The old school by the Liesbeek River looked more like a grave than a safe place. The windows were broken, desks stacked into makeshift walls, and the air smelled like smoke and wet wood. But inside, life still flickered.
Naledi walked behind Mandla, with Themba holding her hand. In the courtyard, fires burned in rusty barrels. Shadows moved around them—men and women in torn clothes, some with spears made from old pipes, others with rifles that seemed as old as the outbreak itself.
Children sat quietly in corners, their eyes empty. Naledi felt Themba squeeze her hand tighter.
Mandla raised his voice. "We found another family. They're bringing medicine."
Heads turned. The look in their eyes was more suspicious than welcoming. A woman with braided hair and scars on her arms stepped forward. She focused on Naledi's bag.
"Medicine?" she asked, sounding doubtful.
Naledi nodded and opened the bag just enough to show the sealed bandages and antibiotics.
Murmurs spread among the survivors. To them, medicine was worth more than gold.
The woman's expression softened. "I'm Zinhle," she said. "I try to keep the kids alive." She touched the bag with trembling fingers. "This will help."
Naledi felt some weight lift from her shoulders. But then Themba coughed again, blood on his lips. Zinhle's face grew serious.
"He needs help," she said. "Come with me."
They followed her into what used to be a classroom. The chalkboard still had faint words from a different time: Today's Lesson: History of the Cape Colony. Now, maps of escape routes covered the walls, arrows drawn in charcoal.
Zinhle laid Themba on a mattress. "His lungs are failing," she whispered, listening to his chest. "If Nexfera gets him—"
"Don't," Naledi interrupted, her eyes burning. "He's my brother. He's not one of them."
Zinhle didn't reply. She held a bitter tonic to Themba's lips. He drank, coughing harder. Naledi sat beside him, holding his hand like she could keep him connected to life.
Suddenly, a shout broke the tense silence from the courtyard. Survivors rushed to the barricades, and Mandla burst into the room.
"They're moving," he said, looking serious.
Naledi frowned. "Who?"
"The womb-born." Mandla's jaw tightened. "They're not hunting alone anymore. They're gathering."
Naledi followed him outside. From the school's rooftop, she saw it: golden eyes moving in the distance, dozens—no, hundreds—shifting like a pack. The city burned behind them, smoke rising against the dark outline of Table Mountain.
Her stomach twisted. They weren't feeding now. They were searching. Organized.
One survivor whispered, "It's like they're… listening for something."
Naledi squinted. In the center of the crowd stood a taller figure, wrapped in torn cloth that might have been a doctor's coat. Its head turned slowly, scanning the city. Even from afar, she felt its gaze.
The womb-born weren't just multiplying.
They were evolving.
Mandla growled softly. "If they find us here, it's over."
Naledi tightened her grip on her machete. "Then we can't wait for them to come." She turned, fire in her eyes. "We'll take the fight to them."
Mandla studied her for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he nodded.
"The star," he murmured, almost to himself. "Maybe you really are one."
Naledi didn't understand his words, but the name—Naledi, star—suddenly felt heavier than ever.
Behind her, Themba coughed again. His lips were darker now, his eyes too bright.
And deep down, Naledi feared the truth she couldn't say:
The womb-born were not just out there.
They were already inside her world.