Ruined Omega (Quarantine Omega Book 3) by Lizzy Bequin

Author:Lizzy Bequin [Bequin, Lizzy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-08-03T16:00:00+00:00

PART THREE:

THE FARLANDS

CHAPTER 17: HINES

The Farlanders march us through the woods all night long and into the next morning. The storm has long since passed, but the sodden trees are still dripping with rain, and our captors’ heavy feet squish through the muddy soil.

At the alcove, Tal and Baen fought fiercely, killing several Farlanders in the process, but there were too many of them, and they were overwhelmed. Now their arms have been pinioned behind their backs with wooden stocks and heavy ropes.

And I have found myself slung over another shoulder, this one grotesque and gnarled like the knobby root of a tree.

“Fuck this shit,” one of the Farlanders grumbles. “I say we kill these two bastards and fuck the omega.”

The Farlander who has me over his shoulder snarls. With his free hand, he brutally cuffs the one who spoke upside the head.

“Abaddon wants ’em alive, you git. Says he’s got plans for ’em.” There is a sound of snuffling nostrils, and my stomach lurches as I feel hot breath blasting over my butt. “Besides, this one ain’t no omega. She’s a Noutsider.”

Our captors didn’t bother to search me, so I still have my pills. I’ve managed to sneak a dose every couple of hours during the march.

“Never fucked a Noutsider,” the other grumbles.

There is the sound of another even harder blow, knuckles cracking against a thick skull.

“Damn it, I done told ye, git. If you touch Abaddon’s prize ’e’ll eat your liver. Now shut yer gob and keep marchin’.”

We come into a wide clearing just as the angry, red sun is just stepping over the tips of the tall evergreen trees, bathing our surroundings in an awful, bloody glow.

Situated in this clearing is a primitive camp. Crude huts built of mud and sticks and piled-up stones of mismatched sizes. It is a Farlander camp. Crooked buildings for crooked, monstrous creatures.

Despite the simple shelters, there are dozens upon dozens of Farlanders sprawled on the ground, which is muddy with the previous night’s rain. As the dawn light touches them, they raise their groggy heads and blink their bleary, bloodshot eyes, seemingly oblivious to the filth or the fact that they must have slept all night in the pouring rain.

For some of the huts, threads of pale smoke are rising, and I smell the scent of burning wood. But it is overpowered by the thick, goatish musk of the Farlanders and the cloying stench of mud.

As we move toward the middle of the Farlander encampment, a sound reaches my ears. A chorus of mushy, slack-jawed moans and grunts. When I see the source of the sound, my guts go cold inside me.

In a large enclosure surrounded by a fence made of branches, three dozen naked people are milling about. These are not Farlanders. Their bodies are much smaller and weaker. Their skin is pale and shot with black, diseased-looking veins. Their eyes are milky and unseeing.

It takes me a moment to realize who they are.

“Betas,” Tal mutters from behind. It’s the first words he’s said all night.

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