Chapter 631

The African sun beat down on young Thabo's neck as he walked the dusty path toward his village. The dry air carried the scent of dry earth and distant smoke, usual smells for this time of year. But today, something felt different.

A stillness, heavier than usual, pressed against the landscape. Even the cicadas seemed to have quieted, leaving an unnerving silence.

He was returning from his grandmother's hut, a little ways outside the village, carrying a basket filled with freshly baked bread. Normally, the walk was filled with the sounds of life—goats bleating, children laughing, women singing as they worked. Today, however, an unsettling quiet blanketed everything.

Thabo quickened his pace. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine, a sensation he could not quite place, yet it was persistent, like a fly he could not swat away.

He glanced around, searching for the source of his discomfort. The acacia trees stood motionless, their shadows long and still in the afternoon sun.

As he entered the outskirts of the village, the silence became absolute. No sounds of daily living greeted him. The usual village noises—the pounding of pestles, the chatter of voices—were absent. He stopped, the basket heavy in his hand, his heart beginning to beat faster against his ribs.

"Hello?" he called out, his youthful voice sounding thin and reedy in the heavy air. No response. Only the whisper of the dry wind through the grass answered him.

He walked further into the village, passing empty huts with doors ajar, cooking fires untended, pots left abandoned in the yards. It was as if everyone had simply vanished, leaving behind the remnants of their daily activities.

A sense of dread began to solidify in his stomach. This was wrong. Terribly wrong. His village, usually vibrant and full of life, felt like a ghost town. He called out again, louder this time, fear lending urgency to his shout.

"Is anyone here?" Still, nothing.

He walked toward his own hut, his bare feet kicking up dust on the path. The door was open, swaying slightly in the breeze. He pushed it wider and stepped inside.

The hut was empty, but not disordered. His mother's weaving was still on her loom, half-finished. His father's tools lay neatly arranged in their corner. Everything was in place, yet the people were gone.

Panic started to bubble up inside him. Where could everyone be? Had something happened? A sudden sickness? A raid from another tribe? But there were no signs of struggle, no overturned furniture, no weapons discarded. Just emptiness.

He went outside again, turning in a slow circle, trying to make sense of the deserted village. His eyes landed on something near the base of a large baobab tree in the center of the village square. Something glinting in the sun.

He walked towards it, his steps hesitant now, each footfall sounding loud in the oppressive silence. As he got closer, he saw what it was: a discarded clay pot, cracked and broken. And around it, scattered on the dry earth, were hundreds, no, thousands of beetles.

They were unlike any beetles he had ever seen before. Larger, for one thing, almost the size of his thumb. Their shells were a dull, metallic black, and their legs moved with a strange, jerky quickness. They swarmed over the broken pot, and something else... something wet and dark stained the ground around them.

He took a step closer, drawn by a terrible curiosity. He bent down, peering at the beetles. They were clustered so thickly that the ground beneath them was almost invisible. And then he noticed what they were doing.

They were feeding. But not on the broken pot. They were feeding on something reddish-brown, something that looked horribly like dried blood. The stain on the earth was not water, not spilled food. It was blood.

A wave of nausea hit him. He recoiled, stumbling backward, his heart pounding in his chest. Blood. And so many beetles. What had happened here?

He scrambled to his feet and ran back to his hut, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against it, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with terror. Beetles. Feeding on blood. It didn't make sense.

He tried to think, to find some explanation for the deserted village, the blood, the beetles. But his mind was racing, filled with a primal fear he had never experienced before.

He had heard stories, whispers around the fire, of strange creatures in the deep bush, creatures that drank blood, creatures that brought misfortune. Could these beetles be those creatures?

He peeked through a crack in the wooden door. The beetles were still there, swarming around the baobab tree. More were emerging from the grass, from under rocks, seeming to come from everywhere. The ground appeared to be alive with them.

He had to get out of here. He could not stay in the village, not with those things. But where could he go? His grandmother's hut? But it was in the same direction as the beetles. Deeper into the bush? He was only fourteen. He had never been alone in the bush at night.

Yet, staying here meant… what? What did these beetles do? He had seen them feeding on blood. Did they bite people? Suck their blood? The thought sent a shiver of ice through him.

He had to find out what happened. Maybe someone was still alive. Maybe someone was hiding. He couldn't just run without knowing. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. He had to be brave. For his family, for his village.

He opened the door cautiously, just a crack, and looked out. The beetles seemed to be everywhere now, covering the ground, crawling on the walls of the huts, even climbing up the baobab tree. It was a living carpet of black, metallic bodies.

He decided to try his grandmother's hut first. It was closer, and maybe, just maybe, she was safe there. He grabbed a thick stick from beside the door, for protection, and stepped out of the hut.

The ground crunched under his feet, not from dry leaves, but from beetle shells. They were everywhere, even dead ones, their black bodies scattered across the path. The air was thick with a strange, acrid smell, something metallic and slightly sweet.

He moved slowly, carefully, trying to avoid stepping on the living beetles. They seemed to ignore him, preoccupied with… something. He still could not understand what had happened here.

As he walked, he noticed more of the dark stains on the ground, not just near the baobab tree, but everywhere in the village. Patches of dried blood near doorways, by the well, even inside some of the huts he peeked into. It was as if blood had been spilled all over the village.

He reached his grandmother's hut, his heart pounding with anticipation and fear. The door was slightly open, just like his own hut. He called out softly.

"Gogo? Grandmother, are you here?"

Silence. He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. The hut was dim, lit only by a few rays of sunlight filtering through the thatched roof. And then he saw her.

His grandmother was lying on her sleeping mat, still and silent. At first, he thought she was asleep. But then he saw the paleness of her skin, the unnatural stillness of her body. And the beetles.

They were all over her. Clustered around her face, her neck, her arms, her legs. A living blanket of black insects, feeding. He gasped, a choked sound of horror escaping his lips.

He rushed to her side, waving his stick frantically, trying to knock the beetles away. They scattered momentarily, disturbed by his sudden action, but then quickly regrouped, crawling back onto her body.

He looked at his grandmother's face. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the roof. Her skin was ashen, drawn tight against her bones. Her lips were cracked and dry, almost white. She was… empty.

He touched her hand. It was cold. Cold and light, like dry leaves. He lifted her arm. It was weightless, frail. He looked at her again, really looked, and a new wave of horror washed over him.

She was drained. Not just of blood. Of everything. Her body seemed shrunken, hollowed out. The beetles had not just drunk her blood. They had taken everything. All the moisture, all the life, leaving behind only a dry husk.

He understood now. The deserted village. The blood stains. The beetles. They were not just blood-suckers. They were… dessicators. They drained everything, leaving their victims empty, dry, lifeless.

And everyone in the village… they had all suffered the same fate as his grandmother. They were all gone, drained dry by these monstrous beetles. He was alone.

He stumbled back from his grandmother's body, his mind reeling, his stomach churning. He had to get away. Now. He could not stay here, not for another second. The beetles… they would come for him next.

He turned and ran, bursting out of the hut, back into the open village square. The beetles were still swarming, a black tide covering everything. He ran past them, heedless of where he was going, just wanting to escape, to get away from the horror of the village.

He ran into the bush, pushing through thorny bushes and tall grass, branches whipping at his face, thorns tearing at his skin. He didn't care. He just had to run. He ran until his lungs burned, his legs ached, his heart hammered in his chest like a drum.

Finally, he collapsed, gasping for air, leaning against the trunk of a large tree. He was deep in the bush now, far from the village. Or so he hoped. He looked back, straining his eyes, but he could not see the village through the trees.

He was safe. For now. But for how long? Would the beetles follow him? Could they smell him? He had no idea what they were capable of. He only knew that they were deadly, terrifying.

He sat there for a long time, catching his breath, trying to calm his racing heart. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The bush was growing darker, the sounds of the night starting to emerge.

He was alone, truly alone, for the first time in his life. His family, his village, all gone. Drained dry by the Wugway Bettles, as he now knew to call them – the beetles of emptiness, the beetles of the dry places, whispered about in hushed tones, legends dismissed as old wives' tales. They were real, terrifyingly real.

He had to find water. He was thirsty, his throat parched from running and fear. And he needed food. He had the bread in his basket, still clutched in his hand, forgotten in the horror of the day.

He ate some bread, chewing slowly, trying to swallow past the lump of fear in his throat. The bread was dry, tasteless. Like everything else now, it felt empty.

As darkness fell, the bush came alive with sounds – rustling leaves, chirping insects, distant animal calls. But beneath these usual night sounds, he thought he could hear something else. A faint scratching, a soft rustling, like… beetles crawling.

He jumped up, his heart leaping into his throat. He listened intently, straining his ears. Yes, there it was again. The sound of crawling, many small legs moving through dry leaves. They were coming.

He ran again, deeper into the bush, stumbling through the darkness, guided only by the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. He ran until he could run no more, until his body screamed for rest, for water, for safety.

He found a small cave, hidden behind a thick curtain of vines. He crawled inside, collapsing onto the cool earth, exhausted, terrified, utterly alone. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sounds of the night, the fear in his mind.

But the sounds of the beetles followed him. The faint scratching, the soft rustling, coming closer, always closer. They were relentless. They would not stop. They would hunt him down, just like they had hunted down his village.

He lay there in the darkness, listening to the beetles, waiting for them to find him. He knew it was only a matter of time. He was just one small boy, alone in the vast African bush, hunted by creatures of emptiness.

He thought of his mother, his father, his grandmother. He remembered their faces, their voices, their laughter. He remembered the warmth of his village, the smells of cooking fires, the sounds of life. All gone now, all replaced by silence, emptiness, beetles.

He began to cry, silent tears streaming down his face in the darkness. Tears of fear, of grief, of utter despair. He was lost, utterly lost. There was no hope. No escape. Only the beetles, coming closer in the night.

The scratching sounds grew louder, closer. He could hear them now, just outside the cave entrance. He closed his eyes tighter, bracing himself for the end.

He waited, listening to the sounds of his impending doom, the Wugway Bettles, crawling, always crawling, bringing emptiness, bringing death, bringing the dry silence of nothingness.

The scratching stopped. He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. Silence. Had they gone? No. He could feel them now. He could feel their presence, just outside the cave. Waiting.

And then, he felt it. A tickle on his skin. A tiny prickle, like a needle. On his arm. He opened his eyes, peering down in the darkness. And he saw it.

A Wugway Beetle, crawling on his arm. Then another, and another. They were inside the cave. They had found him. They were coming for him.

He didn't scream. He didn't struggle. He just lay there, watching as the beetles crawled over him, hundreds, thousands of them, a living blanket of black, metallic bodies. He felt their tiny legs on his skin, their sharp mouthparts probing, searching.

And then, the draining began. A strange, cold sensation, seeping into his skin, drawing something out of him. Not just blood, but something more. Something vital. Something essential.

He felt himself growing weaker, lighter, emptier. His skin began to dry, his lips to crack. His eyes stared blankly at the cave ceiling, just like his grandmother's. He felt his life ebbing away, drawn out of him by the beetles, leaving him hollow, dry, empty.

The last thing he saw, before darkness consumed him completely, was the metallic black shell of a Wugway Beetle, crawling over his eye, blocking out the faint light of the moon. And then, there was only silence. The dry, empty silence of the beetles. The silence of death. The silence of nothingness.