The plan was risky, but that was all they had left.
Night hung heavily over the broken city. The moon was a pale blade above Table Mountain. From the old school's windows, Naledi saw the glow of womb-born fires in the distance. The swarm moved like restless shadows. The survivors had been watching them for days, counting their numbers, studying their movements, and noticing how they gathered.
"They're too many," a man whispered. He held a rusted hunting rifle to his chest like it was a toy. His voice shook.
"They're gathering," Mandla said, his tone firm and commanding. His broad shoulders created a dark shape against the firelight. "Tomorrow, they'll be here. If we wait, we'll die behind these walls. If we strike first, we have a chance."
Zinhle shook her head, frowning. "A chance at what, Mandla? To die quicker? To wake the whole swarm on us?"
Naledi sharpened her machete against a stone. The sound echoed in the silence. She stopped and looked up at the others. "A chance to break them before they're ready. They're learning. If we let them grow stronger…" She hesitated, her throat tightening. A memory flashed—golden eyes staring back at her through smoke. "…they will swallow Cape Town whole."
The room fell silent.
Then, from the corner, a cough broke the quiet. It was rough, deep, and wet.
Themba.
Naledi quickly turned to her brother. He was slumped on a mattress, his skin slick with sweat, and his lips cracked. He breathed in ragged pulls, but his posture seemed off—too upright, too tense, even in his weakness. His eyes, half-hidden in shadow, glimmered faintly with an unnatural sharpness. Naledi's stomach twisted. She told herself it was just the fever. Only the fever.
Mandla noticed her gaze. He shifted uncomfortably and lowered his voice. "Naledi… we can't ignore this. He may not—"
"No," Naledi cut him off sharply, louder than she intended. The others flinched at her tone. "He's still my brother."
Mandla didn't argue, but the silence that followed felt heavy.
They moved out before dawn.
The survivors took what little they had—homemade molotovs made from beer bottles, sharpened steel pipes, and a battered shotgun that Mandla guarded like treasure. Naledi stayed close to him, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. Each step away from the school felt like walking into death.
The streets of Cape Town were shells of their former selves. Cars burned in the middle of the Streets, rusting skeletons where they had stalled months ago. Billboards flapped in the ocean wind, their half-peeled faces staring blankly. Naledi glanced toward Table Bay; the waters glimmered faintly under the moon, dotted with half-sunken ships that would never sail again.
They reached the edge of District Six just as the sky turned a bruised purple.
The smell hit first—rot, iron, smoke. The survivors gagged but pressed on, crouching low behind the ruins of collapsed buildings. Ahead, black smoke curled into the air from fires the womb-born had built.
Mandla raised a hand, signaling them to stop. He pointed.
In the center of the camp, dozens of womb-born huddled in a circle. But they weren't feeding.
They were chanting.
Not with words, but with deep, synchronized growls that rolled through the broken streets like a drumbeat. The sound vibrated in Naledi's chest and made her teeth ache. Their bodies swayed together, muscles glistening in the firelight.
At the heart of the circle stood the tall figure—in the coat.
It lifted its head, and the chanting stopped.
"They know we're here," Naledi whispered.
"Then we strike now," Mandla growled. He lit the rag of a molotov; the flame hissed in the dawn wind. "Before they surround us."
He threw it into the camp.
The explosion tore through the circle, flames bursting like a false sunrise. Screams filled the air—piercing and inhuman. The swarm scattered, golden eyes flashing in every direction.
"Go!" Mandla shouted.
The survivors surged forward, yelling and weapons raised. Naledi charged, her machete flashing. The first womb-born lunged, its jaw wide, teeth shining with saliva. She swung hard, cleaving its head nearly in two. Hot blood sprayed across her face. She didn't stop. Each strike was fueled by desperation, rage, and the fear of losing Themba.
The battlefield became chaos—gunshots echoing, firelight dancing across shattered walls, screams of both humans and womb-born blending in a storm of terror. Survivors swung their weapons wildly, hitting anything that moved.
But Naledi noticed something frightening.
The womb-born weren't fighting like animals. They moved in unison, pushing and circling, herding the survivors like prey. Their strikes were coordinated. Their retreat wasn't panic—it was strategy.
Her eyes locked on the figure in the coat. It stood calmly amid the flames, its face pale, its eyes glowing like twin golden embers. When it looked at her, the world seemed to vanish. For a heartbeat, there was no fire, no blood, no screams—only its gaze, cold and calculating, watching her.
It raised its hand.
And the swarm surged.
They fell upon the survivors like a tide. Screams filled the air as men and women were dragged into the shadows, their cries cut short. Molotovs shattered uselessly against the overwhelming mass. Mandla fired his shotgun; each blast tore holes in the tide. But for every creature that fell, three more took its place.
"Naledi!" Mandla yelled, grabbing her arm as a womb-born lunged. He smashed the butt of his gun into its skull, pushing her backward. "Fall back! FALL BACK!"
Smoke burned her lungs as she stumbled, slashing wildly at grasping hands. Her heart raced in terror. The survivors broke formation, scattering down alleys, chased by the swarm.
Naledi's breath came in sobs by the time they reached the school again. She collapsed against the wall, coughing, her hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped her blade. Around her, fewer faces returned than had left. Zinhle staggered in, blood dripping down her arm. Two men were missing. One woman stumbled without her son.
But Naledi pushed past them all. She ran to the corner where Themba lay.
Except he wasn't lying down anymore.
He was sitting upright. His skin was slick with sweat, but there was a strange sharpness to his posture now. His eyes—oh God, his eyes—glowed faintly golden in the shadows.
"Naledi," he whispered. His voice was broken and hoarse, yet steady. "I can… hear them."
Her blood ran cold.
The womb-born were not only outside their walls.
They were inside her brother.