Abducted.

Remi’s morning began like any other—chaotic but predictable.

She fought through Lagos traffic, cursing under her breath as the sun blazed down. The sweat on her brow mirrored that on her daughter, Shola’s forehead, who dozed fitfully in the back seat, her tiny fists clenched in restless dreams. Her son, Bayo, restless as ever, tapped an erratic rhythm against the car window. The traffic horns blared, hawkers maneuvered between cars, and the scent of roasted plantain and fried Akara hung in the thick, polluted air.

At Queensfield International, the school gates stood open, teeming with life. Students clad in checkered uniforms darted past one another, their laughter blending with the distant sound of a street preacher hollering about repentance. Parents jostled at the entrance, trading sharp words with gatemen. The world buzzed on, mundane yet alive.

But then, the sky tore apart.

A golden fissure slashed across the heavens, expanding outward with unnatural speed. Remi froze as the clouds themselves seemed to unravel, revealing an iridescent void. The hum began—a low vibration that shook her to her core. She blinked, her heart quickening, unsure if her senses were betraying her.

And then—people lifted.

She watched, rooted to the asphalt, as chaos erupted. A teacher near the assembly ground let out a guttural scream as her feet left the dirt. A woman clung to her husband’s agbada, but his body rose faster than her hands could grasp, leaving her screaming at the sky. The ground was littered with dropped bags, shoes, even cell phones.

A child soared upwards, his arms flailing wildly. His sandals hit the ground with soft, almost ironic finality.

Remi’s grip tightened on Bayo’s arm, panic igniting. “No! No, stay with me!” His skin burned under her touch—feverish, pulsing with an unnatural energy. His face flickered between fear and resignation, his body glitching, half-light, half-boy.

“Mummy,” Bayo whimpered. His voice cracked. Then he was gone.

Remi stumbled backward, her breath stolen. “Shola!” Her voice broke as she turned to the car. Shola’s seat was empty. The still-fastened seatbelt dangled mockingly in the space her daughter had occupied only moments ago.

All around her, screams echoed. And then—

THE TRUMPET.

It was deafening, like an enormous horn blowing directly into her soul. Glass shattered in buildings above; the sound carved through her skull, leaving her clutching her ears as blood seeped between her fingers. The earth seemed to tremble under its weight. Birds dropped dead from the sky, their fragile bodies falling like forgotten ash.

Then, silence.

Remi staggered to her feet, swaying. The streets were littered with the stunned and grieving, those left behind, faces etched with loss. Somewhere, a baby wailed in a hollow cry.

She ran. She didn’t think, didn’t breathe. The church doors swung wide open. The devoted were still there—the pastor, the deacons. Their eyes mirrored her own terror.

“It’s happening,” Remi gasped.

The pastor’s voice wavered as he blankly stared at her. “The prophecy…” his words trailed off.

The radio’s static cracked. Then came the robotic voice: “Phase one complete. Parasite detection begins now.”

A gunshot echoed, sparking a new nightmare.