---
Chapter 25 – The First Siege
The night did not sleep.
The moans had grown thicker as darkness deepened, a sound that seemed to bleed from every crack in the ruined city. At first, it was distant — a chorus carried on the humid Lagos air. But by midnight, it pressed close, a thousand hungry throats rasping in unison.
Inside the warehouse, silence was no comfort. Survivors sat huddled, eyes wide, hands clutched tight around scraps of food and makeshift weapons. Children whimpered, and mothers hushed them with trembling hands. Guards at the doors shifted nervously, peeking through the slats of wood they had nailed against broken frames.
The pounding began.
A single body slamming against the barricade. Then another. Then another.
The sound of rotting fists and shoulders smashing against timber and sheet metal echoed like drums of war. The walls groaned. The barricade shivered. And in the hearts of the survivors, fear turned to panic.
"They're here!" someone cried. "We're finished!"
A man bolted for the back door, clutching a sack of beans. Before he could rip the lock, a machete blade struck the wall beside his head, stopping him cold.
Dele stood there, calm in the chaos, his eyes dark and unyielding.
"Sit down," he said.
The man froze. For a moment, he looked like he might fight. But then he saw Dele's gaze — sharp as steel, merciless as the dead outside — and his courage drained. He dropped the sack and stumbled back into the crowd.
Dele turned his attention to the guards. "Hold the barricades. No one opens a door. No one runs."
"But—" one of the boys stammered. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, his machete shaking in his grip. "They're too many!"
Dele stepped close, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. His voice was steady, heavy with certainty.
"They bleed. They fall. And dawn is ours if we hold."
The boy swallowed, nodding despite the fear that clung to his face.
Dele raised his voice so all could hear. "Listen! The dead are strong, but they are not endless. Survive this night, and you live to see tomorrow. Fail, and you feed them. Choose now."
His words cut through the rising panic. It wasn't comfort — it was command. And command was what they needed.
The pounding grew louder. Boards cracked. Fingers clawed through gaps, skin blackened and peeling. Moans rose to screams. The siege had begun.
---
Hours of Blood
The first breach came just past midnight.
One of the side barricades gave way with a screech of tearing metal. Hands shoved through, followed by a head with milky eyes and a mouth dripping black saliva.
"Push it back!" Dele barked.
Three men leapt forward, spears jabbing. The zombie snarled, catching a shaft in its teeth, snapping the wood like kindling. Another pushed through behind it, then another.
Chaos erupted.
Survivors screamed. Some rushed to help, swinging machetes and kitchen knives. Others shrank back, covering their ears as if that could block out the horror.
Blood sprayed across the floor as a head was cleaved open. The stench of decay filled the air, choking, suffocating.
Amara clutched Ifeanyi against her chest, heart hammering. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. The sight of the dead forcing themselves into the fragile sanctuary burned into her mind.
And then she saw him.
Dele moved like the chaos belonged to him. He didn't flinch when a survivor's blade slipped and nearly cut him. He didn't hesitate when a zombie lunged at his throat. He stepped aside, seized a crowbar from the ground, and drove it through the creature's skull with brutal precision.
Every strike he made was clean. Efficient. Cold.
"Hold the line!" he roared. "Use your fear — let it make you strong!"
For a moment, they did. The survivors fought harder, blades rising and falling, cries of terror turning to battle shouts. The breach was sealed with bodies — both undead and human.
But the night was long.
---
By two in the morning, exhaustion had set in. Arms shook, breaths came ragged. Every time the survivors thought the wave had ended, another crash came at the barricades. The dead did not tire. The living did.
A man dropped his machete, sinking to his knees. "I can't— I can't anymore…"
Dele strode over and yanked him up by the collar. "You can. Or you die." He shoved the man back toward the line. "Your body will feed them if your spirit won't."
Amara's hands ached from carrying water to the fighters, from pulling the wounded out of the way. Her brother's cries blended with the moans outside, and she wondered if they would ever end.
At one point, she stumbled into the corner and pressed her forehead to the wall, whispering a prayer. But even as she prayed, she realized her eyes were searching for Dele. Watching him. Needing him to still be standing.
---
Betrayal
Around three o'clock, panic broke.
A group of five survivors — men with hard eyes and quick hands — tried to force the back exit. They pushed against the lock, desperate to flee into the night.
"No!" Amara screamed, rushing toward them. "You'll doom us all!"
One of them shoved her aside. "Better take our chances out there than die trapped in here!"
The lock snapped. The door creaked open.
And the moans surged louder, pouring in like water through a cracked dam.
Dele was there in an instant. His machete flashed once. One of the men fell, throat spilling red. The others froze, eyes wide with horror.
Dele's voice was ice. "Anyone else?"
No one moved.
He slammed the door shut, jamming a beam across it. Then he pointed to the three men still standing. "Get back to the line, or join him."
They obeyed.
Amara stared at the body on the floor, bile rising in her throat. For a moment, she wanted to hate him. To scream at him for killing one of their own.
But then she looked at the barricade, where the dead were still pounding, and realized something terrifying.
He was right.
---
Dawn
By the time the sky began to lighten, the warehouse was a grave.
The floor was slick with blood. Piles of corpses — human and undead alike — lay heaped against the barricades. Survivors slumped against the walls, too tired to cry, too numb to speak.
But the dead had slowed. Their moans had grown distant. And as the first pale rays of dawn cut through the smoke and dust, silence finally returned.
Dele stood in the center of it all, crowbar dripping, clothes torn and stained. He looked like death itself. Yet his eyes were alive, sharp, burning.
He scanned the room. Survivors met his gaze and looked away, not from defiance but from something deeper — submission. They knew now. He was not just a man. He was the reason they still breathed.
Dele raised his voice. "You survived. Remember this night. Remember who kept you alive. From this day, we are not prey. We are the beginning of Lagos' order. My order."
No one cheered. No one had the strength. But in the silence, something heavier than applause settled.
Authority.
---
Amara's POV
Amara sank to the floor, clutching Ifeanyi close. Her whole body shook. She wanted to collapse, to sleep for a week. But her eyes found Dele again.
He was standing tall, shoulders squared, as if the night had not broken him at all.
And she understood then why people obeyed.
It wasn't because he was kind. Or merciful. It was because in a world of endless hunger, he was the only one who never bent, never cracked.
Terror gripped her.
And beneath it, something worse.
Hope.
---