Chapter 6: The Price of Water
December 27, 2016 – Morning
The hope that the Oasis had kindled was a fragile flame, and Hacker's nocturnal visit was a bucket of cold water. We told Papa and Uche what we had seen. Papa's face grew grim, but Uche just sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion.
"I know," he said, running a hand over his face. "We've seen them. The one on the bike, the big one... they move through the industrial park like they own it. They haven't bothered us. Yet."
"Yet," Papa repeated, the word hanging in the air between them.
"But we have water," Uche said, forcing a note of strength into his voice. "And that is a currency more valuable than blood now. It makes us a target for more than just... them. We need to fortify. We need to prepare."
A new routine began, dictated by a new kind of fear. The children, Ngozi and Chidi, were given chores inside the main plant—sorting supplies, helping with the small, carefully-tended cooking fire. The rest of us worked on the defenses. We reinforced the fence with scrap metal from the yard. We built a second, inner barricade of empty shipping containers. Uche, a former mechanic, managed to get two of the plant's forklifts running, turning them into clumsy, but potent, mobile barriers.
I was put on a scavenging team with Ade and two of Uche's men, Tunde and Samuel. Our mission was not for food, but for weapons. The wrenches and crowbars felt pathetic against the memory of Courier's rifle.
The Raid
We moved through a landscape of silent warehouses, our footsteps echoing too loudly. The first two buildings were picked clean. The third, a tool and die shop, held promise. The door was already forced open.
"Looters," Tunde muttered, raising his crowbar.
Inside, it was dark and smelled of oil and dust. And something else. That coppery, familiar scent.
Samuel found them first. Three bodies, huddled in a corner. They weren't gray and desiccated. They were freshly killed. The blood was still wet. Their throats were slit with a precision that was both clinical and brutal. There was no sign of a struggle. It was an execution.
"Not monsters," Ade whispered, his face pale as chalk.
A shadow detached itself from behind a large lathe. Cutthroat leaned against the machine, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife. He wasn't grinning. He looked almost bored.
"This one's taken," he said, his voice a flat, conversational tone. "The pretty one with the screens said so. You're trespassing."
Tunde, brave and foolish, took a step forward. "This is our territory! You can't—"
He never finished the sentence. Cutthroat moved faster than my eyes could follow. There was a blur of motion, a wet thuck, and Tunde was on his knees, gasping, his hands clutching his throat where a dark line was already welling up. He collapsed.
Samuel roared and charged. Cutthroat sidestepped with the grace of a dancer, his knife flashing twice. Samuel fell beside Tunde.
Ade and I stood frozen, our own weapons feeling like toys.
Cutthroat looked at us, his head tilted. His manic grin finally returned. "The kids from the window. You're with the water people." He took a step closer, the smell of blood and mint on his breath. "Tell your boss. The Oasis has new management. We'll be by to collect our dues."
He didn't even look at the two men he'd just killed. He simply walked past us and out the door, whistling a tuneless, cheerful tune.
We didn't move until the sound of his whistling faded. We left the tools. We left the hope of weapons. We ran, stumbling over each other, back to the Oasis, the images of Tunde and Samuel seared into our minds.
We burst through the gate, our story tumbling out in panicked, broken sentences. The community gathered, their faces a canvas of horror and disbelief.
Uche listened, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. "They're just two men," someone in the crowd shouted, voice trembling with false bravado. "We can fight!"
As if on cue, the roar of an engine cut through the air. Courier sat on his motorcycle, idling just outside the main gate. He revved the engine once, a challenge and a statement. He wasn't alone. Brawler stood beside him, hefting a sledgehammer that looked like it could punch through our container barricade. And leaning against the fence post was Hacker, a tablet in his hand, his fingers dancing across the screen.
The main floodlights of the Oasis flickered, died, and then roared back to life. A moment later, they died again, plunging us into an unnerving twilight. Hacker was playing with us.
A small, red dot appeared on Uche's chest. A laser sight, from a rifle we couldn't see. Courier's doing.
The message was clear. They weren't two men. They were an army.
Hacker's voice, amplified by a speaker on his tablet, echoed across the yard. It was smooth, polite, and utterly chilling.
"Good evening. Let's keep this civil. You have something we need. We have something you want. Your continued existence. The terms are simple. You will provide us with eighty percent of your clean water, every other day. You will not interfere with our operations. In return, we will not burn this place to the ground and let the things in the red sky pick your bones."
He paused, letting the silence weigh on us.
"Think of us not as conquerors, but as... your new landlords. Protection has a cost. You have until the next Crimson Hour to decide."
The red dot vanished from Uche's chest. The three figures turned and left, leaving us in a silence more terrifying than any monster's shriek.
We had found safety. We had found community. And now, the Akudama had shown us the price. We could submit and become their cattle, or we could fight and be slaughtered. The Oasis was no longer a refuge. It was a resource. And we were its caretakers, caught between the devil and the crimson sky.