The second day dawned just like the first, with a pale, indifferent grey light that promised another day of suffocating heat. Time in the flat had become a thick, slow-moving river of sludge. It was measured not in hours, but in the shifting patterns of light on the living room wall, in the number of times Funke cried out in her sleep, and in the agonizingly slow drop of the water level in their precious bottles. The air was stale, soured with the scent of fear and the faint, worrying smell of infection from Funke's wound, a smell Ben tried his best to mask by keeping the bandage clean and tight.
Adekunle was at his post by the window, a sentinel in a kingdom of three. His world had shrunk to the narrow slit between the curtains. He had spent so many hours staring at the compound below that the scene had burned itself onto the inside of his eyelids. He knew the pattern of cracks in the driveway. He knew which of the men below, the one they called "Small-Boy," had a nervous habit of cracking his knuckles. He knew that Ikenna, their self-proclaimed king, always took the first drink of water and the largest share of any food.
The hatred from yesterday had not faded. If anything, it had cooled and hardened into something more patient, more focused. It was a cold, solid weight in his chest, a lens through which he now saw the world. This wasn't the righteous, explosive anger he had read about in books. It was a quiet, grinding animosity born of impotence. He was a prisoner watching his jailers, and the only weapon he had was observation. So he watched, and he learned.
He learned that their little gang was brittle. Ikenna ruled by fear, but not loyalty. The other two men, whose names he didn't know, obeyed Ikenna, but they watched him with a mixture of resentment and fear. They were a pack held together by the presence of a strong alpha, but Adekunle sensed that without him, they would scatter or turn on each other in a heartbeat. Small-Boy, the youngest, was clearly terrified, a follower who had likely thrown in with the strongest group he could find out of sheer panic. His bravado was a thin, cracked shell.
"Kunle."
His uncle's voice pulled him from his thoughts. Ben stood behind him, holding out a single, dry cabin biscuit. It was their lunch. Adekunle took it without a word, his eyes never leaving the scene below.
"Her fever is worse," Ben said, his voice low and tight with worry. He didn't need to say who "her" was. "The arm is hot. The swelling is… it's not good."
Adekunle's stomach clenched, a feeling that had nothing to do with hunger. He knew what his uncle was saying. Without antibiotics, a deep wound like that was a death sentence. A slow, agonizing one. It was another clock, ticking much faster than the one measuring their food and water.
"There's a pharmacy," Adekunle said, his voice flat. "Just down the road. The one the car crashed into." He had thought about it a dozen times, a fantasy of heroism. A mad dash, a desperate search for supplies.
"And how do you plan to get past Ikenna and his boys?" Ben countered, his tone sharp with the friction of their shared confinement. "Fly?"
"I'm not a child, Uncle. I am just saying what we both know. We can't just sit here and wait for her to die."
"And I cannot sit here and wait for you to die, either!" Ben snapped, his control finally cracking. The whisper became a choked, angry hiss. "You are all I have left. She is all I have left. I will not lose you to some foolish, brave idea. We wait. We survive. That is the only law now."
Adekunle fell silent, the biscuit turning to flavourless dust in his mouth. He knew his uncle was right. A charge out the front door was suicide. But the alternative—sitting here, listening to his aunt's pained breathing grow weaker—felt like a different kind of suicide. The slow, soul-killing kind. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken grief and frustration.
It was in that moment of tense quiet that a new sound intruded.
It was a low rumble, different from the generator hum of the old world. This was deeper, more powerful. A diesel engine. It grew steadily louder, and Adekunle pressed his eye back to the slit in the curtain.
A truck, a large, rusted flatbed with makeshift metal plates welded to its sides, was coming down their street. It moved with a slow, arrogant confidence, its heavy tires crushing broken glass and debris under its weight. There were men in the back, at least ten of them, and they were not armed with pipes and planks. They had shotguns, hunting rifles, and a few had what looked like military-grade assault rifles. They wore a motley collection of old army fatigues and civilian clothes. They were organized. They were a professional army compared to Ikenna's street gang.
Down in the compound, Ikenna and his men had heard it too. They were on their feet, their casual laziness replaced by a sudden, frantic alertness. They grabbed their weapons, their faces pale with a fear Adekunle had not seen on them before.
The truck rolled to a stop directly in front of their broken gate, its engine idling with a deep, menacing growl. The men in the back didn't move, their weapons held at a casual ready. A man jumped down from the passenger-side door. He was tall and lean, wearing a clean, black tactical vest over a grey t-shirt. He had a pistol holstered on his hip and moved with an easy, fluid grace that spoke of real training. He walked to the gate and looked in, his eyes scanning the compound, taking in Ikenna's crew with an expression of mild amusement, like a landlord inspecting a property that had been infested with squatters.
"A good spot," the man called out, his voice calm and clear. "Three stories. One way in. A high back wall. Very defensible." He looked directly at Ikenna. "You have good taste."
Ikenna stepped forward, trying to project an authority he clearly no longer possessed. "This is our place. Find your own."
The man in the vest smiled, a thin, humourless expression. "I don't think you understand. I'm not asking. This building, and everything in it, now belongs to the Lagos Survivors Militia. My name is Blade. And you and your friends have two choices. You can hand over your supplies and weapons and walk away. Or you can die here, defending a home that was never yours."
Adekunle watched, breathless. This was it. The pack of wolves had been confronted by a grizzly bear. He felt a dark, shameful flicker of hope. Maybe these men would solve his Ikenna problem for him.
Ikenna was sweating now, his eyes darting from Blade to the ten armed men on the truck. His kingdom was about to be overthrown in a hostile takeover. He knew he couldn't win a fight. Adekunle could see the desperate calculations racing behind his eyes.
"We cleared this place," Ikenna blustered, his voice an octave higher than usual. "We fought for it. It's ours by right."
Blade just shook his head, as if disappointed in a slow student. "There are no rights anymore. There is only strength. And you are not the strong ones on this street. Not anymore." He put his hand on the pistol at his hip. "I'm getting bored. What's it going to be?"
The moment hung in the air, thick and volatile. Adekunle expected a bloodbath. He expected Ikenna's foolish pride to get them all killed.
But then Ikenna did something that surprised him. He relaxed his posture. He forced a greasy, subservient smile onto his face. "Wait, wait, oga. No need for trouble. We are all just trying to survive, eh?"
Blade's eyes narrowed, intrigued by the sudden change in tone.
"You are right," Ikenna continued, his voice now a conspiratorial whine. "This place… it's okay. But it's not the real prize. Not on this block." He took a step closer to the gate, lowering his voice, but Adekunle could still hear him. "The big supermarket. Two streets down. Al-Hassan's Superstore. It has a steel shutter, basement storage. We tried to get in yesterday, but it's too strong. But you… with your men, your tools… you could open it like a tin of sardines." He was selling. He was a broker of chaos.
Blade listened, his expression unreadable.
"Think of it," Ikenna pressed, warming to his subject. "Flour, rice, tinned tomatoes, medicine… everything. Enough to feed your whole army for a month. Why waste your time on this small place, fighting over scraps, when the whole feast is just sitting there, waiting for a real man to come and take it?"
It was a masterful pivot. Adekunle watched in disgusted fascination. Ikenna wasn't a king. He wasn't even a thug. He was a rat, and rats are the ultimate survivors. He was willing to sell out a bigger prize to save his own miserable skin, to keep his tiny, worthless kingdom.
Blade considered it for a long moment. He looked from Ikenna, to the block of flats, and then down the road in the direction of the supermarket. The logic was sound. A bird in the hand is good, but a flock in the bush is better.
"You're a smart man," Blade said finally, a hint of respect in his voice. He turned to his men on the truck. "Let's go. This rat might be useful." He looked back at Ikenna. "We'll be back. And if that supermarket is empty, I'll be taking this building, and your head."
He climbed back into the truck. The engine roared, and the flatbed rumbled away, leaving behind a cloud of diesel fumes and a stunned silence.
Ikenna and his men stood there for a full minute, their bodies trembling with the aftermath of their near-death experience. Then, Ikenna threw his head back and laughed, a hysterical, gasping sound of pure relief. He had faced a dragon and, through sheer, sniveling cunning, had lived to tell the tale.
Upstairs, Adekunle pulled back from the window, his mind racing. He had learned more in those ten minutes than he had in the past two days of watching.
Ikenna wasn't just a brute. He was clever. He was a coward. And he could be intimidated by a superior force. But most importantly, Adekunle had learned the location of a potential lifeline. A supermarket full of food and, more importantly, medicine. A place Ikenna's small group was too weak to breach.
His uncle was staring at him, having witnessed the same drama. The anger and frustration between them had vanished, replaced by a shared, silent understanding. The situation was not as simple as they had thought.
Adekunle's hatred for Ikenna hadn't lessened. But now, it was no longer just a hot, useless emotion. It was a tool. The knowledge he had just gained was a key. He didn't know what lock it would open yet, but for the first time since the Fall, sitting in the gloom of their prison, Adekunle felt the faintest, most dangerous glimmer of hope. It was the hope that came not from waiting for rescue, but from the dawning of a plan.