The next three days were a blur of quiet, feverish industry. The tailor's shop, once a tomb of forgotten dreams, transformed into the workshop for their desperate exodus. The silence was no longer one of fear, but of focused purpose. It was punctuated by the snip of Funke's scissors, the whir of Adekunle oiling the wheelchair's bearings, and their low, murmured conversations as they planned their route through the dead city.
They were no longer just survivors; they were cartographers of ruin. On the back of a large, faded calendar from 2024, Adekunle began to draw a map. Using his memory of the city's complex web of streets, he sketched out a path to the university campus at Akoka. It was not the most direct route. It was a coward's path, a rat's path, a survivor's path. It hugged the back alleys, wound through quiet residential zones, and crossed the wide, dangerous thoroughfares only at points that offered the most cover. Every street, every intersection, was a question mark, a potential ambush point. The map was a geography of fear, and their lives depended on its accuracy.
While Adekunle wrestled with the map, Funke performed miracles with a needle and thread. She was no longer just his aunt; she was their quartermaster, their engineer of soft goods. She harvested the raw materials of their new world with a pragmatic eye. From the waterproof lining of an old raincoat left on a hook, she fashioned covers for their backpacks and a makeshift poncho for herself to ward off the rain. She took the tough, canvas-like fabric of a discarded awning and stitched it into a series of rugged pouches and harnesses that she affixed to the wheelchair, turning the simple medical device into a post-apocalyptic beast of burden. It was no longer just a chair; it was their wagon, their supply train, their home on wheels.
Her greatest creation was their camouflage. Using the dark greens, browns, and blacks from bolts of heavy cotton, she began to alter their clothes. She sewed dark, irregular patches onto his trousers and her spare wrappers, breaking up their human silhouettes. It was a lesson learned from nature, from the leopards and chameleons of the stories her grandmother used to tell. In this new jungle of concrete and steel, the most dangerous thing you could be was easily identifiable. She was weaving them a cloak of invisibility, one stitch at a time.
Adekunle's own preparations were more internal, and more terrifying. He had to understand the weapon he had become. The training continued in the dead of night, after his aunt was asleep. He pushed beyond simple bending and lifting. He needed to learn control, finesse. He took one of the wheelchair's axles, which was slightly bent. In the old world, his uncle would have used a vice and a hammer to laboriously straighten it. Adekunle held the steel rod in his hands. He closed his eyes and called the power, not as a flood, but as a thin, focused stream. He imagined the metal becoming warm, pliable. He felt a strange heat bloom in his palms, and the steel grew soft, not melting, but yielding. With slow, careful pressure, he straightened the axle perfectly. He had not just applied force; he had commanded the state of the material itself. The discovery was chilling. The possibilities it opened up were as vast and terrifying as the silent city outside.
Their quiet industry was interrupted on the second day by a sound from the street. It was the low rumble of Blade's truck. They froze, their hands stilling, and moved to the grimy front window to watch. The militia truck rumbled past, not on patrol this time, but moving with purpose, heading out of their immediate area. It was a stark reminder of the larger predators that now roamed this world, and of the fragile, temporary nature of their safety.
On the final night, their preparations were complete. The wheelchair stood in the center of the room, loaded and balanced. The water containers were secured, the backpacks strapped down, the red toolbox nestled in a harness beneath the seat. It looked like a strange, desperate chariot, ready for a journey into myth.
They ate their last proper meal—the final tin of beans and the last of the salt crackers. They ate in silence, the unspoken weight of the coming journey pressing down on them. When they were finished, Funke looked at the red toolbox, a sad, fond smile touching her lips.
"Your uncle Ben always said the right tool makes any job easy," she said, her voice soft.
Adekunle looked at the box, the last tangible piece of the man who had been his father in all but name. "He was the right tool," he replied quietly. "For the job he was given."
Funke reached out and squeezed his hand. "Now you are the tool, Kunle. A different tool, for a different job. But he helped forge you. His strength is in you, too. Not just… the other kind."
Her words were a balm on the raw, open wound of his guilt. He was not just the monster. He was also Ben's legacy. He was Funke's protector. He was their hope.
He helped her into the wheelchair. She settled into the seat, her expression a mixture of profound fear and an even more profound resolve. He draped the poncho over her, pulling the hood up to shadow her face. He put his own backpack on, its weight familiar and reassuring. He tucked the sharpened butcher knife into his belt and took the tyre iron in his hand. It felt light, almost like a toy.
He stood behind the wheelchair, his hands on the grips. This was it. The end of their sanctuary. The beginning of the great unknown.
"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice low.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining in the gloom. "I have been ready since the day your uncle looked at a hole in the ground and saw a home. Lead the way, my son."
He took a deep breath, the stale air of the workshop filling his lungs for the last time. He pushed the wheelchair toward the front of the shop. He slid the screeching security gate aside, the noise a final, defiant farewell to their temporary home.
He put his hand on the knob of the front door. He paused, listening. There was only the faint whisper of the wind. He looked at his aunt, a silent question. She gave a single, firm nod.
He opened the door, and the dead city rushed in to meet them. The thin, metallic air, the sickly yellow light, the vast, oppressive silence. He pushed the wheelchair over the threshold, its wheels making a soft crunching sound on the ash-covered pavement.
The door of the tailor's shop swung shut behind them, its soft click the echo of the great steel door that had sealed them in a lifetime ago. But this time, they were not entering a tomb. They were stepping out into their world. Theirs to conquer, or to be consumed by. The long, quiet thirst was over. The great journey had begun.