The pre-dawn light was the colour of a day-old bruise, a thin, watery purple that did little to chase away the shadows. A cold breeze ghosted through the car park, carrying the scent of dust and distant decay. The impossible mango sat on its crate, untouched, a silent observer to their preparations. They worked with the grim efficiency born of habit, loading their water and meagre supplies onto the modified harness of Funke's wheelchair. Every clink of a can, every rustle of a bag, sounded like a gunshot in the profound silence.
Adekunle's mind was a battlefield. One part of him was focused on the task at hand—the path, the bridge, the canal. The other part was constantly scanning the rooftops visible from their perch, searching for a silhouette against the lightening sky. He felt a phantom gaze on his back, a constant, unnerving pressure. Was the watcher out there? Was he observing their departure?
"He is not the threat we face today," Funke said, sensing his distraction. She secured the last strap on the wheelchair and looked up at him. "The demons are. Remember that."
He nodded, forcing his attention back to the present. He slid the heavy tyre iron into a loop on his belt and hefted his own pack. It was time.
Descending to the ground floor felt different now. The gate he had opened stood slightly ajar, a dark invitation into the narrow service alley beyond. He had oiled the hinges with grease from an abandoned engine block, and it swung open with a low, mournful groan that was still far too loud. He pushed Funke's chair through first, then slipped out after her, pulling the heavy gate closed behind them. It didn't lock, but it was a barrier. A semblance of security.
The alley was a canyon of brick and rusted metal, choked with debris and years of accumulated ash. It offered cover, hiding them from the wide, exposed avenues. They moved in silence, the soft whir of the wheelchair's wheels and the crunch of Adekunle's boots the only sounds. He walked ahead, his body tense, his eyes scanning every doorway and upper-story window.
The alley snaked for nearly a kilometer, a claustrophobic, winding path that finally opened up to a small, derelict plaza. At the far end, they could see it: the pedestrian footbridge. It was a simple, elegant arch of pre-Fall steel, rusted now but still intact, spanning the murky, stagnant waters of the canal. Freedom was a hundred meters away.
And then Adekunle saw them.
At the entrance to the bridge, two figures were gnawing on something on the ground. They weren't human. They were hunched, wiry creatures, their skin the colour of charcoal and stretched tight over knotted muscle. Long, canine snouts twitched, sniffing the air, and their limbs moved with a jerky, unnatural speed. They were demonic scavengers, the hyenas of this new world. Kael's foot soldiers. Ash-Hounds.
Adekunle immediately put a hand up, stopping Funke. He crouched behind a mountain of solidified refuse bags, pulling her chair back into the shadows of the alley's mouth.
"Two of them," he whispered, his heart beginning to pound. "Guarding the bridge."
Funke peered around the edge of the barricade. "Can we go back? Find another way?"
"There is no other way," Adekunle said grimly. "Not without going into the open for hours. They'll see us for sure. We have to go through them."
This was different from the desperate struggles before. This was a deliberate act of aggression. A choice. He thought of the padlock, of the power he had used not to break, but to unmake. Could he do that to a living thing? The thought made him feel sick. But the alternative—turning back, or worse, being caught—wasn't an option.
"Stay here," he murmured. "Don't move, no matter what you hear."
He didn't wait for her reply. Taking a deep breath, he drew on the power within him. He didn't let it flood him. He pulled it in with precision, feeling the familiar warmth concentrate in his hands and, this time, in his legs. He wanted speed. Silence.
He broke cover, not running, but flowing. He moved with an unnatural swiftness, his feet barely touching the ground, the ash barely stirring in his wake. He covered fifty meters in the space of a few heartbeats.
The Ash-Hounds heard him at the last second. Their heads snapped up, scraps of whatever they were eating falling from their jaws. Their black, soulless eyes widened, not with aggression, but with shock at his impossible speed. One of them let out a guttural hiss and lunged.
It was too slow.
Adekunle didn't stop. He didn't swing the tyre iron. As the creature leaped, he thrust his right hand forward, palm open. He wasn't thinking of molecules or bonds this time. He was thinking of one thing: Stop.
His palm connected with the Ash-Hound's chest. There was no impact, no sound of a blow. There was only a flash of intense, internal heat from Adekunle's hand and a soft, wet thump. The creature's forward momentum ceased instantly. Its body went rigid, its eyes glazed over. Then, it simply fell apart. Its torso collapsed inward, dissolving into a slurry of black ichor and steaming viscera, hitting the ground not as a body, but as a sack of liquid.
The second hound froze, its animal mind unable to comprehend what it had just witnessed. That hesitation cost it its existence.
Adekunle was already moving. He reached the second demon, grabbing its horned head with both hands. He felt the same power surge, a focused, annihilating heat. The creature's skull crumbled under his grip like dry clay, collapsing into dust and foul-smelling smoke. The body dropped to the ground, headless and limp.
It was over in less than ten seconds.
Adekunle stood between the two dissolving remains, breathing heavily, his hands tingling painfully. He had not just killed them. He had erased them. The sheer, horrifying efficiency of it terrified him more than any fight ever had. He looked down at his hands, no longer sure if they were a part of him or some alien weapons he was merely piloting.
A soft whirring sound broke his trance. Funke was rolling the wheelchair out of the alley, the shotgun laid across her lap, her face a mixture of grim determination and awe. She surveyed the scene, her eyes taking in the steaming piles that were once demons.
"You have announced our presence," she said, her voice steady despite it all.
He knew she was right. Such a display of power would not go unnoticed. It was a flare in the dark, a beacon for any other demonic forces in the area. A direct challenge.
"Let's go," he said, his voice a low growl. "Before anything else answers."
He turned his back on the carnage he had wrought and faced the bridge. It was clear now, an open path across the dead water. But as he took the first step onto the rusted metal, he knew they weren't walking toward freedom. They were walking deeper into the war.