Many of us remember the stories from our childhood. There is the Legend, some say myth, of a one-legged old man and a red-headed boy, and a handful of soldiers.

They traveled the land that remained after the cataclysm, bringing hope to the hopeless and protection to the helpless. As they traveled, they built camps for the survivors. Those camps became villages, and from those villages, our civilization was rebuilt.

This is the year 2253 of the Gregorian calendar. We also know that, more than 240 years ago, the magnetic poles of our planet shifted nearly 40 degrees over a period of several years, and the land was devastated. The knowledge of thousands of years died; what remained was passed from father to son and mother to daughter by word of mouth alone.

Yet, one legend remained with us. One legend endured…

Thirteen years before I put stylus to this parchment, a small group of explorers stumbled upon the remains of a large sailing vessel of ancient design, built of materials unknown to them. In the rotting hulk of that ship were found several trunks, many still water-tight. Those trunks contained scores of books. The collection of tomes formed a large library that offered a wealth of knowledge about the world and life before the polar shift.

We have poured over the books and papers. We've worked day and night to decipher the undecipherable, to re-learn what was forgotten, and to gather the knowledge that today allows us to understand who we are and where we came from.

We know the legend was real. We know there was an old man and a red-headed boy who, with a small handful of soldiers, struggled to find a place called home in a ravaged world.

What follows, in the words of that man himself, is that story: The Legend of Burroughs' Rangers.