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Chapter 3 - The Wail of the Womb

The reverberation of that scream lingered long after Naledi's machete had dropped. The woman collapsed sideways, devoid of life. Blood pooled across the pharmacy floor, steaming in the frigid air. But what leaked from her abdomen was far worse.

The newborn pulled itself free—tiny, raw, slick with blood—but powerful. Its limbs twisted like a spider's, its jaw unhinging wider than its skull, revealing rows of sharp, grinding teeth. Its golden eyes locked onto Naledi, and it shrieked once more.

"Run," Naledi murmured.

The creature lunged forward with unimaginable speed. Naledi swung, the machete grazing its arm. It spun around, howling, but the sound was more terrifying than its bite. From outside the hospital, a chorus of voices surged in response.

They were coming.

Naledi seized Themba and dashed down the corridor. The hospital was a maze of shadows and shattered gurneys. Every corner felt alive.

Around one turn, three figures emerged. Naledi froze, mistaking them for womb-born—but no. They were human. Survivors. Scarred, ragged, wielding makeshift weapons.

The leader, a gray-bearded man, stepped forward with a barbed pipe in his grip. His eyes darted from Naledi to Themba to the blood on her clothes.

"You brought them here," he snarled.

Naledi raised her machete. "One was already inside. Pregnant. I stopped it."

The man's face darkened. "And it screamed. Now the nest will come."

Another shriek pierced the air, closer now. The walls trembled.

"Please," Naledi snapped, pulling Themba behind her. "If we turn on each other, none of us will survive."

The man hesitated. Then he nodded sharply. "Follow. Now."

They ran together, the hospital groaning with hunger around them. Womb-born erupted from the ceiling—one tall and emaciated, jaw snapping. Naledi swung upward, blade slicing deep. Black blood sprayed as it collapsed.

"Move!" the man shouted.

They burst through a stairwell door, feet pounding against metal steps slick with blood. Shrieks trailed them, echoing from every floor. Naledi didn't glance back. She couldn't.

Finally, they burst into the night air. Cape Town's skyline glimmered faintly with fire. Golden eyes flickered from rooftops.

The man guided them into a narrow alley. "Name," he demanded.

"Naledi."

He nodded. "Mandla," he replied. "Where do you hide?"

She hesitated—but Themba's cough rattled his frame, and she had no time for deception. "An old school by the Liesbeek River. Abandoned since the outbreak."

"It'll do," Mandla said. His barbed pipe shimmered in the moonlight. "But if you lied—"

Naledi remained silent. The screams swelling behind them were a sufficient reminder.

As they navigated through the alleys, Themba whispered, "Sisi… why are babies like that? Why are they born hungry?"

Naledi had no answer. Scientists had once sought one, before their labs burned, before their voices fell silent. All survivors understood this: Nexfera rewrote the unborn.

But as Naledi looked at Themba, coughing blood into his hand, a darker thought gnawed at her.

What if Nexfera was not done?

What if her brother was next?

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