Page 23 of Shared Omega

“Don’t look,” I hiss over my shoulder.

But it’s too late. I can tell by the squeeze of her fingers and the hitch of her breath that Sloane has already seen. In fact, there’s nowhere to turn without looking at a mangled piece of something that used to be a person.

Sloane composes herself.

“What are we waiting for?” she says. “We need to salvage whatever we can. Weapons. Food.”

Shit, she’s a tough one.

But there’s a wobble in her voice that undercuts her tough demeanor. It’s not that the devastation of her teammates hasn’t affected her. It’s just that she isn’t going to let it get in the way of her survival.

And she’s right. We need to grab what we can and haul ass.

It’s the middle of the night in the Zone, and there are Alphas about. Farlander Alphas. The worst and most savage kind.

If it was just me, I wouldn’t be so worried.

Now, however, I’ve got Sloane to protect. And she’s in heat. Her scent will draw the bastards in. We can’t waste any time.

True to form, Sloane sets to work immediately. She releases her grip on my arm and makes her way to the armament rack at front of the craft. The rifles are scattered about on the floor. She picks one up, examines it, tosses it aside. Then another. And another.

Her movements grow frantic,

“Fuck!” she hisses.

Her small fist slams hard into the bulkhead as she releases her frustration and anger with a punch.

“They’re all fucked,” she says as she regains her cool. “Every last one of them is broken.”

Shit. So much for weapons.

It looks like we’ll have to rely on my strength and Sloane’s knife.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Let’s check the cockpit.”

I climb in first.

The windshield is cobwebbed with cracks from the impact, but somehow it’s still intact. The bodies of the pilot and copilot are still there, strapped into their seats. Miraculously, the devices on the control panel are not destroyed, and some of the switches and warning lights are still blinking.

Something overhead sputters and showers yellow sparks.

“Do you know how to work this thing?” I ask, sweeping my hand toward the comm unit embedded into the console.

Sloane nods, her face a picture of concentration.

“The question is, does it still work?”

She tries a few of the switches and dials, and the machine emits an electronic croak.

“Come in,” Sloane says into the device. “This is Lance Corporal Jessica Sloane reporting from…somewhere in the Quarantine Zone. Come in. Is anyone there?”

Silence.

Sloane tries again several times, but each time, the result is the same.

At last, dejected, Sloane drops her head.

I feel my heart sink too.