The Crows Of East Park

10:03a.m, East Park Mall.

"Daliso chikala, wake up! D boy chikala! Scan! Scan bro, scan. Bro! Have you seen the tits on that quan? Fuck! Sexy ass shit!" Bwalya shouted, shaking Daliso's shoulders hard, trying to get him to focus on a voluptuous, middle-aged woman walking by. They had just reached the East Park entrance near Dacapo.

"Mmm, exeh, that's a Latina milf man. Shit man. I can chop that quan. Sugar mommy shit exeh," Daliso snapped back, pulling himself out of his codeine haze.

"You've seen, chikala, you like sipping fast, you've seen, ya tripping. Ya lucky exeh, so apa if you missed some heavenly scenes bally" Bwalya kept going.

"Bwalya chikala, relax exeh, is it everyone who smacks titties?"

"Chikala, you can build ass. Ah fuck man! You ass lovers are cliches, I fucking swear bro. Do you know you can't work out to get bigger titties?"

"Ah exeh, okay, it's clapped man. Exeh me, I'm high. You, you just sipped brack without puffing some of the stula. So exeh, let's book it rapid to Shoprite, we nab some chaw man, I'm too scrawl exeh," Daliso said, and they sluggishly made their way to Shoprite.

Inside East Park Mall, the place was full of life. People moved in every direction, the air buzzing with chatter, footsteps, and the soft hum of background music. Some strolled casually, others hurried past, all caught up in their own worlds.

But in the middle of the crowd, a few people stood out—carrying duffle bags. At first, they looked like ordinary travelers. But something about them felt off. Something unsettling.

One of the people was a soldier, dressed in standard jungle army gear. An AK-47 hung over his shoulder. People glanced at him but quickly looked away—his intense presence made it hard to stare for long.

An Asian woman walked by, holding her young son's hand while talking on the phone. They passed the soldier without noticing him. But the little boy, still sucking on a lollipop, stared with wide eyes.

The soldier set down his duffle bag and began to unzip it.

The boy's eyes stayed fixed on him, curiosity growing. The soldier noticed and gave him a smile as he crouched and dipped both hands into the bag. The boy smiled back for a moment—but then his face changed. His eyes widened in fear. The smile vanished. He tugged hard at his mother's clothes, crying out and pointing at the soldier.

"Tombanoko mwaiche(fuck your mother, kid)" the soldier muttered coldly.

Then he raised his hands from the bag.

In his palms were crow heads.

He began tossing the crow heads into the air. They rained down across the mall, bouncing off tiles and people, rolling in every direction.

The crowd froze in horror—then chaos erupted.

Screams tore through the air. People ran, tripped, and pushed past one another trying to get away. Some were too stunned to move, just staring at the grotesque scene unfolding. Others bolted for the exits.

But the soldier didn't stop. He kept throwing the crow heads, as if planting them for something dark and twisted.

Where the heads landed, people froze. They heard a high-pitched shriek inside their own minds. A wave of pure, blind anger washed over them. Their vision turned red at the edges. The madness spread. People in the crowd started turning on each other. One by one, they snapped—lashing out in blind rage, possessed by something unseen. Screams turned into cries of pain. The sound of fists, bones, and bodies clashing filled the air.

Blood sprayed the walls, the floors, and the people. Parents struck their children. Teenagers fought each other with bare hands. Nothing made sense.

A group of unaffected people screamed and fled in all directions. Some shouted that it was the end of the world. Others cried that it was witchcraft—and they were right.

Panic swallowed everything.

Shop owners rushed to lock their doors, but the mob didn't stop. They smashed through glass, dragged the owners into the frenzy, and tore the shops apart. Shelves collapsed. Glass shattered. Blood spread across the tiles.

And in the middle of it all, the soldier kept going.

Inside Shoprite, Bwalya sprinted down the pasta aisle, stumbling over a shopping cart and crashing hard to the floor. His scream cut through the chaos like a blade. Behind him, Daliso followed—knife in hand, eyes lifeless and hollow, his face blank and cold. He moved like a machine, steady and unfeeling.

Without hesitation, Daliso lunged.

He drove the knife into Bwalya again and again until his body stopped moving. Blood pooled beneath him.

Then, with chilling calm, Daliso picked up Bwalya's Coca-Cola and codeine mix, took a slow sip, and stood up—like nothing had happened. His eyes shifted to a small girl frozen in terror just a few steps away.

She screamed.

Daliso started chasing her, knife still in hand.

"Blood of Jesus!" an old Zambian woman cried out, clutching her head as she stared at the TV screen in her son's home. Her voice cracked with fear, a desperate prayer escaping her lips.

All across the country, people froze in shock. Faces glowed in the light of their phone screens. A live broadcast had hijacked their devices—forcing them to watch the nightmare unfolding at East Park Mall.

The footage was raw and brutal: bodies lying lifeless, blood splattered across walls and floors, people screaming and running in every direction. It was like something out of a horror film—except it was real.

The images spread like poison. Fear sank its claws into every home, every office, every heart. Streets filled with whispers. Households went silent. People struggled to breathe through the growing sense of dread.

This wasn't just a mall attack. It was something darker. Something worse. And the whole nation felt exposed—helpless to stop it.

10:10a.m, in president Harambe's office at state house…

The air in the President's office was thick with tension and the faint scent of sweat. Outside, the hallway buzzed with chaos—staff and civilians shouting, their cries for justice and immediate action echoing beyond the heavy oak-wood door.

President Harambe sat slouched behind his large oak desk, looking like a man crushed by the weight of the moment. His necktie lay crumpled on the desk beside scattered papers and a cold, untouched cup of coffee. Sweat rolled down his temples, soaking into the collar of his once-crisp white shirt.

He stared blankly at a muted television screen, where a loop of footage from East Park Mall played over and over. Blood. Smoke. Screams. Survivors running. A massacre unfolding in real time.

His fingers tapped the armrest of his chair in restless rhythm. His lips moved without sound, silently rehearsing the words he would soon have to say—words the world was waiting for. Each time a voice shouted from the hall, his eyes flicked to the door.

"President! Mr. President! We need your orders!"

The voices didn't stop.

In the corner of the room, his security advisor, Muyangana, paced like a trapped lion. Phone pressed to his ear, his voice was sharp and loud.

"What do you mean people are going mad, Commander?" he barked. "People are dying! How am I supposed to explain this to the President? To the public? Do something! Send in Air Force troops. ZNS, too. I don't care how—just get enough soldiers there now! The whole country is watching!"

He slammed a fist into the wall, breathing hard. His uniform was neat, but his tie hung loose and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked less like an official and more like the soldier he used to be—a man used to acting, not waiting.

"Muyangana," Harambe croaked, his voice dry and shaky. He motioned toward a water bottle on the desk. Muyangana ended the call with a sharp, "Fix it, now!" then twisted off the cap and handed the bottle over.

"Thank you," Harambe muttered, drinking deeply. "What's the latest?"

Muyangana straightened. "The troops at Arakan can't move. Every unit that leaves the base loses control and goes completely insane. Sir, they're using witchcraft."

"Witchcraft?" Harambe sat up straighter. "Why? How? Muyangana, I need answers. I need options. Are you telling me there's nothing we can do?"

"If we act too fast, we'll only cause more deaths," Muyangana replied. "Every move we've made has failed. Captain Hamudula planned this well. If we keep throwing soldiers into this, we'll lose control completely. We need to know what he's trying to achieve."

Harambe's jaw clenched as his mind raced. Every move, every delay would be judged by the people and the world. There was no room for mistakes.

"Fine," he said. "Try to hijack the signals. Let the media know we're in control, or at least trying. Be honest—but show strength."

Muyangana gave a sharp salute and reached for his phone.

The President leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting again to the screen. The images still played—bodies, blood, screaming crowds. He took a breath, deep and heavy.

"God help us," he whispered.

But he knew prayer alone wouldn't save them. This was his test. To lead—or to fall.

The situation outside the gates of Arakan Barracks was dire. The military was paralyzed, trapped. A dark force had sealed every entrance—some kind of curse, unseen but powerful. Soldiers who tried to break through didn't get far. The lucky ones came back shaking, pale, haunted by visions of their deepest fears. The others? They never returned.

Inside the barracks, panic took over. Lieutenants rushed through the halls, shouting into radios full of static, trying to reach the Air Force and ZNS for help. But far from there, at the mall, the massacre only got worse.

Word reached the University of Zambia. Students had died in the chaos—and now the rest were fighting back. Fear turned into rage. What started as terror became a full-blown riot. Students joined the battle, yelling with fury as they clashed with the possessed:

"Sumuzati paya, bafikala!" (You won't kill us, dickheads!)

"Kembo iwe!" (You pussys!)

"Ahh! Kufa iwe, satana!" (Die, you devil!)

The violence spilled onto the UNZA campus. Screams echoed across the grounds. Students ran in every direction—some toward Ruins hostels, others toward October. The cries of terrified girls filled the air, slicing through the madness like knives.

Near the Ruins entrance, a girl screamed. A huge man with crazed eyes charged straight at her.

Then, in an instant, he was gone.

"Too slow, chikala," said Eddboy Mwiinga as his fist slammed into the man's face, sending him crashing into a row of parked cars. The girl on the steps stared, frozen, as the man lay still. Onlookers stopped—shocked by the force of the hit.

"You pye, get up! Why you bang? Run!" Eddboy shouted.

"Behind you!" the girl cried.

Eddboy didn't flinch.

A woman came flying at him with a jagged glass bottle—but she didn't get far. A brutal backhand from Mosh Kufanga sent her flying into the same row of cars. She groaned, trying to rise.

"Eddboy, exe, you see what I mean? Bitches these days," Mosh mocked, shaking his head.

The woman staggered to her feet, rage burning in her eyes. She charged again. Mosh met her with a crushing kick to the stomach. She hit a tree hard, collapsed, and coughed up blood.

"Okay, but this is jade, man," Eddboy muttered as the girl he'd saved ran off. "What's cutting, exeh? Like, how? Mosh, exeh… Meech was right."

"The unknown opp finally pulled up," Mosh said, calm despite the madness. "Good thing we've been training. If I hadn't played all that basketball, I'd be finished."

"Facts," Eddboy nodded. "I'm finally using the muscles I built. But exeh… some of these chikalas are strong."

"Kill or be killed, man. We need to dip. We're better off at Vet hostels. Let's go."

They ran—fast, smooth, precise. Every move felt trained, sharp. Their speed and reflexes made them look less like students and more like warriors. It was survival now. A wild, unreal sprint through the madness—running not just to escape, but to live through whatever the hell this was.