Chapter 28 – Blood on the Lagoon
The night over the UNILAG compound was thick and heavy, the kind of night where the air itself seemed to sweat. The lagoon breeze pushed in through the broken fences, carrying with it the damp smell of saltwater—and something far worse.
The students huddled behind the barricade. Oil drums stacked high, wooden planks nailed across, broken desks and iron sheets all welded into a desperate wall. They had built it with shaky hands, whispering prayers, as if each nail driven into wood might hold back the end of the world.
Now, the end had arrived.
The first thump against the barricade sent a shiver through every spine. The second made the wall groan. By the third, some of the weaker ones already sobbed quietly, clutching sticks, machetes, even frying pans.
Dele stood at the center of them, his cutlass gleaming faintly under the floodlight rigged above. His expression was unreadable—no fear, no anger, no doubt. Only calculation.
He had felt this pressure before. In another life. In another death.
The pounding grew louder. The barricade shook violently as clawed hands and snarling jaws pressed against it. Then—crack!—one of the top planks split in two.
"Ọlọrun o!" someone gasped.
A girl dropped her weapon and covered her face.
"Hold the line!" Yinka shouted, his voice cracking. His spear wobbled in his grip, but he forced himself forward.
The barricade splintered again. Nails flew loose. The floodlight flickered. Then with one final, gut-churning snap, the wall gave way.
The horde poured in.
They surged like a wave, grey-skinned bodies slamming into the compound, mouths wide, teeth snapping. Some were twisted with broken bones but still moved with unnatural speed. Others crawled, clawing at the ground like rabid dogs. Their eyes glowed faintly, like embers reflecting the moonlight.
The first screams broke out.
Students swung wildly, machetes clashing against skulls. Blood sprayed across the barricade wood, hot and thick. One boy smashed a zombie's face with a hammer, only to be dragged down by two more from the side. His scream ended with a crunch.
The barricade dissolved into chaos.
And in that chaos, Dele moved.
He stepped forward, not back, his cutlass flashing like lightning. His strikes were clean, efficient, merciless. A single swing severed a head. A twist of his wrist gutted another. He did not waste energy. He killed like a man who had studied death itself.
A massive zombie lunged at him, ribs exposed, jaw unhinged in a permanent scream. Dele didn't flinch. He planted his palm on its chest and released mana outward.
The ribcage collapsed inward like brittle glass.
The body fell, lifeless.
"Too slow," Dele whispered.
The horde snarled louder, sensing him, hungering for him. They swarmed.
Behind him, panic spread. A boy tripped and was dragged under, his legs kicking uselessly until teeth tore into him. Another girl swung until her blade stuck fast in a skull—she screamed as hands closed around her arms.
"Fall back!" someone shouted.
"No retreat!" another screamed, voice cracking with desperation.
Dele turned his head slightly. His eyes were calm, but his mind raced. If the line collapses, they all die. If they cannot stand, they do not deserve to live in the new world.
He inhaled.
Then leapt into the thickest cluster of zombies.
Gasps broke out behind him.
His cutlass became a streak of light. He spun low, severing legs. He rose high, cleaving heads. His movements were beyond human—mana sharpened every step, every strike.
The zombies turned on him, furious. They clawed, bit, piled on him—but Dele was already gone, sliding through them like smoke.
He planted his feet, drew in mana, and released it in a blast.
The ground cracked. Shockwaves rippled outward. Zombies flew backward, bodies smashing against the compound walls. Some crumpled, silent forever. Others twitched, broken but still crawling forward.
For a moment, silence hung.
Then the roars began again.
The horde staggered but did not stop.
Dele's chest rose steadily. His lips pressed thin. They adapt. They always adapt.
Behind him, students stared in awe and terror. A girl whispered under her breath, "Ọlọrun…"
But the fight had not ended.
The zombies pressed harder, slamming into clusters of defenders. A spear snapped. A machete slipped from bloodied hands. Another scream rose, cut short.
Dele shifted again. He severed another head, blood painting his shirt, and finally spoke:
"Form circles. Back-to-back!"
At first, confusion. Then, desperation made them obey. Small groups closed ranks, weakest in the center, strongest on the outside. It slowed the slaughter. Spears jabbed in rhythm, machetes rose and fell together. For the first time, there was order in the madness.
And still, Dele was the storm.
He cut, dodged, and struck with terrifying grace. His blade sang with each kill. His eyes burned with quiet clarity.
Every strike, every step, carried a truth only he knew: this was not chaos. This was training.
The lagoon breeze carried the stench of rot and blood across the night, while the barricade lay shattered behind them.
The fight did not end. It only deepened.
And at the heart of it all—calm, ruthless, unshaken—stood Dele.
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