In the deep night of East Africa, a village in the Tanzanian wilderness had been overrun by a brutal smuggling ring. The stars, shimmered above the dense thicket surrounding the village, casting a faint glow over the land. The night was quiet but heavy with tension—a silence broken only by the occasional shuffle of boots through the dirt and the murmur of restrained voices. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the unnatural stillness.
At the center of the village stood a large plantation, now a base of operations for the smugglers. Around the perimeter, roughly twenty men in brown military-style coats, combat trousers, and worn-out berets patrolled with rifles slung over their shoulders. Their footsteps echoed in the night as they moved around patrolling the area, occasionally grunting orders or laughing in low, cruel voices. Each man was armed to the teeth with machetes strapped to their sides, ready for use at a moment's notice.
Inside one of the dilapidated buildings, a group of women and children huddled together, bound by rope and fear. They were kept as hostages, smuggled from their homes in neighboring villages, destined to be sold or trafficked across borders. The room stank of sweat and fear, a low murmur of prayers filling the air as some of the women quietly consoled their children.
A mother, cradling her young daughter in her lap, whispered, "Shh… shh… It'll be alright. Don't cry, my love."
But the child's eyes, wide and tear-streaked, reflected nothing but terror. Her tiny hands clung desperately to her mother's dress, her body trembling as she whimpered. Around them, others prayed quietly—elderly women bowing their heads, their hands clasped tightly in front of them.
"God will deliver us," one of the older women whispered, her voice quivering. "He will send someone to free us from this nightmare."
In the corner, a guard leaned against the wall, his rifle slung lazily across his chest. He glanced over at the praying captives, smirking. "Praying? You think that's gonna help you?" His voice was laced with mockery. "No one's coming. You're nothing but goods now, just like the rest."
The guard chuckled, the sound cruel and harsh, as his comrades outside patrolled the rest of the village. The men who had been captured were not so lucky as to huddle in fear. They were forced to work, shirtless and sweating in the oppressive heat, their bodies glistening under the moonlight as they labored over large tables filled with bags of white powder—heroin and cocaine. Some of them barely had the strength to keep up with the relentless pace set by their captors, their hands shaking as they processed the drugs under the watchful eyes of armed guards.
"Faster!" one of the smugglers barked, slamming his rifle into the back of a man who had slowed down. "If you mess up again, you're dead!"
The man winced, his face contorted in pain, but he kept working, wiping sweat from his brow as his hands trembled. The air was thick with tension, the crack of gunfire or the strike of a machete always one mistake away.
Outside, one of the guards nudged his comrade on the shoulder. "I'm going for a piss," he muttered, slinging his rifle over his back as he trudged toward the edge of the forest. The night had grown darker, the sun long gone, leaving only shadows cast by the tall trees that surrounded the village.
As the guard reached the edge of the forest, he unzipped his pants, muttering under his breath. The distant chirp of insects filled the silence, but as he relieved himself, he heard something—something strange. A low growl, followed by a faint whimper, as though something was being strangled.
The guard froze, his hand instinctively reaching for his rifle. He scanned the dark forest, his heart quickening. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice gruff. "Come out!"
He took a few cautious steps forward, his eyes darting around as he moved deeper into the trees. The night seemed unnaturally still now, as though the very air was waiting for something. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—a yellow and black box attached to a tree to his left. His brow furrowed in confusion.
"What the fuck is that?" he muttered, stepping closer to get a better look.
As he reached out, something wet dripped onto his shoulder. He froze. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached up to touch the liquid. It was thick, warm… and red. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked up, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
A dead lion dropped from above him, its neck twisted in an unnatural way, blood dripping from its mouth. Its lifeless eyes were wide, staring at him with a haunting gaze. The guard's breath caught in his throat as he made eye contact with the dead beast.
Then, he heard it—a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before. A deep, guttural noise, like the growl of something that shouldn't exist. His hands trembled as he slowly raised his rifle, the barrel shaking as he aimed into the darkness above.
"Who's there?" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "Show yourself!"
Suddenly, from the shadows of the trees, something moved—a dark, hulking figure that seemed to blend into the night itself. The guard's eyes widened in horror as he saw it: a creature with no discernible face, only a gaping mouth filled with rows of white razor-sharp teeth. Its long tongue unfurled slowly, dripping with saliva.
The guard panicked, firing his rifle wildly into the trees as he screamed. The creature leaped from tree to tree with inhuman speed, dodging every bullet, the demonic growl echoing through the forest as it circled him. The sound of gunfire shattered the night, startling everyone in the village.
Back at the plantation, mothers held their children tighter, their eyes wide with terror. One woman, shaking, whispered, "What's happening? Are they killing someone again?"
Inside the main building, the leader of the smuggling ring—a tall, black muscular man with a deep scar across his cheek and half of his left ear missing—stepped out of his room. His rifle hung over his shoulder as he surveyed the scene, his dark eyes scanning the village. Behind him, two women huddled on the bed, their bodies trembling as they watched him from the shadows.
"Kito, what's going on?" the leader Nguvu asked in a calm, cold voice as he glanced at one of his men.
Kito, a wiry man with a nervous look, shrugged, glancing toward the source of the gunfire. "I… I don't know, boss. Someone opened fire near the forest."
Nguvu nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Gear up. Make sure none of the goods escape. If anyone tries to run, shoot them."
He looked to another guard, a burly man named Baku, who was already grabbing his rifle. "Baku, take a few men and check it out. See which idiot is wasting ammo."
Baku nodded, a grim smile on his face as he gestured to two others. "Let's go."
As Baku and his men headed toward the forest, the leader turned back to the hostages, his face expressionless.