The Boy Who Moved Too Fast

Three Months later

04:00a.m, Meanwood, Chamba Valley

Demetrius's phone alarm rang with an insistence that tore through the pre-dawn silence. Slowly, he reached out, silencing the alarm with a practiced swipe. He lay still for a moment, then whispered his morning prayer, his voice steady and reverent. With his spiritual connection established, he unlocked his phone and launched the Bible app for a ten-minute devotional. The soothing glow of the screen bathed his face as he read, his lips moving silently in sync with the verses.

Closing the app, he shut his eyes, settling into a calming breathing meditation. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm of his breath steadied his mind, clearing away the fog of sleep and any lingering worries. Ten minutes later, refreshed and focused, he began his morning calisthenics routine. 1000 Push-ups. 1000 Body squats. 1000 Sit-ups. Each movement was precise, his muscles straining yet invigorated. By the time he finished, the clock read 04:30a.m.

With the efficiency of habit, Demetrius changed into his workout gear, laced up his shoes, and prepared for his morning jog. The cool air kissed his skin as he stepped outside, locking the door behind him. A quick tap on his phone launched his favorite playlist and activity tracker, and at exactly 05:00a.m., he began jogging.

The streets were quiet, the faint hum of the city just beginning to stir. He followed Zesco Road toward Cheers Supermarket, nodding at fellow joggers as they passed by. Their silent camaraderie was a comforting reminder of shared purpose. Reaching the top of the incline near Cheers, he turned around and began running back down, his legs effortlessly propelled by the slope.

The pedestrians he passed couldn't help but watch, their eyes widening as he zoomed by with superhuman speed. Approaching a T-junction, he veered right, his strides accelerating further. Now moving at nearly 67Km/h, Demetrius occupied the left lane like a car. Behind him, a sleek BMW honked, the driver's expression shifting from irritation to disbelief as Demetrius took two powerful strides and leaped forward.

To the driver, he vanished. To Demetrius, the world around him blurred as his enhanced leap carried him far ahead, his momentum turning the air beneath him into a fleeting platform. He landed with a graceful thud, his speed uninterrupted. He continued off-road, navigating the curving paths of Chamba valley farms until he reached a clearing nestled in the valley's heart.

"Hands down, this might just be the perfect training spot ever," he murmured, the tranquility of the area wrapping around him. He stretched briefly, then launched into his regimen: 1200 Meters of forward jump squats, followed by 1000 sprints up and down a hill slope. Each movement was deliberate, his body a symphony of strength and precision. 2000 Superman push-ups. Shadow boxing—10 rounds of 5 minutes per round. By the time he was done, his muscles ached in the best way.

He jogged home, the rising sun casting long shadows across the roads. Arriving back, he paused for water before rolling a joint, his post-workout indulgence. High but alert, the warm steam of the shower relaxed his body, and afterward, he dressed quickly, preparing a simple but hearty breakfast of Jungle Oats with sliced banana and one raw egg mixed into it. Streaming a favorite show on his phone, he ate, glancing at the time: 06:30a.m.

"Fuck," he muttered, realizing he needed to leave soon for his morning law class at 08:00a.m.

Meanwhile, in another area close by…

The rhythmic chants of martial arts students filled the air near the Zambia Shaolin Temple. Their synchronized movements painted a picture of discipline and focus. However, a few kilometers away from the Temple, in a nondescript military base hidden between Braham Ray Farms and the Chongwe River, the atmosphere was far from serene.

Soldiers stood in rows, their boots lined up on the dry ground. A cool breeze moved through the trees, carrying the faint smell of dust and oil from their rifles. The camp was quiet—so quiet that the sound of the commander's boots crunching over gravel felt heavy, like a drumbeat.

"Stand at ease."

The soldiers shifted. Some exhaled. Some stayed stiff. All eyes were on him.

"Soldiers, for too long, we have stood by, watching our beloved Zambia bleed."

Private Mwila swallowed hard. His brother had died last year, and every word of the commander felt like it was aimed at his heart.

In the first row, Second Lieutenant Boneface Daka clenched his jaw. His dark eyes were sharp, and his hands stayed tight behind his back. He wasn't one to show emotion, but inside, he burned with anger. He'd seen too much corruption, too many orders that made no sense.

"We have seen the theft of our nation's wealth. We have seen the people cry for justice, and no one listened. They tell you this is order. They tell you this is stability. But I tell you, it is a disease. And today, we cut it out."

Boneface's gaze flickered to Second Lieutenant Beef Jiggies, who stood a few steps away. She smirked—not out of disrespect, but because she believed every single word. Beef Jiggies was fearless, the kind of soldier who smiled even when the air grew heavy with tension. That smirk now looked like a promise of war.

Sergeant Tembo, an older soldier with tired eyes, looked down at his hands. For years, he had carried out orders he did not believe in. Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt his back straighten.

"Some will call this treason. Let them," the commander said. "Our loyalty is not to a corrupt regime, but to the people of Zambia. We swore an oath to protect this land, its people, and its future."

The young soldier at the end of the line, no older than twenty, shifted nervously. But when the commander's gaze met his, the fear inside him started to fade.

At the back, Second Lieutenant Bill Tendai nodded slowly. He had been waiting for these words, waiting for someone to say what everyone already knew in their hearts. His fingers brushed over the scar on his knuckles—a scar from a fight that should never have happened, against enemies who were supposed to be his own countrymen.

"The truth is simple," the commander continued. "The current leadership has betrayed that oath. They have turned us into their personal guard, using our strength for their greed. We are not rebels. We are protectors. We are the true guardians of Zambia."

The line of soldiers stood a little taller. The commander's voice was steady but burned with fire.

Private Mwila glanced at Bill Tendai, who met his gaze and gave a firm nod. That small nod filled Mwila's chest with courage.

"I know there is fear," the commander said. "Every soldier feels it before a fight. But there is a worse fear—the fear of doing nothing. The fear of letting our children inherit a broken country. Let that fear drive you forward, not hold you back."

Beef Jiggies' smirk softened for a moment. She thought of her father, who had died working land that corrupt leaders had stolen. She raised her chin, her jaw set tight with anger and pride.

"All the drills, all the long nights, all the sacrifices—you made them for this day. We are ready."

Boneface's hands tightened behind his back. He gave a single, hard nod. Bill Tendai's chest rose and fell, but his eyes were steady, like steel. Beef Jiggies let out a quiet breath, then squared her shoulders, ready.

"This is not about glory," the commander said. "It is about Zambia. It is about our families, our neighbours, the voices that are too weak to speak. Every single one of you matters. If one of us falters, we all falter. But I know this: we are strong. We are one chain, and no link will break."

The commander's voice grew heavier, like the rising sun burning through the morning haze.

"The men we face are weak. They are spoiled by greed. We fight for something real. We fight for Zambia. We fight for freedom. We will take back what was stolen. We will bring a new dawn."

The soldiers stood taller now. The commander stopped walking. His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"This is our moment. This is our duty. This is our destiny. For Zambia! For freedom! Move out!"

The soldiers roared.

"For Zambia!"

Hundreds of soldiers scrambled, grabbing artillery, sealed containers, and boarding Toyota Land Cruiser Model 78's. A convoy of 25 vehicles, each carrying 13 soldiers, was organized chaos. Engines roared to life, the cruisers departing in staggered groups of five, each heading to a different destination.

Leading the convoy was a disguised ambulance. The driver navigated the rough terrain of the base before merging onto Ngwerere Road. The convoy's calculated movements avoided drawing attention, their spacing precise.

In Sikanze police camp, outside the National Command Center, a man in a charcoal gray three-piece suit strolled casually. Phone in hand, he accessed the surveillance feeds of Lusaka, looping critical camera footage to ensure the convoy's undetected passage.

As the disguised ambulance neared East Park Roundabout, it veered onto Great East Road, its sirens blaring as it headed toward the Zambia National Broadcasting Corporation (ZNBC) building. Four cruisers, a couple hundred meters behind followed, their movements synchronized, their purpose ominous.

Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the solemn faces of mourners gathered to bid farewell to Ephraim Mwaiiwangu Kanduza. The priest's voice echoed through the sanctuary.

"Mwaiiwangu was a brother, a son, a friend, a lover and to many, a hero. Let us remember the good in him as we lay him to rest."

Unbeknownst to the congregation, one of the convoy groups had diverted to the church, parking strategically. A soldier stepped out, kneeling to pour three straight lines of white powder on the ground. He chanted softly, the atmosphere growing tense. The rest of the Soldiers stepping out, donned bone bracelets and began running toward Police Headquarters, about 500 meters away.

09:40a.m, at the police headquarters…

The headquarters' exterior was under guard by 4 armed policemen stationed in a green Land Cruiser strategically parked near the front entrance. At the gate, 2 additional policemen, fully geared with masks, diligently manned their station, keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings.

Captain Larry, leading the squad of soldiers who came from the Anglican church, raised a clenched fist, signaling a stop. The Soldiers neared the main entrance but halted at a safe distance to avoid detection. The team obeyed, crouching low in the cover of nearby shrubbery. A moment later, one Soldier retrieved a set of 4 severed chicken heads from his backpack and passed them to captain Larry. The sight of the grisly trophies caused no reaction; the squad was well-accustomed to unorthodox tactics.

"On my signal," captain Larry said in a low, firm voice, "Divide and conquer. No bullets, and keep casualties minimal. Right now, we're ghosts, not butchers." He stood and began his approach toward the parked cruiser, the severed heads dangling ominously from his hand.

The morning at the station was routine. Officers worked on their paperwork, cleaners moved efficiently, and the faint smell of disinfectant lingered in the air. Among the cleaners was Patrick, a recent hire, diligently sweeping the floors while chatting with Madam Mulenga, an experienced colleague.

Once in range, captain Larry hurled the chicken heads. They hit the vehicle with a wet, unsettling thud. The effect was immediate.

Inside the cruiser, the policemen felt a sudden, sharp ringing in their ears. Their vision blurred. A foul taste, like rotten meat, filled their mouths. Their minds fractured. They erupted in confusion and panic, snapping and shouting incoherently.

as they scrambled out of the vehicle, their behavior bizarrely frantic.

The commotion drew the attention of the gate guards. Seizing the moment, captain Larry signaled his men to advance. Larry darted toward the gate with the agility of a panther, so stealthily that the guards noticed him only when he was upon them. Before they could react, his enchanted bone bracelet glowed faintly. He felt a jolt of raw power shoot up his arm. It was a cold, electric feeling. His muscles tightened. He delivered swift punches that incapacitated them instantly. The guards hit the ground, paralyzed, their bodies rendered useless by the mystic energy coursing through their attacker.

"The bracelets work like a charm," captain Larry muttered, glancing at his handiwork. Without missing a beat, he turned to his team. "Prepare the bodies."

Lieutenant Obi, the squad's resident tactician and the one who had provided the severed heads, stepped forward. With practiced efficiency, he unsheathed a knife concealed in his boot and slit the throats of the immobilized guards. Next, he retrieved a bundle of dry leaves and a vial of black powder from his bag. Applying these to the wounds, he doused the bodies with gasoline and struck a match. Flames roared to life. As the corpses burned, a dense, unnatural fog began to rise. It did not smell like normal smoke. It smelled of chemicals and something else... something sweet and rotten. The air grew heavy and cold where the fog touched the skin. It spread quickly, enveloping the area. The Soldiers disappeared into the shroud, advancing toward the building's entrance under the cover of smoke.

"Eh, kayenda bwanji ka week, Patrick?(Hows your week going patrick?)" she asked, leaning casually on her mop.

"Pangono Pangono(Slow and steady)," he said with a small smile. "Better than the gas station in Kafue."

"Mr Bombastic, we don't forget," she teased, shaking her head.

Patrick chuckled, but his laughter faded as a peculiar white fog began creeping into the station. It slithered around desks and pooled on the floor, its otherworldly nature unsettling. The hum of the station's usual activity slowed, replaced by murmurs of confusion.

"Patrick nivi chani ivi?(Patrick, what is this)" Madam Mulenga muttered, her brows knitting together as her grip tightened on the handle of her mop.

Patrick stared at the fog, confused but steady, until a soft, wet thud drew his gaze downward. Lying near his broom was a severed chicken head, its lifeless eyes fixed upward in an unrelenting stare. At first, Patrick's expression remained neutral, but an inexplicable pressure began to build in his chest. His thoughts fractured, his grip on reality slipping. A cold wave washed over him, and a sudden rush of madness overtook him, as though something had invaded his very mind. "What… the fuck?" he whispered, his voice quivering with a strange, unnatural tremor. He dropped the broom as if it burned him. His body moved on its own, driven not by fear but by an uncontrollable, primal force. Without warning, he bolted, his mind spiraling into chaos as he dashed past desks and startled officers.

Bursting through the station's entrance into the open air, he barely registered his surroundings. Behind him, the fog thickened, and 4 shadowy figures materialized within it, armed and moving with deadly intent.

Inside, the officers who remained unaffected by the chicken heads attempted to rally, but the Soldiers struck with precision. Each blow was calculated, enhanced by the bone bracelets to ensure swift and effective incapacitation. Bodies fell like domino's, paralyzed and powerless to resist. The Soldiers left no room for retaliation, systematically clearing the area.

Meanwhile, outside, the bodies of the gate guards had been reduced to smoldering husks, and the fog began to dissipate. As it cleared, the aftermath came into view: the beaten and paralyzed officers, toppled furniture, cracked walls, and scattered debris painted a vivid picture of the chaos that had unfolded. Bloodstains marked the ground, and faint footprints tracked the Soldiers' movements deeper into the building.