PLATFORM: FACEBOOK TIMELINE
USER: TYLER JORDAN (Structural Engineer / Site Manager)
STATUS: UPLOADED VIA STARLINK (Connection: Weak/Intermittent)
LOCATION: SUPER-MART (Arusha Branch - Njiro Outskirts), TANZANIA
DATE: SUNDAY. DAY 35 POST-EVENT.
[Post Visibility: Public]
It has been thirty-five days since the silence fell over the savannah.
If you are reading this in the States, or Europe, or maybe in a bunker in Nairobi—if the internet is even still a thing—then listen to me. I am alive. I am broadcasting this log from the server room of the Super-Mart franchise on the old Njiro road, about five kilometers outside of Arusha.
The dust has finally settled on the tarmac outside. The screeching of the tires has stopped. The screaming has stopped. But the blood on the glass doors hasn't dried; it has just turned black and cracked in the heat.
I need to write this down. The isolation—the upweke—is starting to rot my brain. I catch myself having full conversations with the bags of maize flour in the warehouse. I debated politics with a mop yesterday. I need to organize my thoughts. I need to remember exactly how the world ended, so I don't forget why I'm still hiding in this air-conditioned tomb.
THE DAY THE DALADALAS STOPPED
It didn't happen like in the movies. In Hollywood, the apocalypse is instant. It's explosions and jet fighters. Here, in East Africa, it was messy. It was loud. And at first, it just looked like traffic.
I was here at the Super-Mart, picking up bulk supplies for the bridge construction site I manage closer to Moshi. It was a Sunday, hot and dry. The kind of heat that sits on your shoulders like a wet towel. Inside the store, the AC was blasting that fake, cheerful American pop music they play in all the franchise branches. It was designed to make you feel like you were in Ohio, not on the edge of the bush.
I was at the checkout, arguing with the machine. The bank network was down again—standard Sunday trouble—and the cashier, a young woman named Rehema, was apologizing profusely.
"Pole sana, Bwana," she said, flashing a nervous smile. "System iko chini. The network is down."
That was the last normal thing anyone ever said to me.
Outside, through the massive wall of tempered glass that faced the main road, the world broke.
I heard the sound first. It wasn't a scream. It was the screech of rubber on melting asphalt, followed by the sickening crunch of metal hitting concrete.
I looked up. A daladala—one of those overcrowded minibuses, painted with vibrant colors and slogans like 'GOD IS ABLE'—had swerved off the tarmac. It smashed through the wooden roadside stalls where the Mamas sold roasted corn and avocados. The bus rolled twice, landing on its side in the drainage ditch.
In Tanzania, when an accident happens, the reaction is instant. It's communal. Boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) drivers stop their bikes. People run from the shops. Everyone rushes in to pull the survivors out. It's an instinct: tupo pamoja (we are together).
I saw twenty people run toward the wreck. I almost ran out myself.
But then, the passengers started crawling out of the shattered windows.
They weren't limp. They weren't holding their heads in pain. They moved with a jerky, frantic energy.
The first passenger, a man in a torn suit, grabbed the boda-boda driver who was trying to help him. He didn't thank him. He sank his teeth into the driver's neck.
It happened in high definition through the glass. A spray of bright red arterial blood coated the dusty windshield of a parked Toyota.
It wasn't a riot. It was a slaughter.
I saw a heavy-set Mama, the kind who usually sells bananas with a warm smile, tear the face off a traffic policeman. The sound... even through the glass, I could hear the roar. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a lion—a Simba—taking down a gazelle.
The panic hit the supermarket instantly. The Askaris (security guards) at the door dropped their metal detectors and ran. The shoppers stampeded. It was pandemonium. Carts overturned. People trampled each other trying to get to their Land Cruisers and Rav4s in the parking lot.
I stood there, gripping a bag of frozen chicken, watching the parking lot turn into a demolition derby.
I didn't run. I'm a structural engineer. When the ground shakes, I don't panic; I look for the load-bearing walls. I calculate. I looked at the chaos on the road—the burning tires, the biting, the death—and then I looked at this building.
This Super-Mart is a fortress. It's an American build dropped into the African outskirts. Reinforced concrete walls. High, narrow windows. A perimeter wall topped with a heavy-duty electric fence. A massive industrial backup generator out back because Tanesco power is never reliable.
The city, with its narrow streets and open markets, was a death trap. This supermarket was a castle.
So, while everyone else ran out, I locked the doors. I lowered the heavy iron roller shutters over the main entrance. I sealed the loading bay.
I locked the world out.
FORTRESS TANZANIA
For the first week, I worked like a machine. Being an Expat out here has its advantages—I know how to fix things when the local infrastructure fails. I treated this place like a construction site in a war zone.
1. The Perimeter:
The supermarket has heavy steel shutters meant to stop looters during election riots. I didn't just lock them; I welded them. I raided the hardware aisle for an arc welder and fused the steel tracks to the floor. Then, I took the electric forklift and stacked pallets of Simba Cement and fifty-kilogram sacks of Sembe (maize flour) against the main doors. Nothing is getting in through the front unless they have a tank.
2. The Eyes:
The glass facade was a problem. It was bulletproof, sure, but it was transparent. If they see you, they swarm. I found five-gallon buckets of white primer in the paint section. I spent two days painting the entire front glass from the inside.
It was terrifying work. As I rolled the paint onto the glass, I could hear them on the other side. Fingers scratching against the pane. Breath fogging the glass inches from my face.
Now, from the road, the building just looks like a white tomb. A monolith in the dust.
3. The Life Support:
The Tanesco power grid died on Day 4. I wasn't surprised. The lights flickered, browned out, and died. But this franchise was built for outages. The diesel Gen-Set kicked in automatically.
I disabled the automatic switch. I can't waste fuel on air conditioning or lights for the biscuit aisle. I only run the generator for two hours a day to keep the deep freezers cold. The rest of the time, I rely on the solar array on the roof.
I have enough beans, rice, tinned tuna, and bottled Kilimanjaro water to last a year.
I built my living quarters—my "Safe Zone"—in the Manager's Office on the mezzanine floor. It overlooks the warehouse. It has a heavy steel door and a clear view of the floor. I sleep with a sharp panga (machete) under my pillow and a modified nail gun on the desk.
THE SIMBA (THE LIONS)
I need to warn you. The things outside... they aren't stupid.
The locals used to call the infected Wafu (The Dead) or Mazombi, but I call them Simba (Lions). Because they hunt. They don't just wander aimlessly like in the movies. They work together.
Last week, on Day 28, I was watching the CCTV monitors in the server room. The perimeter fence cameras show the dusty road outside and the drainage ditch where the daladala crashed.
I saw a man running. He was young, maybe twenty. He was limping badly, blood soaking his jeans. He was heading straight for my main gate.
He was screaming in Swahili, waving his arms at the security cameras.
"Nisaidie! Tafadhali jamani! Fungua mlango!" (Help me! Please guys! Open the door!)
My hand hovered over the gate release button. I'm human. I wanted to help him. I watched his desperate face on the monitor, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks.
I almost opened the hatch. Almost.
But then I saw them.
Three infected were hiding in the tall elephant grass by the drainage ditch. They were perfectly still. Their skin was grey, dusty, blending in with the dry earth. They weren't chasing him. They were herding him.
They had positioned themselves in a triangle. They waited until he was right in front of my gate—right in the "kill zone" where I would have to open the shutters to let him in.
They knew.
They understood the mechanics of a door. They understood that if they chased a gazelle toward the fortress, the fortress might open.
I pulled my hand back. I didn't open the gate.
I watched him die on the monitor. The three Simba converged on him instantly. It was brutal. Quiet. Efficient. They didn't fight over the meat; they shared it.
After it was done, one of them—a tall one wearing the tattered remains of a suit—looked up. He looked right at the camera lens.
His eyes weren't cloudy or white. They were bright yellow. Intelligent. Hateful. He knew I was watching.
THE THIEF
I thought I was alone in here. The King of the Super-Mart. The Mzungu (foreigner) in his castle.
But three days ago, I started noticing things. Small things. Entropy.
A packet of Glucose biscuits was missing from Aisle 4. A bottle of Konyagi—that harsh local gin that burns like gasoline—was gone from the liquor shelf behind the counter.
I thought I was losing my mind. The isolation was finally cracking me. I checked the logs. I checked the locks. Everything was sealed.
But then I found the footprint.
It was in Aisle 3, near the baking supplies. A bag of wheat flour had spilled. In the white powder, there was a single, perfect footprint. It was small. Narrow. And barefoot.
I wasn't alone.
I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck. Someone was in here with me. Someone small enough to hide, and smart enough to stay quiet.
I set a trap. I'm an engineer; I solve problems.
I cleared a space in the center of the warehouse floor, right under the main skylight. I placed a tactical backpack there. I filled it with the essentials: two liters of water, three cans of beef, and a flashlight. The bait.
Then, I climbed up into the steel rafters. I wedged myself between the AC ducts, thirty feet in the air, and I waited.
I waited six hours in the humidity. My legs cramped. My shirt soaked through with sweat.
Then, she appeared.
She didn't come from the floor. She dropped from the ceiling.
She lowered herself from the air conditioning vent like a spider, using a climbing rope made of braided extension cords. She was small, fierce-looking, with skin the color of deep mahogany. She wore dusty cargo pants and a torn tank top.
She moved silently, barefoot on the polished concrete. She didn't look around nervously. She moved with purpose.
She landed, unhooked her rope, and walked straight to the bag. She grabbed it.
I dropped from the rafters.
I landed heavily behind her, my boots slamming onto the concrete. I leveled my nail gun—modified to fire 3-inch framing nails at 100 PSI—at her head.
"Simama," (Stop) I commanded, my voice rusty from disuse.
She froze. She didn't flinch. She slowly turned around.
She didn't look scared. She looked... tired. Bored, almost.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Nayla," she said. Her voice was raspy, dry as the dust outside.
"How did you get in?" I demanded. "The shutters are welded. The electric fence is live. The loading bay is sealed with three tons of cement."
"The roof vent," she shrugged, gesturing up with her chin. "You secured the doors, Engineer. You fortified the walls. But you forgot the ventilation. This building breathes. I just crawled down its throat."
"Why are you stealing from me?"
"Because I'm hungry," she spat, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. "And you? You're hoarding enough food to feed a whole village in here. You're sitting on a mountain of rice while people outside act like animals."
"I'm surviving," I said, stepping closer, keeping the nail gun aimed at her chest. "You're trespassing."
I grabbed her arm. She was light, but she had a wiry strength to her. I marched her toward the metal stairs leading to the office. I needed to interrogate her. I needed to know if she led anyone else here. If the Simba followed her scent.
"Move," I ordered.
I shoved her into the office chair. I found a roll of heavy-duty duct tape and bound her hands to the armrests. I taped her ankles to the chair legs.
"You think you're safe in here," she laughed softly, looking around at my wall of monitors, my solar inverters, my neatly organized charts. "You think these American walls matter?"
"They've kept me alive for 35 days," I said, checking the tape.
"They're just a coffin," she said. "The Alpha knows you're here. He's just waiting for you to ripen. He likes the ones inside the cans better. They taste softer."
"Alpha?" I paused. "What are you talking about?"
"Go check your perimeter, Bwana," she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "Check the blind spot behind the generator room. The one the camera doesn't see."
Paranoia hit me hard. Was she a distraction?
I left her tied in the chair. I locked the massive steel office door from the outside. I ran down the metal stairs, my boots clanging. I ran to the back of the warehouse.
I checked the rear exit. Sealed. I checked the generator room. Nothing but the hum of the engine and the smell of diesel. No breach. No zombies.
"She's lying," I muttered to myself, wiping sweat from my eyes. "She's playing mind games."
I ran back up the metal stairs. I unlocked the heavy door and kicked it open.
"Alright, Nayla, tell me the tr—"
The words died in my throat.
The chair was empty.
The duct tape was on the floor. It hadn't been cut. It was still in the shape of loops. She had dislocated her thumbs to slip out. I'd seen it done in movies; seeing the twisted tape in reality made my stomach turn.
"Nayla?" I spun around, raising the nail gun.
I heard a soft thud behind me.
I turned just in time to see a flash of metal—a heavy, industrial-sized can of beans swinging toward my face.
Pain exploded in my skull. It felt like a lightning strike. The world tilted sideways. My knees hit the floor.
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was her face, looking down at me. She didn't look angry anymore. She looked pitying
"You built a good cage, Tyler," she whispered in the dark.
Then, I blackout