Chukwu was convinced.
Totally convinced.
As certain as he was that payday would come.
He poked his head out from behind a stack of diesel barrels.
Six of them.
They made for an unbearably stuffy hiding place.
The barrels sat in the bed of a truck.
The truck rolled along an asphalt road.
The road led to Yantoto Hills.
Every part of that had been confirmed by Lanre's wife.
She'd said something about keeping an eye on him.
And checking in with the company.
Otherwise, that damned archaeologist would've left him behind in Lagos.
Chukwu pulled a bottle of cologne from his pocket and sprayed it around the barrels.
"Better," he muttered.
Diesel fumes could make anyone sick if they breathed them long enough.
He settled back between the rattling drums.
The road was riddled with potholes.
He unlocked his phone and reread the Assistant Manager's message.
Gather all available information before blowing up Yantoto Hills.
Information for what?
From everything he'd heard, Yantoto Hills was the resting place of some forgotten deity.
What difference would information make?
The Assistant Manager was already a madman.
A complete madman with access to power.
Still...
As long as the salary kept increasing, Chukwu wasn't about to complain.
He often wondered how the company managed to raise everyone's pay every single month.
It was absurd.
Stranger still, the work itself was simple.
Hire laborers.
Work them to the bone.
Then pay them far less than they deserved.
Ping.
Ping.
His phone chimed.
A Champions League update.
Gyökeres (1) – (3) Manchester
"Yes!"
Winning a bet always felt good.
He absentmindedly kicked one of the barrels.
It rocked.
Tilted.
Then settled awkwardly atop the others.
A thin stream of diesel began leaking from its side.
"...Cologne isn't fixing that."
A knock came from the rear of the truck.
"Who dey there?"
"No space, bros," Chukwu called back. "Oga Tony tell me make I stay here."
"Oya."
The man climbed back into the driver's seat.
The moment Tony's name came up, everyone relaxed.
As expected.
Tony had brought his entire clan along.
If Chukwu got caught now, Lanre would probably stop the convoy.
Maybe send him back.
Or...
Maybe he wouldn't care at all.
That uncertainty gnawed at him.
His stomach churned.
Chukwu clamped a hand over his mouth and lurched toward an open barrel.
The truck hit another pothole.
It bucked violently.
He lost his balance.
His foot landed in the diesel spilling across the truck bed.
He slipped.
Crashing hard onto the metal floor.
The impact squeezed the contents of his stomach upward.
Vomit burst from his mouth.
He gagged again.
And again.
It took a while before the heaving finally stopped.
Breathing heavily, he spat out the bitter taste lingering in his mouth before dragging himself to the opposite end of the truck.
As far from the mess as possible.
Still...
Chukwu always found a way to see a job through.
God forbid he ever became anything like that archaeologist.
Born into a distinguished family.
A title waiting for him.
Connections everywhere.
Yet he'd rather chase a dying profession than use any of them.
He always wore that same expression.
Like a man barely surviving.
A cursed man.
A dead, cursed man.
Getting married?
Fine.
People were strange.
But having a child...
That child would—
Oh.
...
That idiot.
Chukwu reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden whistle Lanre had given him.
He held it up to the light.
"Why'd he give me this?"
He slipped the cord over his neck.
Then blew.
Nothing.
Just air.
And fractured...
Fractured...
Fractured...
...tured...
...ured...
...
Chukwu collapsed among the barrels.
The truck—and the convoy stretching before and behind it—continued rumbling down the asphalt road.
Behind them, another truck blasted its horn and swerved violently, trying to avoid the widening trail of diesel pouring onto the road.