Page 68 of Feral Omega

Nothing.

Just the endless march of skeletal trees cloaked in their ghostly veils of snow.

A fresh surge of adrenaline surges through me and I speed up somehow, my lungs screaming in protest.

I can't let them catch me.

Not again.

Not after everything.

I weave between the looming trunks, ducking under low-hanging branches that leave stinging ribbons across my cheeks. The world blurs into a kaleidoscope of white and gray, shadows and mottled bark.

Memories flash behind my eyes, unbidden.

I'm a child again, sprinting through the woods on skinny legs, the bellows of soldiers still ringing in my ears. They spotted me from their compound, but I gave them the slip easily enough. The hunger gnawing at my gut, on the other hand, remains in close pursuit.

Ahead, a rabbit darts into a thicket, momentarily distracting me as its downy white tail vanishing in a puff of snow.

I freeze, letting it think I don't see it.

Mom told me we needed food, that we wouldn't survive another week without meat. She's so weak, her eyes sunken in a hollow face.

This is my chance to save her.

Creeping forward, I spot the little creature crouched in the thorns, nibbling on bark. It's so small, so innocent. Tears sting my eyes as I heft the jagged rock clutched in my tiny fist.

I can't do this. I can't hurt something so helpless.

Then Mom's words echo in my mind, her voice a ghostly rasp.

"The strong survive, baby. The weak don't get to choose."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I bring the rock down in a vicious arc.

The memory shatters as I burst into a small clearing, chest heaving. My gaze snaps around, searching for threats. For a moment, the only sound is the rasp of my own ragged breaths filling the air.

Then a soft gurgle catches my ear.

I whip toward the noise, rifle half-raised before I realize what I'm looking at. A stream, its waters mostly frozen over, with only a small section of dark, churning current exposed.

Thirst lances through me, dry and insistent. I haven't had anything to drink since before the battle.

Before the slaughter.

Before...

Shaking off the lingering memories, I stumble toward the stream, half-crouching as I fumble to open Valek's pack. A few precious canteens clank inside, along with tools and other supplies he must have gathered in preparation for our mad dash across the peaks.

I tug my balaclava down and crack the seal of one canteen. I press the rim to my lips, the icy water a balm on my raw throat, and gulp greedily, savoring the blessed relief as it washes away the cloying taste of fear and exertion.

As the canteen empties, I force myself to slow, to ration what little remains. Who knows how far I'll need to go before I can find a fresh source? How long I'll be wandering these merciless heights, hunted and alone? There's no way the snow is safe to drink in this irradiated region.

I cap the canteen and tuck it back into the pack, my movements jerky and uncoordinated as exhaustion settles in my bones like a leaden weight. Every muscle screams in protest, each limb trembling with the aftermath of my panicked flight.

But I can't rest. Not yet. Not until I've put miles between me and the massacre at that godforsaken mansion.

My gaze drops to the edge of the collar still secured around my throat, that cold band of unforgiving steel branding me a prisoner. A pet to be tracked, monitored, and controlled.

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