of mutants called the Reptiloids. Their diabolical leader had a taste for pitting humans against each other in Roman arean combat, and all the lizard-men had a taste for human flesh. They had rounded up all the men, women and children in the territory and were preparing for a great feast—but what they didn't know was that Blade was coming to dinner, and the special of the day was lizard stew.
BLADE'S LAST STAND
Something buzzed past Blade's right ear, and he automatically threw himself to the blank. He landed on his left side and rolled to a squatting posture, the stock of the M60 pressed against his thigh.
There was a hint of movement in a large tree thirty feet away.
Blade squeezed the trigger, the M60 thundering and bucking, the heavy slugs ripping into the foliage and sending leaves flying in all directions, the tracer rounds showing he was right on target.
A harsh shriek greeted the Warrior's volley, and an indistinct shape dropped from the tree into the undergrowth below...