Page 11 of Shared Omega

Fulgore just snorts and blows a puff of noxious tobacco smoke directly into my face.

“You’d better not, Sloane. Now get your pretty little ass the fuck out of my sight.”

CHAPTER 4: DOG

“There she is!” the pilot shouts. “The Quarantine Wall…”

The interior of the dropship is a long, windowless cylinder. The cadre of armored marines are seated in rows along both walls of the transit hold, supported by padded deployment seats.

I lean forward in my own cramped seat and look down the long aisle to the open cockpit and through the arma-glass windshield to the night beyond.

Sure enough, there in the darkness is the Quarantine Wall, winding across the barren landscape like a black serpent. With my sensitive vision, I can even make out tiny dark specks moving about on the parapets—the guards who man the heavy artillery for keeping the mutants contained inside.

Mutants like me.

My heart thumps with excitement.

It always feels good to return to the Zone. The overcrowding and pollution of the city hive is no place for me. I need the sprawling wide open meadows and dark forests where I can run free.

I prefer going in alone, but this time I’ll have company.

I look around at the other occupants of the ship as they check their jump gear. Beneath their parachute straps, they are all clad in uncomfortable looking leathery environmental suits to protect them from the contamination of the Zone. Their helmets are stowed beneath their seats. They won’t need those until it’s time to jump.

The only one not dressed in armor is me. I don’t need it since I’m already a mutant, an Alpha. All I’ve got on is a pair of black compression shorts and my chute harness and pack. And of course the rubber-edged military dog tags hanging from a thin ball chain around my neck.

When it comes to the Zone, I like to travel light.

As I scan my eyes around the hold, I catch some of the marines glancing at me, their eyes filled with a mixture of disgust and fear.

They don’t trust me.

I’m an Alpha, after all. I’m supposed to be the enemy.

Hell, I don’t blame them. I used to be a human like them in another life. At least that’s what I’m told. I don’t remember.

Most of the marines refuse to meet my eyes. They keep themselves busy, quietly checking and rechecking their gear in preparation for our jump. The only one making a racket is the one named Donovitch. Ever since we left the ground, he hasn’t shut his trap about how much shit he’s going to wreck in the Zone and how many Alphas he’s going to kill. He makes sure to glare at me pointedly after each of his overly loud boasts.

Whatever. If he needs to pump himself up, that’s fine.

Me, I have the opposite problem. I’m always pumped up. My struggle is keeping my feral Alpha urges in check. Thankfully, I have been thoroughly conditioned to keep my shit under control.

Settling back into my uncomfortably small seat, I feel the steady throb of the engines through the deck. My eyes turn to the marine seated directly across from me.

Sloane.

Now, she’s a different story.

I’ll confess, I was surprised as hell to see a female marine. However, despite being half the size of her comrades, she exudes a cool aura of self-confidence that I admire. It tells me she knows how to handle herself. Being a woman marine, I’m sure she’s had to work that much harder than everyone else.

But despite her cold, tough attitude, she’s still very much a woman. Her leathery black protective suit hugs her skin, showing off the curve of her hips and the ample swell of her round breasts. Even her slightly butch, blond buzzcut just serves to accentuate her feminine aspects even more.

I find my eyes tracing all around the sexy lines of her body.

As she silently goes about her equipment check, her head tilts, and my eye catches on something at her neck.

A dark barcode tattoo.

She’s been institutionalized at some point. Couldn’t be prison. SynerGen takes all kinds for their little private military, but they draw the line at ex-cons.