Chapter 4: The Cost of Silence
December 26, 2016 – 5:17 PM
The world outside the bank grilles dissolved into a nightmare painting. The familiar scarlet hue bled across the sky, casting the street in a hellish, pulsating glow. The silence that had preceded it was shattered by the chorus of shrieks—the sound of reality tearing at the seams.
We huddled in the break room, all seven of us, pressed against the cold, metal door of the vault. It was the most fortified point. Chiamaka was right; the metallic structure seemed to confuse them. We could hear their claws scraping against the building's exterior, their guttural clicks and hisses echoing as they probed the grilles, but none forced their way in.
Ngozi had her face buried in Mama's side, and Chidi had finally accepted Mr. Hoppington, clutching the rabbit like a lifeline. For sixty agonizing minutes, we didn't speak. We barely breathed. We were prisoners in a metal box, listening to the horrors of the warden's yard.
Then, it stopped. The red light faded, the shrieks ceased, and an unnerving quiet descended once more. The Crimson Hour was over.
Papa was the first to move, his body stiff. "We need to see."
We crept back to the front. The street was unchanged, save for one new addition. The body of the creature Cutthroat had been toying with was gone. In its place was a dark, sticky stain, already being investigated by a handful of the smaller, scavenger-type monsters we'd seen before. They scattered as we appeared at the window.
"We can't stay here," Ade said, his voice low and urgent. "They're learning this place. They know it's a spot where things... happen."
"He's right," Chiamaka whispered, her arm around her brother. "They have a pattern. They remember."
A debate erupted in hushed, frantic tones.
"The stadium—" Mama began, clinging to the last vestige of official order.
"Is a death trap," Papa interrupted, not unkindly, but with a finality born of grim calculation. "We saw the smoke. We heard the gunfire. Crowds are a beacon."
"Then where?" I asked, the weight of the pipe in my hand feeling heavier than ever.
Papa's eyes drifted to a tourist map taped to the wall, partially torn. He pointed to a location on the outskirts of the city. "The Oasis Bottling Plant. My old friend Uche is the foreman. It's a massive complex. Fenced. Lots of strong buildings, machinery... metal." He glanced at Chiamaka. "And it will have supplies. Water. Maybe food in the canteen."
It was a plan. A real one. It was also across the city.
We left the bank as the sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into a true, natural darkness that was now almost as terrifying as the crimson one. Our group was now seven. Chiamaka carried her cricket bat; Chidi held my hand, his small one trembling in mine.
We moved like ghosts through a graveyard of steel and concrete. Every shadow was a potential threat, every sound a herald of death. We crossed a major bridge, and below, the river was clogged with debris and things I didn't let my eyes focus on for too long.
It was on the other side of the bridge that we found the second type of body.
It was a woman, slumped against a bus stop. Like the man in the doorway, she was desiccated, gray, her life force seemingly siphoned away. But unlike him, there was a symbol crudely spray-painted on the glass above her head: a crude, crimson eye, dripping like a tear.
No one spoke. The symbol was more frightening than the corpse. It meant organization. It meant someone, or something, was marking this.
An hour into our trek, we heard it. Not monsters. Not the Akudama. Human voices, raised in panic.
A block over, a small group of survivors—a family like ours, by the look of it—were trying to free their car from a tangle of wreckage. A man, a woman, and two teenagers. They were exposed, their voices carrying in the silent night.
"Quiet!" Papa hissed under his breath, pulling us back into an alley. "Their noise will bring everything down on them."
We watched, hidden, as they desperately pushed at the car. We could help them. Together, we might be able to move the debris.
As if reading my mind, Papa's hand clamped on my shoulder. "No," he whispered, his voice raw with a painful resolve. "We cannot. The risk is too great. Their fate is their own."
It was the hardest moment yet. We were abandoning our own kind. The morality of the old world was a luxury we could no longer afford. Mama closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
Then, we heard the click. Not a monster's click. A mechanical one.
From a rooftop above the stranded family, a figure stood silhouetted against the moon. It was Courier. He held a rifle, its scope glinting. He wasn't aiming at the family. He was aiming past them, down the street.
A second later, we saw why. One of the larger creatures, a hulking brute with scythe-like arms, rounded the corner, drawn by the noise.
The family screamed.
Courier fired. A single, precise shot. It didn't kill the beast, but struck it in the leg, causing it to roar in pain and anger. It forgot the family and began scrambling up the building towards its new attacker.
The family, seeing their chance, abandoned the car and fled into a building, vanishing from sight.
Courier didn't flee. He stood his ground, firing another shot, leading the creature away.
He hadn't saved them out of kindness. He had used them as bait. He was creating a diversion, clearing his own path, playing a brutal, strategic game where human lives were just pieces on a board.
We didn't wait to see the outcome. While the monster was distracted, Papa gave the signal.
"Now. Move. Fast and quiet."
We broke from our cover and ran, leaving the sounds of the struggle behind us. We ran until our lungs burned, the image of the crimson eye and Courier's ruthless calculation burned into our minds. We were learning the new rules. Don't make noise. Don't draw attention. Don't be a victim. And, most importantly, don't be a piece on someone else's board. The cost of silence was our humanity, and we were paying it, one terrible choice at a time.