The Omega Project (19 page)

Using the binoculars, I spotted the rolling trough of ocean before me—a river of shallows retreating from a beach that was birthing a towering curl—the wave cresting so high it obliterated the horizon.

With a rolling, peppered explosion of white noise, the two-hundred-foot wave pummeled sand and surf, its swollen tide rushing inland several miles at tsunami speed.

Minutes passed, my fragile heart pounding in terror as I watched the ocean inhale the tide back whence it came, the reversing undertow building into another incoming swell—the swell my raft now floated upon!

“Oh, God! Vanilla sway! Vanilla sway! Vanilla—”

The forming trough pulled the raft onto its rising hump of sea as if I were climbing the first hill of a roller coaster, the sea curling beneath me, levitating the swell to its twenty-story height …

“—swahhhhhhhh!”

In one motion, I sprawled across the raft on my back, securing my ankles and left wrist beneath guidelines as the mountainous vertical wall of water dropped beneath me, its displaced downward moving mass unleashing an upward blast of air that caught the falling raft like a Frisbee—levitating it above the crashing wave, which struck the shallows in a deafening thunderclap of ocean and foam. A second later, the vinyl inflatable was blasted sideways by an unleashed avalanche of froth, the wave flipping it over, the ocean swallowing me whole.

I was bludgeoned by a river of black, gritty fluid that roared in my brain and threatened to peel the flesh from my bones as it churned me in a raging, terrifying fury that superseded breathing until seconds became minutes, and still I could not escape.

With a sizzling explosion of pain, my left shoulder was driven into the sand, existence pummeled into blackness.

17

In the landscape of time, there are few locations less comfortable than that of one who waits for some person or event to arrive at some unknown moment in the future.

—R
OBERT
G
RUDIN
, American writer and philosopher

I drifted upon warm, soothing echoes of sound—until the sound clapped like thunder, stirring me awake.

I opened my eyes. My right cheek was pressed against coarse white sand that sparkled like diamond dust. Rolling over, I closed my eyes to the midday sun, my skin soaking in the warmth, my body teased back into the catnap by the cool breeze and distant rushing surf.

I jumped as water lapped over my feet and up my pant legs, dousing me awake.

I sat up, my head pounding from the concussion. The tide that had spanned a mile of beach to reach me was retreating steadily—a blue carpet rolling up to a calm ocean horizon. I turned around to gather my bearings—beach to either side—a barren stretch of desert sand behind me, the blurred horizon demanding the binoculars still dangling around my neck.

Loosening the drawstring, I realized with delight that my right hand was working, my right arm no longer numb, the paralysis gone! Rolling up my sleeve, I tested the appendage, opening and closing my fist.

That’s when I noticed the welts—a pattern of red dots that ran from my deltoid muscle down my right biceps, curving around my forearm. The marks, each the size of a quarter, were dotted dead-center with a pinprick of my blood.

I palpated the blots, wondering if something had bit me. Pushing the thought aside, I positioned the binoculars to my eyes and again scanned my surroundings.

The retreating tide was slowly feeding into an enormous wave, several hundred feet high and still climbing. My pulse raced as the dark green vertical cliff crested slowly until it collapsed in a silent explosion of froth—the clap of thunder and bone-jarring rumble reaching me seconds later.

Using the binoculars, I followed the wave inland. The tidal surge gradually shed volume and speed as it quickly covered the expanse of glittering sand that separated my position from the shoreline. At some point I had to stand, allowing the foot-high-wave to wash over my feet.

As the surge receded, the ocean revealed its bounty.

Sea creatures were left stranded along the exposed puddle-soaked beach. Albino sea spiders lay tangled in white clumps. Bizarre manta rays possessing barracuda-like teeth flopped in the wet sand. Pale pink crustaceans, some as large as my upper torso, stretched their claws, fighting to flip back over onto their bellies. Those that did so quickly burrowed into hiding.

Those that were too slow were plucked from the sand by flying lizards.

Seven to eight feet in length from the tip of their snouts to their narrow tails, the creatures—possessing white bellies and pale green backs—were using skin flaps running from their forelegs down to their hip sockets to glide on the forty-knot ocean gusts blowing inland.

I focused my glasses on one of the lizards as it landed to snatch a fish. Gobbling the morsel whole, the earthbound scavenger scampered away on all fours, building speed before it rose up onto its hind legs and spread its wings to catch the wind.

“Kite runners.”

Okay, so it wasn’t Latin, but who cared, it was just a damn dream.

“All righty then, let’s try this again. Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway.”

And still nothing happened.

“Damn you, Jason Sloan. When I get back to Florida, I’m going to create a lifetime ABE ban list, and your name will be—”

I paused, the memory of my bio-chip implant catching me by surprise. Having escaped from one chain of events into the next, I had completely forgotten about ABE.

I attempted to access the neural link. Tried the language program. The medical monitor. Even my manuscript … no response. It was as if the device had been surgically removed.

It’s the cold. The cryogenic process drops the body’s core temperature … core temperature powers ABE. Hope it hasn’t damaged the neural array.

“Bastards! I need to wake up.”

Frustrated, I aimed the binoculars at the expanse of desert behind me. The magnification revealed the distant horizon and what appeared to be a steep cliff face, its summit topped by a green forest.

Returning to view the ocean, I watched as yet another monstrous wave rose from the sea, its rising curl inhaling the shallows as if rolling up a carpet.

Shadows darted in front of the cresting point break—fluttering brown bodies that dive bombed the shrinking shoreline to pluck fish from the sea before the competing lizards could claim them.

“More bats. Great.” Suddenly feeling isolated and defenseless, I scanned the wet sand for a weapon—while a mile away a wave I estimated at well over two hundred and fifty feet pounded the shallows into foam, the shattering sea chasing the flying mammals to higher altitudes.

The waves are getting bigger …

The tide surged inland, quickly flooding the shrinking expanse. Instinctively, I backed away as the water reached my knees, the flow continuing another fifty feet before retreating, the powerful undertow nearly dragging me with it.

Once more, the returning surf summoned the lizards, the circling scavengers descending to claim a place at the feast. And then I spotted it—washed up on shore half a football field ahead in the draining sand.

The raft! Looks like it’s in bad shape, but there are flares onboard. Might need them to start a fire. Go for it, before the
kite runners
grab it!

I ran toward the steadily diminishing shoreline, leaping over a dog-size jellyfish, my feet sinking calf-deep in the abrasive wet sand. The twinkling reflections of sunlight were nearly blinding, blurring my vision. By the time I reached the partially inflated raft my feet were bleeding again, not from the lacerations suffered at sea but from hundreds of annoying tiny cuts.

Scooping up a handful of sand, I examined the grains closer, surprised to discover glass shards mixed in with the kernels.
How…?

The clap of wave striking shoreline startled me, as it was much louder than the others. Looking up, I was shocked to see a four-story tidal surge racing inland less than half a mile away.

Grabbing the life raft, I ran.

Sinking, stumbling off balance, I made it back to my starting point when a wall of froth barreled into me from behind. Shoved underwater, I managed to roll onto the buoyant vinyl sheath, which carried me ahead another thirty yards before I was sideswiped by another section of wave, this one curling back toward the ocean.

I rolled off the partially inflated raft and stood chest-deep in water, fighting the powerful riptide. Somehow I managed to maintain a grip on the twisting remains of deflated vinyl, only to find myself engaged in a losing game of tug-of-war, the receding sea dragging me face-first through the water.

“Vanilla … sway!” I choked up a mouthful of sea, my mind screaming at me to let go as the river tugged on the raft as if it was a parasail.

Finally I did let go, only the riptide refused to let go of me, dragging me until the depth lessened enough to allow me to stand. Knee-deep and unable to catch my breath, I bent over and gasped for air—as a terrifying rumble rose behind me—my shadow suddenly blotted out by another.

I turned, my ravaged heart feeling as if it were about to burst from my chest. My eyes bugged out as they took in a towering vertical wall of water rising behind me—a cliff of dark olive-green sea that appeared to be climbing upon itself … seventy feet … a hundred, its mud-laced curl draining the shallows as it continued to rise!

I tried to flee, but the tug-of-war between the receding riptide was at best a draw, the monster’s roaring crest easily topping twenty stories, obliterating sky and sun. Terrified beyond reason, I humbled myself before death and dropped to my knees, the current cleansing my jumpsuit of the urine draining from my trembling groin.

Should I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to—

“Ahh! Ahh!”

Stiletto-sharp blades pierced my shoulders—the bat’s curved talons stabbing my flesh, the tips curling beneath my collarbone, a tremendous force wrenching me off my feet into the air as the pain nearly rendering me unconscious. Screaming into the wind, my hands instinctively grabbed at the narrow, knotted-leather cords that were the creature’s ankles, my arms relieving the pressure as the flying mammal soared over the shallows.

A split second later the collapsing mountain of water exploded at my back, blasting both me and my winged rescuer with a barrage of cold sea and foam.

Screaming in agony, I pulled myself higher, forcibly extracting the curved talons from my butchered flesh. Then I held on as the bat’s wings beat the air, drenching me in its heavy musk as we raced inland, sixty feet over the tidal surge.

Enough!
I shifted my right hand to grip the ankle held by my left, the sudden imbalance upsetting the creature’s ability to maneuver. The animal snapped its fanged jaws as it bent over in midflight to reach me, losing altitude in the process. Unable to release or bite its prey, the predator swooped toward the beach, intent, I was sure, on pile-driving me into submission.

Ten feet above the diminishing tidal surge I let go, dropping into the sea. Landing on both feet, I allowed myself to be swept inland and then sprinted in the shallows until once more I found myself standing, bent over, panting on dry land.

Blood drained from the deep throbbing puncture wounds.

The tide receded—leaving behind the shredded remains of my raft.

I stared at the rolled up, orange vinyl object, incredulous. “Are you fucking with me, God?!”

Asshole, there is no God … I’m the God creating this movie.

Verifying that the contents of the raft were still intact, I hauled the remains farther up the beach, wary of another wave. The effort caused me to wince and my entire upper body trembled from the pain.

Satisfied I had distanced myself from the next tidal surge, I released the raft and unzipped my jumpsuit, gently pulling my blood-soaked arms free of the tattered sleeves.

How can I hurt like this in a dream? If this were a normal dream, the pain would have woken me. The problem is, I can’t wake up while I’m frozen. Knowing this is all a dream, my mind keeps creating situations designed to wake me up. In essence, my mind has created a new reality, an Omega reality that can’t be turned off, which means—like phantom pain—I feel everything as if it were real.

“Thanks a lot, Uncle David!”

Searching the raft’s compartments, I pocketed the flares, then removed the first-aid kit. I opened the antibacterial ointment, only to find it had hardened like cement. Next, I tore open a pack of gauze, which crumbled into fibers of dust.

“What the hell? Vanilla sway! Send me a beautiful nurse, Jason!”

A green lizard glide-landed twenty feet away. Hunched on its hind legs, it cocked its head to one side as if observing me.

“Not exactly what I had in mind.” I reached for a flare, tearing off its igniter … and dust poured from the shredded tube.

“Great.” Searching for a rock to toss at the lizard, I found a fish, its scarlet fins flapping in the sand. Locating the steak knife I had stowed in one of the jumpsuit’s zippered pockets, I stabbed the eighteen-inch creature, then tossed it at the kite runner.

The lizard caught it in midair, gobbling it down its pelican-like gullet without biting. Satisfied, it took off running down the beach.

Wiping the blade clean, I used the knife to cut off the sleeves from my jumpsuit. Shredding the material into strips, I did my best to tie off each puncture wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding, all the while the pain so great that it nearly caused me to pass out.

Feverish, I jumped as the tide surged past me again, the water calf-deep and alarmingly powerful. Retrieving the raft, I ran with the sea and far beyond, my feet assaulting another stretch of dry beach.

How far inland could the ocean chase me? Using the binoculars, I scanned the horizon, focusing again on the distant rise and the promising greenery perched atop the rocky summit … a long, brutal trek.

My feet were sore, caked with sand and blood. Using the steak knife, I fashioned socks from the vinyl pockets and a hood to keep the sun off my head.