Chapter 66: The Plantation iii

The silence in the room was shattered by a sudden, loud thud. The walls shook as gunfire erupted outside, rapid bursts of automatic weapons and screams of the guards echoing through the night. The captives froze, eyes wide with terror as they listened to the chaos unfolding beyond the thin walls of the building. There was another thud, followed by a sickening squelch noise that sounded like something—or someone—was being torn apart followed by a gurgle that sounded inhuman.

Njoro clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his chest. The others, still shaken from the fight they had just survived, looked to him for guidance. Before he could speak, a loud crash echoed through the room as a body slammed into the side of the building, the force of the impact rattling the windows. They stared in horror at the sight through the cracked window—a guard's limp body slumped against the wall, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes wide open but lifeless.

Mwangi, breathing heavily and bleeding from his back, limped over to the body of one of the fallen guards. He grabbed a machete from the corpse's side, gripping it tightly as if it could somehow protect him from whatever nightmare was playing out outside. Njoro followed suit, picking up the second machete and turning to the others.

"I'll check outside," Njoro said, his voice hoarse but firm. He moved toward the door, crouching low as he peered through the small gap. His breath caught in his throat.

Outside, under the dim light of the moon, the remaining guards were firing their weapons wildly. Some of the guards were yelling in Swahili, their voices panicked and frantic, but Njoro could hardly make out what they were saying. All he could focus on was the figure in the middle of it all—a hulking figure clad in golden armor, moving among the bodies like a demon from the depths of hell. The creature's armor shimmered in the faint light, it looked bulky and covered with blood, with spikes protruding from its ears like antenna. The thing moved with inhuman speed, evading bullets with an ease that sent a chill down Njoro's spine.

One of the guards screamed as the creature lunged at him, its massive clawed hand grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him into the air. The guard fired his rifle in vain, bullets ricocheting off the creature's armor as it squeezed, crushing his windpipe with a grotesque snap. The guard's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Njoro pulled back quickly, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his ears. He turned to the others, his face pale but determined.

"We need to move," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Now."

One of the men, an older prisoner with gray streaks in his hair, looked at him with wide eyes. "Njoro, what's happening out there? What is that thing?"

"I don't know," Njoro said, shaking his head. "But we don't have time to figure it out. We need to get to our families. They're keeping them in the storage sheds behind the plantation. If we can make it there, we might have a chance to free them and get out."

The men looked at each other, fear evident on their faces, but they nodded. Njoro took a deep breath, gripping the machete tighter. He peeked out again, seeing the guards distracted by the creature, their gunfire growing more erratic as they struggled to hit their target. This was their chance.

"Follow me," Njoro whispered. "We go out the back, keep low, and move fast. Don't stop for anything."

They crept toward the back door, their footsteps light and cautious. Njoro led the way, his muscles tense, ears straining to hear any changes in the chaos outside. He pushed the door open carefully, motioning for the others to follow. One by one, they slipped out into the night, the sounds of gunfire and inhuman gurgling still echoing behind them.

As they moved through the back of the village, the sounds of the battle slowly faded, replaced by an eerie silence. The further they got from the main area, the quieter it became—no more shouting, no more gunfire. Only the occasional rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant sound of dripping water.

Njoro stopped, motioning for the others to do the same. He crouched down behind a pile of crates, scanning the area in front of them. His stomach turned at what he saw.

Bodies littered the ground, some whole, others… not. Limbs and pieces of flesh were scattered across the dirt, blood staining the earth in wide pools. The stench of death hung thick in the air. It looked like a massacre. Several guards were slumped against walls or lying face down, their bodies torn apart as if by some wild animal. But this was no animal attack. Whatever had killed these men was something far worse.

Mwangi, standing beside Njoro, gripped his machete tighter with a glint that suddenly appeared in his eyes. "How brutal…"

One of the other men, his face pale and his hands shaking, looked at Njoro. "What now?"

Njoro took a deep breath as Mwangi placed an arm on his shoulder, trying to steady his nerves. "We keep going. We have to get to our families. They're waiting for us."

The door to the small, rundown shed burst open as Njoro and the others stormed in, breathing hard and clutching their weapons. Inside, the room was cramped, lit by a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. Families huddled together—women, children, and elders—faces gaunt from fear and starvation. As soon as they saw the men enter, the room erupted with gasps of surprise and cries of relief.

"Baba!" A young girl, no more than six, broke free from the huddle and ran toward him, her small feet pounding against the dirt floor. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes sparkled with hope. "Baba! You came for me!" she cried, throwing herself into Njoro's arms.

Njoro knelt down, dropping the machete as he embraced his daughter tightly. "Amani, my sweet girl," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He kissed her forehead, holding her as if he would never let go. Behind her, his wife, Asha, rose to her feet, her face a mixture of disbelief and joy.

"Njoro," Asha breathed, her hand covering her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around both her husband and daughter. "I thought… I thought we'd never see you again."

"I'm here. We're going to get out of this. I promise," Njoro said, his voice firm though his heart ached at the sight of his family's suffering.

Around them, the other captives reunited with their loved ones, tears of relief flowing freely. But the joy was short-lived. One of the older women, her face wrinkled and weathered from years of hard labor, approached Njoro with fear in her eyes.

"What's happening out there?" she asked, her voice trembling. "We heard gunshots. Is it soldiers? Are we being rescued?"

Njoro exchanged a glance with Mwangi, who stood by the door, still gripping his machete. "No… it's not soldiers," Njoro said. "There's something else out there. Something that's been killing the smugglers. I don't know what it is, but it's—"

"—a demon," Mwangi interrupted, his voice heavy and cold. "Whatever's out there, it's not here to save anyone. It's here to kill."

The elderly woman clasped her hands together, her lips trembling as she began to cry. "God has delivered us," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "He has sent His judgment upon these wicked men."

Mwangi shook his head, casting a wary glance toward the door with narrowed eyes. "I don't think whatever's out there was sent by any god," he muttered.

Njoro, grim-faced, nodded. "It's more like a demon," he added again. "But we don't have time to figure it out. We need to get everyone out of here before—"

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and every head in the room whipped toward it. Standing in the doorway was the leader of the smugglers, his silhouette illuminated by the faint moonlight. His shirt was soaked in blood, his face twisted in pain, and there was a wild, almost feral look in his eyes. Blood dripped from his lips as he limped forward, dragging one leg behind him, a rifle hanging loosely in his hand.

His name was Nguvu—a tall, muscular man with a scar down his cheek and half of his left ear missing. He had been the terror of the village, commanding his men with an iron fist, but now he looked like he had crawled out of hell itself. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he swayed on his feet as he stepped into the room.

"Quiet!" Nguvu rasped, his voice hoarse and strained. He raised his gun, aiming it wildly around the room. The captives froze in place, panic spreading like wildfire as children began to cry.

"Shut them up!" Nguvu growled, his eyes darting around the room, but they were not focused on the captives. He was looking up, scanning the ceiling, his face twisted with fear. "It's still out there… I can hear it."

A low, guttural gurgling noise echoed from somewhere outside, sending a fresh wave of terror through the room. Nguvu's hands trembled as he pointed his rifle toward the ceiling, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Where is it?!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

Njoro took a step back, his eyes scanning the room for an escape. His heart raced as he looked over to where Mwangi had been standing only moments before. But Mwangi was gone.

"Mwangi?" Njoro whispered, his brow furrowing in confusion. He turned his head, searching the shadows, but there was no sign of his friend.

Before he could call out again, there was a loud crash—something heavy and fast smashed down between Nguvu and the captives, sending dust and debris flying into the air. The floor cracked beneath the impact, and Njoro stumbled backward, clutching Amani protectively.

Nguvu let out a scream of pure terror, his eyes wide as he scrambled to aim his rifle. Standing before them, in the dim light, was a hulking figure, its form too large, too grotesque to be human. Blood dripped from its claws, and in the moonlight, they could see its golden armor glinting, stained with the blood of its victims.

Njoro's heart pounded in his chest as he looked at the demon before them, his mind racing. There was no time to think—only time to act.

"Run!" he shouted to the others.