The deepest hours of the night, just before the false dawn, are a country all their own. The rain had softened from a driving roar to a steady, mournful drizzle, a constant whisper against the scarred metal of the shuttered storefronts. The world was awash in shades of grey and black, the jaundiced yellow of the sky completely swallowed by the oppressive darkness. Inside the shop, the air was thick with the scent of wet concrete and the metallic tang of old blood.
Adekunle sat on the floor, his back against the wall, listening to the two sounds that defined his existence: the soft, rhythmic patter of the rain outside, and the harsh, shallow breaths of his aunt sleeping fitfully a few feet away. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the demon's face—its glowing orange eyes widening in shock—and he felt the impossible surge of power in his arms. The memory was a brand on his mind. He would sit up with a jolt, his heart hammering, his hands tingling with the ghost of that unnatural energy.
He looked at his aunt. In the deep shadows, she looked smaller, more fragile than he had ever seen her. Her fever was a palpable thing, a heat that radiated from her even from a distance. The antibiotics were a desperate prayer against the relentless march of the infection, but they needed time to work. Time she might not have. The flimsy barricade at the front of the shop felt like a paper shield against a world of wolves. They had to move. The thought was no longer a strategic option; it was a primal, screaming urgency.
"Auntie," he whispered, moving closer and gently shaking her shoulder. "Auntie Funke, we have to go."
She stirred, a low moan escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, clouded with fever and pain. For a moment, she looked at him with no recognition, her gaze distant. Then, slowly, reality filtered back in, and with it, fear.
"Where?" she rasped, her voice dry.
"Home," Adekunle said, the word feeling both like a promise and a lie. "To the flat. It's safer there. It's higher up."
The logistics of the journey were a daunting, impossible puzzle. She could not walk. The path back was a treacherous landscape of rubble and ruin. There was only one solution, and the thought of it made Adekunle's stomach clench. He would have to carry her. He would have to willingly tap into the strength that so terrified him, not for a single, explosive moment of violence, but for a sustained, grueling feat of endurance.
He found a thick, discarded blanket that the shop's previous occupant, the mad king, had used for his nest. He laid it on the floor. "I'm going to carry you," he explained, his voice low and steady, trying to project a confidence he did not feel. "I'll wrap you in this to keep you as warm as I can."
She looked at him, at his thin frame, his wiry arms. "Kunle, you cannot. I am not a small woman."
"I can," he said, the two words a heavy, laden promise. I have to.
The process was agonizing. Getting her onto his back was a clumsy, painful struggle that left her biting her lip to keep from screaming as her broken leg was jostled. He made a makeshift sling from another piece of cloth, tying it under her and over his shoulders to better distribute the weight. Finally, he stood, his knees trembling under the load. She was not just a physical weight; she was the weight of his entire world, the last piece of his old life, and her survival rested entirely on his shoulders. The responsibility was a crushing physical presence.
He took a deep breath, the strange energy coiling in his gut. He pushed past the initial burn in his thighs and the strain in his back, and found that other strength waiting for him. It rose to meet the demand, an unsettling, limitless wellspring of power that made his muscles feel dense and solid, like packed earth. He hated it. And he was profoundly, terrifyingly grateful for it.
With the tyre iron in one hand for balance and defense, and his aunt clinging to his back, he pushed aside their flimsy barricade and stepped out into the whispering rain.
The dead city was a different world under the cover of the downpour. The rain was their cloak, muffling their sounds, washing away their scent. The streets were slick, treacherous mirrors reflecting a sky that offered no light. Progress was painfully slow. Adekunle moved with a shuffling, deliberate gait, testing every footstep before committing his full weight. His world shrank to the few feet of pavement illuminated by his uncle's crank flashlight, a small, lonely circle of light in an ocean of blackness.
He could feel his aunt's feverish breath on his neck. Sometimes she would whisper fragments of prayers, her voice a faint, desperate thread in the night. Other times, she was silent, her head resting heavily on his shoulder, and he would be seized with the terrifying fear that she had stopped breathing. He would stop, his heart pounding, until he felt the faint, reassuring rise and fall of her chest against his back.
They were crossing a wider, more open street when he saw it. A light. Far down the block, moving slowly, methodically. It wasn't the flickering, chaotic light of a fire. It was a focused, powerful beam—the headlight of a vehicle. His blood ran cold. He immediately ducked into the deep shadow of a burned-out bus stop, pulling his aunt's blanket tighter around them, trying to make them one single, uninteresting shape.
It was the truck. Blade's truck. It was on patrol, moving with a slow, imperial confidence. The beam of its single working headlight swept across the ruined storefronts, a predator's eye searching for any sign of movement, any challenge to its domain. Adekunle held his breath, his body rigid. He could feel Funke's body tense against his. They were utterly exposed. If the light swung in their direction, they were dead.
The truck drew closer, its heavy diesel engine a low, threatening growl in the night. The beam swept past them, illuminating the wall just a few feet away, then moved on. The truck rumbled past their hiding spot, the men in the back visible as dark, silent silhouettes, their weapons held ready. They did not see the two shivering figures huddled in the shadows. They were ghosts, too small and insignificant to register.
The truck disappeared down the street, its sound fading into the hiss of the rain. Adekunle waited a full five minutes, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs, before he dared to move again. The encounter had left him trembling. The city was not empty. It was patrolled. It was owned.
The rest of the journey was a blur of exhaustion and fear. Adekunle's focus narrowed to a single, repetitive mantra: left foot, right foot, don't fall. The strength in his limbs held, an unnerving, constant reservoir of power that did not seem to tire, even as his mind grew fuzzy with fatigue. He was a machine built for this single purpose: to carry his burden home.
After what felt like a lifetime of walking through his own personal hell, he saw it. The familiar corner, the shape of the building against the dark sky. Their street. He stumbled the last few yards, his legs finally beginning to buckle, and collapsed into the shadows of the building across from his own, the same spot where he and his uncle had waited what felt like an eternity ago.
He gently eased his aunt off his back, leaning her against the wall. She was barely conscious, her face flushed with fever, her breathing shallow. The journey had taken a terrible toll on her. They were running out of time.
He peered across the street at their building. The front yard was empty. The fire drum was cold and dark. Ikenna's mattress was gone. There was no sign of them. Had they fled for good after the "ghost truck" incident? Or were they just sheltering from the rain?
The rain was stopping now, the downpour fading to a light, intermittent drizzle. The silence that returned was more menacing than the storm had been. Every drop of water falling from a ledge, every rustle of a leaf, sounded like a footstep.
He had to know. He had to see. He couldn't risk moving his aunt across the open street until he was sure it was safe.
"I'll be right back," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if she could hear him.
He left her in the deepest part of the shadows, a small, huddled shape against the wall. He took the tyre iron and crept across the street, his movements silent and fluid. He reached the broken gate of their compound and slipped inside, keeping low to the ground.
He circled around to the back of the building, his eyes scanning every window, every doorway. Nothing. The building seemed deserted. He reached the back wall, near the spot where he and his uncle had first climbed over. It felt like a memory from someone else's life.
He was about to turn back, to retrieve his aunt, when he heard it. A voice. It was coming from the ground floor, from the window of what used to be old Mama Bose's flat. It was a low, angry murmur.
He crept closer, his heart pounding, and risked a quick look through the grimy window.
The room was lit by a single, flickering candle. Ikenna was there. But he was not in command. He was on his knees. And standing over him was another man, a man Adekunle had never seen before. He was tall and powerfully built, his face scarred and brutal. And in his hand, he held a short, heavy, wicked-looking machete. The other members of Ikenna's crew were there too, huddled in a corner, their faces a mask of terror.
"You are a liar," the new man said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You told us this place was secure. You told us it was easy."
"I… I thought it was," Ikenna stammered, his voice shaking. "There was a ghost… a sound… it drove us out."
"A ghost?" The new man laughed, a short, ugly sound. "I am not afraid of ghosts." He raised the machete, its edge glinting in the candlelight. "But you should be afraid of me."
Adekunle pulled back from the window, his mind reeling. He had been wrong. Ikenna's crew hadn't just returned. They had been conquered. A new, more brutal king now ruled the ground floor. And he and his aunt were trapped outside, with a dying fire behind them and a new, merciless monster waiting in their home.