Page 1 of Marked Omega

PART ONE:

THE ZONE

CHAPTER 1: LILY

The armored transport rumbles over a hill, and we see it for the first time—the quarantine wall. It twists across the barren landscape like a ribbon of iron and rust.

On this side of the wall is the so-called civilized world. Sure, it’s no picnic, but for all its multitude of problems—overpopulation, rampant crime, pollution, depleted resources—it’s got nothing on what lies on the other side of that ugly, metal boundary.

The quarantine zone. By all accounts, it is hell on earth. And that’s exactly where we are heading.

I shudder as I think about the dangers awaiting us beyond that wall—horrible, twisted mutants who will tear a man limb from limb. Based on everything I’ve read, they’ll do even worse things to any woman unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches.

Seated beside me, in the middle row of the cramped vehicle is Sara, another young SynerGen research assistant like myself. I don’t know her too well, as she only joined the team recently, after her predecessor Eva went missing.

When I glance over at her, Sara brushes back her brown hair and tries her best to give me a reassuring smile. But the nervous way that she fidgets with the ring on her finger betrays her fear. When she notices me looking, she stops her fidgeting and pulls on her thick protective gloves, snapping them into the sealed sleeves of her bodysuit.

She has no reason to be ashamed. I completely relate to her fear. She’s thinking the same thing that I am right now.

What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

“Nervous?” our boss, Dr. Lucian, calls from the front passenger seat as if he can sense our emotions. His head of thick, dark hair bobbles as the transport rocks over the cracked pavement. He turns in his seat and darts his eyes between me and Sara.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be perfectly safe inside this transport. It’s vacuum sealed and radiation resistant to protect us from any contagions in the zone. And the armor plating is more than adequate to resist a physical attack should we run into any Alphas.”

Alphas. That word makes my skin prickle with goosebumps. I swallow hard. Sara asks the question that I’m thinking.

“Do you think that’s likely, Dr. Lucian?” Sara asks. “That we will encounter any Alphas, I mean?”

A mysterious smirk curls at the corner of his full lips. Dr. Lucian is not your typical nerdy scientist. His clean-shaven jaw is strong and masculine. He has a veritable mane of slightly curly dark hair that is silvered at the temples, and intense brown eyes stare out from beneath a pair of thick brows.

Dr. Lucian’s most attractive feature, however, is that picture perfect smile of his.

A lot of the young female assistants at the lab have a crush on Dr. Lucian, and if I’m being completely honest, there was a time when I counted myself among that group too. By now, however, I’ve worked with him long enough to recognize that smile for what it really is—a manipulation. An empty promise. A way to cajole young women into doing all of his hard work for him while he reaps all of the accolades.

Well that’s about par for the course these days. The men have all the money and power, while the women are left with the scraps. Dr. Lucian’s self-satisfied smile shows that he knows that fact all too well.

But this time, there’s a hint of mystery in that smile, and I don’t like it. It makes me feel like there’s something Dr. Lucian isn’t telling us.

“No,” he answers Sara in a patronizing tone. “It’s highly unlikely that we will run into any Alphas on the other side. As I’m sure you both know, they are extremely elusive. They prefer hiding to confrontation.”

He flicks his gaze up and over our shoulders and juts his chin.

“Besides,” he says calmly, “should we run into any trouble, the security troopers will protect us. They are more than a match for a pack of wild animals.”

I turn and look at the two troopers seated behind us. Deakon and Chappel. Two solid bricks of men with matching crew cuts. Their massive bodies jostle in the seats as the transport bumps down the road. Their faces are impassive.

Their team leader, Bishop, is up front driving the transport. He has a grizzled, black beard that is slashed across his right cheek by a nasty pink scar. I can’t see his face from where I’m sitting, but I have no doubt that it is wearing that same mean-looking scowl as always.

For these security troopers, it’s just another day at the office.

But not for me. The quarantine wall is getting closer by the minute, and I’m practically shitting my pants at this point.

Well, I’m practically shitting my protective bodysuit, I should say. Everyone in the transport is wearing one. The suit is a one-piece of a heavy, black, leathery material. A metal ring around the neck allows for a special helmet and ventilation mask to be attached should we need to exit the vehicle.

That thought makes my stomach turn, and I feel a sour taste in the back of my throat as the synthetic peanut-butter sandwich I ate for lunch threatens to return.

I need something to calm me down, and fast.