It took me fourteen hours to reach Lagos. Judging by what I found, I was about three days too late.
The Swarm had landed on the beaches. The same beaches where I’d learned to swim. The same waters where my father taught me to fish. They came out of the waves, nightmares given flesh. Moved through the town in hours. Killed everything that breathed.
There was no defense. No warning. No time. Just monsters pouring up from the shore while people tried to run. Tried to hide. Tried to survive.
They didn’t survive.
I found Maya in our house. What was left of her. She’d barricaded herself in the bedroom and pushed furniture against the door. She found my old service pistol in the closet.
She’d fired it. Four shots. I counted the casings on the floor.
It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough. But she’d tried. My Maya had tried.
The surprise she’d wanted to tell me about was still in the bathroom. A pregnancy test on the counter. Two pink lines.
I don’t remember what I did after that. I’m told I didn’t speak for three days. They found me sitting in the rubble of my house, holding her hand. I had to be sedated before they could evacuate me.
I just remember waking up in a military hospital in Madrid and feeling something inside me go quiet. Go still. Go cold.
I haven’t felt warm since.
The Swarm killed my wife. The Swarm killed my unborn child. The Swarm erased my future while my family died.
I would kill Swarm until there are no more Swarm left to kill.
And nothing else mattered.