Page 4 of Shared Omega

The lights in the room dim as Doctor Frostgrave steps forward, and for a moment the two men are paired side by side, half-silhouetted by the glowing holographic image behind them. The juxtaposition is almost comical. In contrast to the colonel’s stout build, the doctor’s frame is thin and gaunt. He could practically be a skeleton dressed in a lab coat except for the point of his goatee and the back-lit tufts of hair glowing white atop his head.

Colonel Fulgore moves off in the shadows, and Frostgrave takes the floor. He begins speaking, attempting without much success to make his chilly voice sound cordial.

“Greetings, marines. As some of you have likely already surmised, the mission which you are being called upon to execute will take you deep into the Quarantine Zone.”

Behind him, the image of the SynerGen corporate logo fades, and the laser-like lines of the holographic projection trace a satellite map displaying a wilderness of over ten thousand square miles encircled by a massive iron wall. At this zoomed-out level, however, the wall is little more than an irregular circle. At its center is a dark spot like the pupil of a crudely scribbled eye, the remnants of a ruined city and Ground Zero of the Cataclysm.

The Quarantine Zone. Most people refer to it as the Zone for short.

For over one hundred years, it’s been a festering blister on the face of the earth.

“Before we go over the details of this endeavor,” Frostgrave says, “I am going to show you some footage that was recovered from previous expeditions.”

The doctor pauses and tents his fingers thoughtfully in front of his bearded chin.

“Your reputation as hardened warriors notwithstanding, I must warn you that the imagery you are about to witness is…disturbing, to say the least. However, I feel it is important that you know exactly what you will be going up against. These images were recorded by the neural chips of SynerGen team members during earlier, unsuccessful excursions into the Zone.”

As Dr. Frostgrave steps back, moving away from the holograph, the satellite map transitions into a different image. It’s a first-person view of someone running through a dense forest, weaving in and out of massive trees the likes of which I’ve only seen in old photographs. Slanting sunlight lances through the leafy canopy and strobes across the runner’s arma-glass visor. There is the sound of desperate, labored breathing inside an enclosed helmet and the crunch of leaves under thudding boots.

My God, this is a real neural chip recording.

I’ve never actually viewed one before.

All of SynerGen’s marines have a chip implanted near the base of their skull, myself included. For one thing, it acts as a tracking device, allowing Central Command to know our location at all times during a mission.

More important, however, the chip monitors every detail of a marine’s sensory experience. Every sight and every sound.

They claim that the chip is only turned on during an active mission. I have my doubts about that.

“The footage you are seeing now,” Dr. Frostgrave comments from the sidelines, “depicts the last moments of Private First Class Lyle Parsons.”

On the screen, Parsons is still running. His point of view glances fearfully around the forest. A little ways off, partly obscured by the massive tree trunks blurring past in parallax, a dark shape is loping through the shadows of the woods.

Parsons whinnies with fear. It is a pathetic, animal sound of a man stripped down to one single emotion.

Terror.

He turns his eyes forward again. Even though he is already running at a full sprint, the private seems to get a burst of adrenaline as he picks up the pace even more.

But it’s no use. When Parsons glances back at the thing that is chasing him, it has already begun closing the distance. And it has been joined by others of its kind. The forest fills with the sounds of inhuman howls.

“Oh God,” Parsons whimpers.

My throat becomes dry as I watch. My heart thuds in fearful anticipation of the inevitable end I know we are about to witness. All around me, the other marines are deathly silent as they look on.

Practically sobbing with terror, Parsons races ahead.

“Help me!” he screams. His voice is desperate. “Please, somebody hel—”

He stumbles. Perhaps the toe of his boot caught a stray tree root. Or perhaps his legs simply gave out from exhaustion.

It doesn’t matter.

The beasts are on top of him in an instant.

Alphas.

They look like beings that have stepped straight from a nightmare.