MARCO
The screech hit me before I even saw it.
John's voice—loud, panicked—tore through the air. "ZAK!"
I didn't need to see the shadow to know. It was huge. Wrong. Like nothing that had ever belonged in this world.
By the time my eyes registered it, it was too late.
The giant wasp's scythe-like clippers snapped forward, and the world slowed, as if the air itself had thickened. Zak's arms—his arms—were gone in a single, clean motion.
I froze.
Blood sprayed across the cracked asphalt like a macabre fireworks display. Zak didn't scream, not immediately. His eyes widened in pure disbelief, fingers twitching uselessly at empty air where his forearms had been. The smell of iron and ozone hit me, sharp, suffocating.
The wasp hovered for only a fraction of a second, buzzing like a predator savouring the kill. Its multi-faceted eyes glinted in the half-light. Its legs scraped the air, ready to strike again.
But I moved.
Instinct kicked in faster than thought. Faster than fear.
I launched myself at it. My knife was out before I even landed, the cold metal firm in my grip. I hit its side, feeling the armoured shell shudder beneath the impact. It turned, snapping, and I twisted, using my weight to roll under its wing.
John shouted again, somewhere behind me. I ignored him.
The knife found its mark. Between its massive compound eyes, a gap. Small, but enough. I stabbed. Hard. The wasp screeched, its wings flaring, legs thrashing. I yanked free, braced, and drove it down again.
It hit the asphalt with a grotesque thump, twisting, jerking. Then, finally, still.
I stumbled back, chest heaving. Sweat burned my eyes. Behind me, Zak's body slumped. I didn't wait. I went to him.
"Hold him!" I barked. John and Chris grabbed Zak under the shoulders. Craig braced the other side. I lifted the knife, scanning. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved.
"Come on," I hissed. "We need cover."
The basement entrance to the mall yawned ahead, dark and cavernous. I could hear the faint echo of dripping water, the hiss of unseen wind through broken windows above. The smell of mould, concrete, and decay hit me full force as we slid Zak down the stairs, carrying him carefully, almost reverently.
The container, the street, the asphalt—it all felt like another world now. Down here, in this dark hollow, there was still a chance.
I knelt beside him, heart hammering. Blood soaked his shirt, dripping onto my hands. His chest rose, steady but shallow. His face was pale, his lips pressed tight.
And then—I saw it.
Smoke.
Thin, curling tendrils drifted from the stumps where his arms had been. Soft, silvery, rising from his hands like vapour from boiling water. His fingers twitched, blackened skin turning pink, the smoke spiralling upward. I blinked.
"What—" John whispered, voice barely audible.
Zak's eyes stayed closed, face tight with concentration—or pain, or both. The smoke thickened, curling and twisting like living fingers, coiling around his arms. His forearms—gone a second ago—were coming back. Flesh knitting over, muscles and veins returning in minutes. Hair sprouted, veins visible, nails reforming.
He gasped, hands flexing, and I felt it before I understood: he was strong.
Stronger than any of us had imagined.
I glanced at John. He was frozen, hands halfway to his mouth. Even Chris looked stunned. Craig's eyes narrowed, calculating. Selma would have been here if she weren't watching our backs—she would have screamed.
Zak opened his eyes finally. Smoke curled off the tips of his fingers, dissipating into the damp basement air. He flexed his arms experimentally, looking at his hands like he didn't quite believe them.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. "We get him moving, now. No time to wonder what the hell just happened."
He nodded, silent. The world outside was still full of teeth and wings, of soundless predators, of death around every corner. And now, more than ever, we had to move.
I carried the knife loosely at my side, scanning the stairs we'd descended. The shadows danced against the walls, and every sound—water dripping, rat scurrying, metal creaking—set my nerves on edge.
"You okay?" John muttered to me, but I only nodded. There was no time for conversation.
I checked Zak's arms again. No damage. No lingering injury. Just smoke rising, a faint heat emanating from his skin. It was unnatural—but not magical in the childish sense. It was real, terrifying, and lethal in potential.
We pressed forward, into the deeper shadows of the basement. The mall above was hollowed out, broken into sections by rubble and collapsed walls. I could see faint daylight filtering through shattered skylights above, creating stripes of white on the concrete floor. The desolation stretched far beyond—the streets around Kilimani were empty, silent except for the occasional distant screech, a reminder that the world outside had teeth.
I let my mind drift briefly to the street. Ngong Road—once vibrant, full of life and noise. Now just asphalt and ruin. Cars left to rust, buildings yawning like dead jaws. It wasn't just a city anymore. It was a tomb, a stage for creatures that didn't careWe moved cautiously through the basement, every step careful on the uneven concrete. The smell of mildew and rot hung heavy, mixing with the metallic tang of blood that hadn't fully dried. Zak lay slumped against Chris, unconscious, smoke still faintly drifting from his arms. Even like this, he radiated strength.
The stairwell opened up into a wide corridor. Broken tiles crunched beneath our boots. Shattered storefronts yawned open, their interiors filled with debris and rusted shelving. I scanned each shadow, every dark corner, expecting something to emerge. But for now, the basement was quiet—too quiet.
Craig took the lead, his eyes flicking between the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Marco was close behind me, silent, watching my movements like he was reading me before I moved. John stayed near the back, eyes flicking in every direction, tense, alert.
After winding through the debris, we found what looked like a storage section. Rusted metal doors hung off hinges. Inside, old crates and abandoned carts filled the space, but something caught John's eye.
"Fuel," he muttered.
I glanced where he pointed. Dozens of jerrycans, some half-full, were stacked neatly against the far wall. Nearby, an old sedan sat tucked into a corner, dust thick across its windshield, keys still in the ignition. Not much, but it was enough. Enough for movement, enough to get us somewhere safer if we needed it.
Craig nodded. "We'll leave him here for now." His voice was low but firm. "Chris, stay with him. Keep him stable."
Chris grunted, crouching beside Zak. He adjusted the boy so he wouldn't slump forward. His gaze lingered on Zak, sharp, calculating, like he was already planning for the worst.
I walked closer to the car, checking the jerrycans. The fuel looked good enough, and the vehicle itself seemed functional. Small victories, but vital ones. In a world like this, small victories were all that mattered.
John crouched beside me, hand on the hood of the car. "We move carefully," he said, voice low. "This is the only way out for now."
I nodded, glancing back at the dark shape of Zak being watched over by Chris. Even unconscious, even after everything, he was still the reason we survived today.
Outside, the basement walls barely contained the fading light. Shadows pooled in corners. The air was still thick, heavy, expectant. Somewhere in the distance, a faint scraping echoed—a reminder that the world above hadn't forgotten us.
We stayed low, moving the fuel jugs and checking the car's tyres. Every sense screamed alert. Every instinct whispered danger. Then what we had all been dreading the sound of high pitched buzzing but this time it wasn't one .The noise did not only vibrate the air, but it also vibrated in our teeth.
It began low, in harmony with each other, and it was thrumming the rusted shelves in the storage room. Then it sharpened. A whine--high--was a predatory; a dozen whines was a phoirie of extinction. The shopping center that we were over had turned into a swarm, and we were caught in its bowels.