One Month forward, present day, early morning before the coup attempt...
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 place 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.
"Move it! Hasten up chaps!" bellowed an officer. 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.
The present, right after the coup attempt broadcast...
09:50a.m. State House, Lusaka
The president's office buzzed with tension. Calls from frantic state officials flooded the lines, their voices a cacophony of demands and threats. President Harambe paced, his brow furrowed as he faced Honorable Suzyo Muyangana, his National Security Advisor.
"This is madness! Pure madness! What has this country come to?" Harambe barked.
Muyangana's lips curved into a wry smile. "It's terrorism disguised as a coup, your Excellency. Benzu Hamudula's bold, I'll give him that."
"Bold? My position is on the line! What's this man planning? 10 minutes to do what?"
"What's your move?"
Harambe's voice hardened. "Deploy the air force, the army, and the national service. I'm not resigning. This is treason, and I'll treat it as such. Let's see what Benzu does in these 10 minutes."
15 Minutes Earlier, at an Anglican Church...
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 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.
"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 station descended into chaos, the air charged with tension and shouts. But Patrick was long gone, sprinting into the morning.