PLATFORM: FACEBOOK TIMELINE
USER: TYLER JORDAN (Structural Engineer)
STATUS: UPLOADED VIA STARLINK (Signal Strong - High Interference)
BATTERY: 99% (Charged via Crane Circuit)
DATE: TUESDAY. DAY 37 POST-EVENT (SUNSET).
LOCATION: KILIMANJARO TEXTILE MILL (Sector 4: Industrial Area), ARUSHA
[Post Visibility: Public]
We made too much noise.
In this new version of the world, noise equals death. It echoes like a dinner bell across the savannah, summoning the ravenous creatures from the long grass. Yet sometimes, when cornered and desperate, noise becomes your only weapon. Kinetic energy—the only language the dead comprehend.
For two excruciating hours, we remained trapped inside that glass crane cab, suspended forty feet above the scrapyard. I watched my phone's battery percentage climb with agonizing slowness: 10%... 15%... 22%. Each percentage point felt like blood transfusing into a dying body. Every digit represented a lifeline to the satellite above, while each passing minute gambled with our existence.
Below us, the Pack paced in tight, geometric circles. They gazed upward with that patient, reptilian stillness I've grown to fear more than their hunger. They understood we lacked wings. They knew gravity would eventually deliver us.
"We can't stay here," Nayla hissed, her eyes fixed on the orange sun sinking behind Mount Meru's rusted silhouette. "Once darkness falls, the Vultures on the bridge will activate their floodlights. They'll spot two silhouettes in a glass box. We won't be refugees anymore; we'll be target practice."
"I know," I muttered, fingers cramping as I disconnected the makeshift wires from the crane's control panel. "We're leaving."
"How?" She gestured furiously at the ladder cage below, swarming with the Simba. "We'll touch that metal grating and they'll shred us before we hit the ground!"
I examined the crane's heavy industrial controls. Moving the gantry itself was impossible—the massive diesel engine powering the wheels lay dead and dry. But gravity? Gravity remains constant. As an engineer, I trust gravity far more than people.
"The main hook," I said, pointing through the floor window.
Suspended directly above the zombies' heads hung the crane's primary hook block—a solid chunk of cast iron the size of a compact car, weighing at least two tons.
"It's secured by a magnetic brake drum," I explained, tracing the circuit with my eyes. "It requires constant electrical current to remain locked. If I cut power to the magnet, the drum spins free."
"And the hook drops," Nayla finished, her eyes widening as she grasped the physics involved.
"Two tons of steel at terminal velocity. It won't merely hit the ground; it'll create a localized earthquake."
I located the two wires on the control panel labeled DRUM RELEASE / EMER. My hands trembled as I gripped them.
"Cover your ears," I commanded. "And open your mouth slightly. Equalize the pressure or your eardrums will rupture."
I connected the wires.
CLICK.
The solenoid disengaged with a sharp mechanical snap, deafening in the quiet cab. Then came the screaming whine of steel cable unspooling at incredible speed.
CRASH.
The impact shook the earth. The entire crane structure shuddered violently, swinging the cab on its rails like a pendulum. Dust, rocks, and shrapnel exploded outward from the impact zone in a shockwave of kinetic violence.
One zombie—the leather-skinned creature that had grabbed my leg earlier—reacted too slowly. The hook caught him. No screech escaped. Just a wet, decisive crunch, and he vanished, obliterated beneath a mountain of iron.
The remaining Pack scrambled backward, screeching at the mushroom cloud of dust, disoriented by the impact's force.
"Run!" I shouted, kicking out the cab's side safety window.
We bypassed the ladder completely. Instead, we clambered onto the horizontal gantry beam and sprinted across the steel I-beam, forty feet above ground with nothing but empty space below. Wind lashed at our clothes. My balance faltered, vertigo clawing at my brain, but I kept my gaze locked on Nayla's back.
We reached the adjacent building's roof—a massive, soot-stained brick structure labeled KILIMANJARO TEXTILES. We leapt from the gantry to the gravel roof, rolling to absorb the jarring impact.
"Inside!" Nayla pointed to a rusted maintenance door.
We slammed our shoulders against it. One, two, three.
The rusted hinges snapped with a groan of protesting metal. We tumbled inside, into suffocating darkness, slamming the door shut and jamming a loose pipe through the handle just as the Pack realized where their prey had fled.
THE SANCTUARY OF GEARS
We collapsed onto a metal catwalk inside the factory, gasping for air as adrenaline drained from our systems.
The heat inside was stifling. And the smell... peculiar.
It wasn't the sewers' rot or the river's chemical stench. It smelled of Ugali and woodsmoke. Incense mingled with unwashed bodies.
"Usipige risasi," a voice echoed from the darkness below. Don't shoot.
I froze, scrambling to my knees and raising my nail gun. Nayla, quicker than me, already had her revolver trained on the void.
"We're armed," I lied, my voice reverberating through the mill's cavernous space. "Stay back!"
A spotlight blazed from the floor below, blinding us. Not a flashlight—a rigged stage light, powered by a silent generator.
"We can see that," the voice replied, unnervingly calm. "Lower your carpenter's tool, Bwana. You've entered a house of peace."
My eyes adjusted to the glare. The main factory floor spread before us. Vast spaces filled with dormant looming machines—silent giants draped in dust sheets resembling ghosts. But in the center, cleared of debris, life persisted.
Candles. Hundreds of them. Placed atop machinery parts, on the floor, on oil drums. They created a flickering, golden island amid industrial darkness.
In the candlelight's center sat five people eating around a small charcoal jiko stove.
A man approached the catwalk stairs. Tall, rail-thin, wearing a pristine white shirt that gleamed against the factory's grime. His neatly trimmed beard and scholarly appearance contradicted the scavenger lifestyle.
"I am Baba John," he announced, spreading his hands to demonstrate he carried no weapons. "Welcome to the Sanctuary of the Gear."
THE DINNER GUESTS
We descended the metal stairs cautiously, our boots clanging against the grate. We lacked options. The roof offered no escape, and zombies prowled outside. Any exit required passing through this floor.
Baba John observed our approach. His rigid, calculating posture betrayed that he was no priest. Yet his eyes held that glassy, fervent look of someone who had gazed too long into the sun—a man who had discovered divinity among ashes.
The other four—three men and one woman—watched us with ravenous, hollow eyes. Their gaunt frames barely supported their hanging clothes. Matted hair clung to their skulls, starkly contrasting with John's immaculate appearance.
"You must be famished," John gestured toward the pot simmering on the stove. "Join us. Eat. Simple stew—beans and maize."
"We're fine," Nayla snapped, her hand never leaving her weapon. She positioned herself slightly behind me, covering the room. "Don't touch their food," she whispered, barely moving her lips.
"Why not?" I breathed back. "Is it... contaminated?"
"Examine their hands," she hissed. "The tremors. Look at their jaws—constant twitching. That's not starvation. It's heavy metal poisoning from river water. They're sick, Tyler. Dangerously sick."
"We want no trouble," I addressed John, halting ten feet away. "We're merely passing through on our way North."
"North?" John's chuckle resembled dry leaves scraping together. "Nobody ventures North, son. The Bridge belongs to the Sinners—the Vultures. They torture travelers for amusement. And the riverbank? Controlled by the Wajumbe."
"Wajumbe?" I questioned. The Messengers.
"Those outside," he smiled, gesturing toward the steel walls. "The swift ones who guided you here."
Ice flooded my veins. "You watched them herd us?"
"We observe everything," John replied serenely. "We maintain an arrangement."
He stepped closer, his gaze fixing on my pocket bulge—my phone. Then he examined the nail gun in my hand, specifically the lithium-ion battery pack clipped to its base.
"You possess technology," he stated, voice hardening. "A phone? GPS perhaps?"
"Back off," I warned, retreating a step.
"Sanctuary demands an offering," John insisted, eyes narrowing. "A Tithe."
"I'm keeping my weapon," I growled.
"Not for us," John corrected, feigning offense. "For the Tithing Box."
He indicated a large metal chute built into the factory wall—an old industrial coal chute once used for furnace feeding. It was welded shut except for a sliding drawer mechanism at the bottom.
"We provide what they desire," John whispered fervently. "They permit our prayers. They allow our survival. A symbiotic grace."
"They're zombies, John," I spat. "They possess no grace. They destroy people."
"They destroy the wicked!" John hissed, his calm facade fracturing. "They eliminate the Vultures. They punish strays who reject the new order. But they spare the Faithful—provided we pay the Tithe."
"What exactly is this tithe?" Nayla demanded, stepping forward aggressively.
John's smile never reached his eyes. "Metal. Technology. Batteries. Copper wire. Circuit boards."
I examined a scrap pile near the chute—a mountain of gutted electronics. Old Nokia phones, digital watches, motherboards ripped from factory computers.
My blood froze.
The dam in the sewer. The deliberate herding. And now this.
"They aren't consuming the metal, John," I said, my voice quavering as the engineer in me recognized the horrifying truth. "They're collecting it."
"They're constructing a ladder to Heaven!" John shouted, flinging his arms upward. "Purging the world of electric sin, with our assistance!"
"No," I countered. "They're not destroying it—they're hoarding it. Building something. A network. A signal tower. John, do you comprehend what you're enabling? You're supplying the enemy!"
"Silence!" John snarled.
THE REALITY
We retreated to the factory's corner, away from the candlelight. Perched on stacked pallets, we observed them while drinking our own water.
"He's delusional," I whispered to Nayla. "He believes the zombies are angels because they haven't breached the doors yet. Pure psychological defense."
"He's paralyzed with fear," Nayla corrected, watching John pace frantically while muttering to himself. "He's crafted a narrative explaining his survival. Admitting they're monsters means acknowledging his helplessness. If they're 'Messengers,' he serves a purpose—a servant rather than prey."
"The Tithe," I muttered, contemplating the implications. "Nayla, if the Alphas are gathering batteries and processors... they're not merely intelligent. They're developing technology—or attempting to utilize ours. That jamming signal I detected wasn't interference. It was a broadcast."
"What purpose would a broadcast serve?"
"Coordination," I theorized. "Or perhaps they're signaling something else entirely."
Suddenly, the factory's heavy iron loading door facing the scrapyard reverberated with a thunderous boom.
GONGA.
The sound exploded through the hollow space like a war drum—the identical rhythmic knock we'd heard at the Super-Mart.
GONGA. GONGA.
Baba John froze mid-stride. The other survivors dropped their stew bowls. Instant, absolute silence engulfed the room.
"The time has come," John whispered, color draining from his face. Religious fervor vanished, leaving naked terror. "The Tithe is due."
He surveyed the scrap pile with mounting panic. "We're deficient this week. The warehouse yielded nothing more. We haven't secured enough lithium."
He pivoted slowly toward us, eyes wild with desperation.
The four emaciated survivors rose, clutching makeshift weapons—heavy iron spindles from looms, rusted pipe wrenches, lengths of rebar. Their focus wasn't on the door but on me—specifically, my pocket.
"We require your phone," John demanded, voice trembling. "And the nail gun battery. The Messengers... they crave high-density power cells."
"Stay back!" I warned, raising the nail gun. I checked the strip—five nails. Six opponents. The mathematics of survival didn't favor us in this shadowy chamber.
"This serves the greater good, son," John pleaded, advancing. "If we fail to pay, they enter. They claim a life instead. Can you bear that blood on your conscience?"
"Surrender my weapon and we all perish anyway!" I shouted. "You believe they value your Tithe? They're merely fattening you for slaughter!"
"Kamata hao!" (Seize them!) John screamed.
THE COLLAPSE
The survivors charged with the fury of the damned.
Not a battle between warriors but a desperate struggle among starving souls.
The woman lunged at Nayla, swinging a heavy iron pipe. Nayla ducked with practiced precision, her nurse's reflexes triggering. She delivered a savage kick to the woman's knee, sending her crashing into the table of candles.
The table toppled. Candles scattered across the oil-stained wooden floor.
Darkness enveloped the factory, broken only by spreading flames as spilled wax ignited oil stains on concrete.
A man tackled me with unexpected strength. The stench of unwashed skin and desperation filled my nostrils as he grappled for the nail gun.
"Give it to me!" he shrieked, spraying spittle in my face. "They'll destroy us all!"
I slammed my forehead into his face. Pain exploded through my skull, but his grip loosened. I shoved him away and scrambled backward.
Another attacker swung a wrench toward my head. I rolled as the metal sparked against concrete.
I raised the nail gun, hesitating. These people were victims, not villains. But they threatened our survival.
Thwip.
I fired a nail into the attacker's thigh. His agonized cry pierced the air as he collapsed, clutching his leg.
"Run!" I seized Nayla's hand.
We sprinted through flickering shadows, weaving between looming machines.
Behind us, Baba John's screams shifted focus—no longer directed at us but at the loading door.
BOOM.
The iron door buckled. The lock shattered.
The door swung open.
The "Messengers" arrived.
They didn't enter—they poured inside. The scrapyard Pack joined by a dozen others, flowing over the threshold like a tide of gray flesh.
Baba John stood before them, arms outstretched in desperate supplication.
"I have your Tithe!" he screamed, pointing frantically at the scrap pile. "Take the metal! Spare our flesh!"
The lead zombie—a massive Alpha with one ear missing and yellow eyes blazing in the gloom—ignored the scrap pile completely. It fixed its gaze on John and smiled with terrible recognition.
It lunged.
We discovered a side exit—a rusted fire door leading riverward. I slammed the release bar, and it opened to the cool night air.
We tumbled onto gravel, gasping for breath.
We refused to look back. But as we raced toward the river, the sounds from the Textile Mill transformed. The screaming began—no longer cultish chanting but the horrific, wet symphony of slaughter.
"They never wanted the batteries," Nayla gasped as we scrambled down the bank. "Not tonight."
"Sanctuary is a lie," I whispered, heart hammering against my ribs. "No safe haven exists. No bargain can be struck with them."
We reached the water's edge. The dark river flowed silently toward the bridge. Above us, the Mill erupted in flames as candle fire ignited ancient cotton dust.
We stand alone again. No allies. No miracles. Just the night and one inescapable truth: we are entirely on our own.
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