Chapter 549

Djibril adjusted the strap of his worn bag, the contents – a few mangoes and a chipped machete – offered little comfort. The sun beat down on Bubaque, the largest island of the Bijagós Archipelago of Guinea-Bissau, baking the red earth. He'd walked this path to the river countless times, yet today, an odd stillness gripped the air. Even the birds were silent.

He pushed aside a curtain of broad leaves, and the Rio Grande came into view. It was wider here, slower, the color of mud and secrets. Usually, children splashed near the banks, and women washed clothes, their chatter echoing across the water. Today, nothing. The river's surface remained unbroken, like a sheet of dark glass.

A shiver crawled up his spine. Not from cold—the humid air clung to him like a second skin. No, this chill was internal. An instinct, honed from a life lived close to nature, warned of danger. He scanned the shoreline. Nothing seemed different, yet everything felt wrong.

"Anyone?" he called out, his voice swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

His hand, damp, moved to the machete. It wasn't a weapon for major threats, better suited for overgrown foliage, not whatever dread coiled in his gut. He took a hesitant step closer to the riverbank. He wanted to turn and get away. The feeling got stronger by the second.

The disturbance wasn't violent, not a splash or a ripple. It was more like a… displacement. The water level on the opposite bank seemed to lower, marginally, then rise again. As if something immensely large had subtly shifted beneath the surface.

Djibril froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He strained his eyes, peering through the hazy light. Something dark moved near the opposite shore, obscured by the dense vegetation. Something large, and getting larger. Much, much larger.

He initially mistook it for a tangle of fallen branches, a trick of the light. But branches didn't breathe. Branches didn't have scales the size of dinner plates, catching the light. He then saw the eyes. Massive and ancient. He realized it must be a reptile, the size alone was incredible.

Slowly, impossibly, the creature began to emerge. Not like an alligator he'd seen in nature documentaries, agile and quick. This was… deliberate. Ominous. An alligator, yes, but of a scale that defied logic. A monstrous distortion of nature.

It was as long as a school bus, its body impossibly thick, muscular, a walking mountain of scales and teeth. Each footfall, barely perceptible, sent tremors through the muddy ground. It stepped out and its colossal figure rose ever taller as the feet left the water.

Djibril found himself unable to scream, unable to breathe, unable to even blink. Fear, primal and consuming, had locked him in place. This wasn't just an animal; it was a nightmare made real. A relic from a time when monsters roamed the Earth.

The alligator (if something so enormous could even be called that) turned its head. Its eyes, black pits of bottomless hunger, fixed on Djibril. He saw no intelligence there, no malice, just a raw, consuming need.

"Mother of God," he whispered, the prayer a broken gasp. He wanted to move but felt as though weights held him down. He felt sick, helpless.

His feet refused to work. His mind, racing with a thousand impossible thoughts, couldn't overcome the paralysis of terror. He watched, hypnotized, as the behemoth began to move towards him. The mud was tough for its size, yet it made significant progress.

It didn't hurry. It didn't need to. It was the apex predator, magnified to an apocalyptic scale. There was nowhere Djibril could run, nothing he could do, that would alter the inevitable. He simply wasn't fast enough, he had not been able to run in time.

The ground trembled with each colossal step. Djibril could smell it now – a rank, reptilian odor, like mud and decay and death. His own screams became distant in his head.

He finally, desperately, yanked his machete free. It felt like a child's toy in his shaking hand. A pathetic defense against a creature that could crush him with a single snap of its jaws. It was over, it happened so fast.

The alligator loomed over him, a living wall of muscle and teeth. Its shadow engulfed him, a prelude to the darkness that was about to follow. He considered his family and his village, praying they never met the beast.

With a surge of useless defiance, Djibril raised the machete. He would meet his end with a weapon in hand, even if it was a futile gesture. He wanted his family to find something of him. Anything.

"Come then, beast!" he yelled, his voice a desperate croak against the impending doom. It seemed as though it understood. He looked it directly into those abyss-like eyes.

The attack, when it came, was too quick to comprehend. There was no pain, only a blinding pressure, a deafening roar, and then… nothing. The silence became the sounds of the alligator beginning to feed.

Back in the village, Djibril's younger sister, Fatima, was starting dinner and suddenly paused, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She looked toward the river, a frown creasing her brow. The eerie silence held now.

She had a premonition, a dark certainty that mirrored the stillness of the river. A chilling knowing that something terrible had come to pass, and that her brother, Djibril, wouldn't be coming home. Ever.

Fatima would later gather a search party, and they would head toward the riverbank. It seemed the smart thing to do, they would help in a party of five. The best decision under these circumstances.

They, of course, had heard of stories before, but none in living memory were ever this dire. A couple of village folk had gone missing this month. Fatima held out hope it wasn't what she imagined.

Arriving on scene, her blood froze. The evidence, graphic and brutal, left no room for doubt. Mangled bits, the scent of death, and tracks that belonged to a creature far beyond any known measure, the size of truck wheels.

Crushed flora. The remnants of a futile defense – a shattered machete, stained with blood and scraps of something foul. She looked on in horror, then sadness, then shock. She wept, they all did.

His bag, torn and empty, its contents scattered across the ravaged ground, lying nearby were its remnants. Fatima collapsed beside it, clutching the torn fabric, her body wracked with sobs. This loss seemed surreal.

The villagers, stunned into silence, stood helpless. The evidence was not the worst of their worries. The absence, was the sign of what now lived among them. It remained a looming threat.

They had encountered such sights before, albeit with livestock, or local smaller reptiles. Nothing could have prepared them, and nobody could stop it. It was free to move.

Fatima knew. Every member of the village knew. This was no ordinary predator. This was a force of nature, an ancient evil, that they did not wish to provoke. Or ever, even encounter.

This would mean, that they'd have to leave, their homes. The island. Leave it all, and never return. They knew, or some did, that nothing would be as it was. Ever.

That evening, under a sky filled with stars, oblivious to the terror below, the village gathered. Their voices, normally filled with laughter and song, were muted, heavy with fear. Death of the nearby animals and family grew.

Old Mamadu, the village elder, his face a mask of worry, spoke. "We can no longer stay here. This… thing… it is a curse. A judgment. We must appease or run, and leave everything we own."

A murmur of agreement went through the crowd. No one argued. The evidence by the river was too vivid, the danger too real. Fear overruled every decision to be made. They began their journey,

They had a long journey to safety. They decided Bissau, the mainland, offered that protection. They still would live a life in fear, of something they saw with their eyes. It cannot be unseen.

Preparations began, fueled by desperation. They packed what they could, but most of their belongings were abandoned. The weight of their losses, both material and personal, hung as heavy.

As the sun set, casting long, menacing shadows, they started the trek. Walking to the other end of their island, crossing the beach for a chance at surviving. A better future, perhaps.

The canoes, their primary means of fishing and transport, were small and barely sufficient for the villagers. But they were all they had, so, with little talking, the plans set.

They pushed out into the water, under the waning light of a gibbous moon, the surface reflecting their troubled faces. Fear. That the alligator could move to sea.

The journey was arduous. They had little food, and little room, each family grouped up for solace. The air of uncertainty lingered in their hearts, on their minds.

Fatima clutched a small wooden carving of an alligator, a keepsake Djibril had made for her. It was all she had left of him, a symbol of the brother she had loved and the terror that had consumed him. A relic.

As they paddled away from their old lives, she looked back. Back to the shores where Djibril was taken. Her home, but also the territory of a creature out of legend. The village would leave with all haste.

The Rio Grande, its waters stained dark under the fading light, held its secret close. A secret that had claimed Djibril and condemned a village. No soul will walk here again, now or ever.

And somewhere, in the depths of the river, the monstrous alligator, having fed, slept. A colossus, unconcerned with the human drama it had caused, and ready to continue on the island of Bubaque. Undisturbed.

Fatima, however, was consumed by guilt and dread. Every sound on the sea, every shadow made her worry. It made all the village worried. Fear lived with them for their lifetimes.

She couldn't shake off that she could have warned him, spent time with him. That somehow, it'd save him from this, the cruel end he faced alone, afraid, and not enough for survival.

Her nightmares were filled with huge teeth and unblinking, ancient eyes. Images of her brother being torn apart would repeat for eternity, making her sad and causing trauma.

The village eventually settled into a mainland settlement and had received help and aid. Nobody asked questions, they welcomed everyone. Kindness and acceptance would save.

But life there was tough, unforgiving. Nothing compared to home. Resources were tight, but they did not worry, survival for today was most important, and tomorrow did not exist yet.

She got a low-pay job in construction. Many found work fishing again, but she had refused. The sea had killed him, she'd never set foot on one again. She vowed, on her brother's name.

Months soon turned to a few years, and life had remained very poor. But they did have a roof above their head. The children began to ask many questions. It wasn't easy to explain.

Eventually, the village began a new phase, to rebuild. A new identity. It seemed that things were beginning to turn positive. Fatima got some help. And started talking to a doctor.

Life changed slowly, so slowly, for everyone, as time seemed to heal the community. Not her, it hadn't started, but progress had begun. With medication and support, it was becoming hopeful.

She moved on and decided, like others, to remember their legacy and history. By remembering they felt at ease. They shared stories, like all families should do. Culture mattered.

A big funeral, that was years late, was planned, for those they had lost, including Djibril. Each person remembered their own, and a big monument was made on land. For the island.

Fatima, now, has to read the name, carved onto the monument. His, among many others, gone too soon. Lost to the legend. She stared, she had her peace, closure. So she had thought.

The next few days would start their preparations for a normal future. Houses built for everyone, with jobs too, Fatima had found love again, a man named Omar, and she was happy.

They were engaged. It was to take place tomorrow. Everyone was involved, and very, very excited. The first one since that time. Fatima's life was to change for the best. Good.

Fatima, and the whole village were gathered by the coast, a celebration before the marriage tomorrow. Speeches had finished and everybody started to let loose. They could finally be free.

She stepped to the waters and began to think of her brother and old times, and shed a final tear. A beautiful thought. Life was better than great. Time was to give her tomorrow.

From out there, dark depths of the sea. Emerged a monstrosity of nature. A beast that defied both imagination and logic, slowly at first. All had seen. They knew the shape well.

A colossal alligator. The bus-sized monster, a memory seared into their collective consciousness, the beast of Bubaque, here. Nobody knew. Nobody would be spared now.

There it was, right ahead, walking. Walking. Heading directly toward Fatima and the people of her home. Revenge, hunger, it did not matter. It moved with intent. The future canceled.