Page 61 of Generation Omega: Revealed
“No idea, but I never touched her and I doubt the professor did either. The actor clearly did—I’m sure you’ve seen the footage. So, the contagion is now airborne, and we don’t actually know what that means. If you kill her, she could be a vial of toxin dropped in the world’s water supply.” I consider and then add, “The actor has a crazy theory. Do you want to hear it?”
“You are walking on dangerous ground, son. Just tell me what you have to say.”
“I was the greatest threat to the omega, and the legacy snared me to protect its charge.”
“So?”
It’s my turn to sadistically laugh. “Better be careful, Papa. You could be next.”
“You’re lying.”
“Would I lie?Yes. Am I lying?No. Kill her at your own peril. Send your agents against her and they could be recruited. The omega legacy has changed all the rules and it’s finally become a worthy adversary.”
“You are nothing but a slave to it.” He’s disgusted with me, but that’s not a new phenomenon.
“Slaves rise up. They fight back. And they defeat their oppressors. That’s how justice works. We’re still fighting on the same side, whether you want to believe it or not. I won’t be controlled—not by you or the omega lineage. I won’t allow this abomination to defeat me. But I need to get close enough to determine how to rip this omega weed from the garden.”
“What of thebetaand your brother?”
“The beta was fierce and deserved better, and if we want to kill the omega or control her, he’s the key. And I own him now. Ivan was weak and couldn’t defeat a bleeding beta—he deserved to be culled.”
“You’re asking me for something.”
“I’m not, just giving you details you won’t find on your drone footage. I won’t allow you to interfere with my mission, so do whatever the you want.”
I end the call, dump the phone, and take the longest way back to Ethan, ensuring I’m not followed. All the way back, my tension ebbs and flows in a confusing crash of biological imperatives. Protect and nurture my beta. Shield my omega.
Every time these vile instincts surge and attempt to control me, I smash them down and keep pounding until they cease. For now, all that matters is returning to my unicorn and helping him. This is not a skill set I currently possess—basic human decency—and might literally be the death of me, but for him, I’ll find a way.
Once inside the basement, I can hear his thoughts again. He’s dreaming and, as I move into the room where he’s bound to a table, the images from his dream light in my mind. I grab the wall to maintain my balance as the sensory overload almost brings me to my knees.
Ethan flinches and I almost wake him, but a possibly cruel curiosity stops me. Instead, I grab a chair and sit beside him while his nightmare plays in both our minds. I don’t know what’s more shocking, being in his dream or any dream. I don’t dream. I rarely ever sleep.
We’re in a room lit by dinosaur nightlights, where a boy sleeps in a bed shaped like a race car. All is peaceful, and the boy appears to be dreaming within his dream. Who dreams of peaceful dreams? I’m not sure I want to know, but I still stare at the boy in his mismatched pajamas, trucks on his top and T-Rexes on his pants. One leg is free from the race car blanket and his tiny foot is bare. It’s idyllic, but I’m not surprised that it isn’t built to last.
An explosion shakes the house and the boy jolts up—he can’t be more than seven or eight. His huge blue eyes capture the light from the nightlights as he stares at the door like monsters are just outside. He’s not fully awake and he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t call for help. He just stares at the door, probably wondering what woke him.
The closed door to his bedroom doesn’t open, but a voice calls from beyond the window.
“Ethan! Ethan! Wake up! Come to the window.”
The boy screams to the man below, his father who stands with his mother. “Help!”
“Come to the window, Ethan!”
The child version of Ethan trembles, his fear robbing him of the ability to move as smoke reaches under the door, seeming to have hands with claws.
“Ethan! Now! Come to the window!” His father is angry, shouting. I know it’s terror, but what would a boy think?
“Help! Daddy! Help me, please!”
The smoke creeps closer, growing more monstrous every second. Little Ethan backs up until he hits the wall, clinging to his blanket like a shield.
“Ethan! You can do this. Just come to the window. Jump to me! You can do it!”
Ethan’s eyes are blank. He can’t move. Fear caught him, and he’s trapped in his bed as the house burns.
“Daddy! Please!” His distress reaches inside me, like the claws on the smoke, and digs in while I still watch, needing to know the wounds he carries.
