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Chapter 24 – Ashes of Lagos
The smell hit him first.
Rot. Burnt flesh. Gunpowder. Lagos had always smelled of sweat, exhaust, and sea salt — but this was different. This was the scent of the end.
Dele stepped over a body lying face-down in the gutter, its shirt torn and bloodied, flies already staking their claim. Behind him, his small escort of armed men — scavenged soldiers and desperate youths with machetes — struggled to keep pace. The city was loud, but not with life. Loud with screams, gunshots, and the moan of the half-turned.
Chaos. Perfect chaos.
"Na dis one we dey follow?" one of the boys muttered in pidgin, gripping his rusted cutlass. His eyes darted between shadows, terrified of both the dead and the living.
Dele didn't look back. "If you fear, leave." His voice was calm, heavy. He didn't need to shout; authority clung to him like armor.
None left.
They pushed deeper into the ruins of the market district. Stalls were overturned, yams spilling across the ground, palm oil soaking the dirt like blood. Traders who once shouted prices now whimpered from behind broken walls. And from the north road, the first low growl came.
Zombies.
Dele paused at the sound. Not from fear — but calculation. They were close. Lagos had too many bodies, too many weak ones when the Mana surged. The city would never stop birthing the dead. He needed to move fast, before Lagos swallowed itself whole.
He raised a hand, signaling his men to stop. "Warehouse," he said, nodding toward a three-story structure at the corner. Its walls were cracked, roof scorched, but still standing. "We claim it. From here, we build."
One of the soldiers hesitated. "But—"
Dele's eyes cut to him. Cold. Ruthless. The kind of look that reminded them all that the man leading them had seen this future before. The soldier swallowed his protest.
"Clear it," Dele ordered.
The men moved, boots crunching glass as they swept through the half-burnt warehouse. Inside, the floor was strewn with corpses. Some still twitched. A machete stroke ended them. Rats scurried. A few survivors — thin women clutching children — huddled in the corner.
One of them cried out in Yoruba, "Ẹ jọ̀ọ́! Má pa wa!" (Please! Don't kill us!)
Dele stepped forward, eyes sweeping over them. His face betrayed no sympathy. "This place is mine now. Stay, and you serve. Refuse, and you leave the gates."
A mother sobbed. A teenage boy clenched his fists, staring at Dele like he wanted to fight. But hunger showed in his eyes. Hopelessness. The boy dropped his gaze.
Good.
Dele turned to his men. "Barricade the doors. Post guards. Strip the corpses. Clothes, shoes, anything useful. Nothing wastes."
And just like that, order began to take shape.
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Amara's POV
Amara pressed her back against the cold concrete wall, trying not to breathe too loudly. The warehouse stank of blood and rot, but worse than the smell was the man at the center of it all.
Dele.
She had seen men with guns before, had seen cult leaders rise in moments of panic. But this one… this one carried himself differently. His eyes scanned the room like he had already walked it a hundred times. Like he knew what would happen before it did.
And everyone followed him.
Her little brother, Ifeanyi, clung to her dress, whispering in Igbo: "Nwanne, are we safe?" (Sister, are we safe?)
Amara didn't answer. Because safety had no meaning anymore. Not in Lagos. Not with the moans outside the warehouse growing louder.
She stole another look at Dele as his men began dragging corpses into piles. He didn't flinch at the blood on his boots, didn't pause when a child wailed at the sight of a machete coming down. He just watched, silent, calculating.
"Gather the strong," Dele finally said. His voice cut through the air, commanding. "Men, women, doesn't matter. Anyone who can hold a blade or carry weight."
His eyes landed on Amara. For a moment, she froze.
"You," he said. "What's your name?"
Her mouth was dry. "…Amara."
"You'll help organize food distribution." He didn't ask. He declared. "Keep the weak alive, for now. We'll need them later."
Amara wanted to protest. To say she wasn't his servant. But the way his men looked at her, hands tight on their weapons, told her refusal wasn't an option.
So she nodded.
And in that moment, she realized something chilling: this man was building something. Out of corpses and fear, he was building.
---
Dele's POV
Night fell heavy over Lagos. Fires lit the skyline, gunshots echoed from distant districts. And the moans — they never stopped.
Inside the warehouse, makeshift barricades held. Dele sat on a crate, watching as his orders came to life. Guards posted. Corpses stripped and dumped outside. Survivors divided: strong, weak, children. Food gathered into one corner.
Not perfect. But the beginning.
One of his lieutenants approached. "Sir… the dead are pressing from Third Mainland. Plenty."
Dele closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured the map of Lagos in his mind. Bridges chokepointed. High-rises easy to fortify. Slums impossible. Yes, it was as he remembered.
He opened his eyes. "Good. Let them press. It drives the people here into my arms."
The lieutenant frowned, not understanding. But Dele didn't need him to.
Outside, the zombies wailed against the night. And inside, Dele smiled thinly.
The city was breaking. Which meant it was his to claim.
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Amara's POV
Amara moved among the survivors, trying to calm crying children, rationing the little garri and beans that had been found. Her hands shook, but she forced herself steady.
"Eat small," she told them in pidgin. "Tomorrow fit worse."
She caught Ifeanyi staring at Dele again, fear in his young eyes. "Sister," he whispered, "why dem dey obey am?"
Amara didn't know how to answer. Maybe because fear was stronger than bullets. Maybe because in this world gone mad, a man who spoke like he owned the future was easier to follow than silence.
She looked at Dele — the calm at the heart of chaos. And a terrible thought crossed her mind:
What if he really did know the future?
---
By dawn, the warehouse had changed. Guards rotated, survivors slept in ragged clusters, and the dead still wailed beyond the barricades.
Lagos was on fire. But inside these walls, something new was being born.
And at its center stood Dele — dark strategist, reborn prophet, unchallenged master of the ashes.