Send to Kill

The weeks following the chaos in Akkerstad felt like a waking nightmare. On a routine morning, a police officer sat in his van outside a colleague’s home, waiting for him to leave. The stillness was shattered by gunfire; the officer was struck down before he could react. His colleague emerged from the house, breathless and frantic, only to find his partner lifeless in the driver’s seat, the van stained with the brutality of the moment.

The violence escalated dramatically. Two police vans intercepted a vehicle on the outskirts of town, conducting a search that ended in a hail of bullets. The driver and passenger, both members of the notorious New Guys gang, were executed in cold blood, their lives snuffed out without a second thought.

Amidst the turmoil, the funeral for Officer Antonio took place at the Akkerstad graveyard. His older brother, Marcelino, took no chances. He appointed ten bodyguards to protect his family, ever vigilant in a town steeped in peril. The mourning was palpable, but it was the tea evening that followed where Marcelino’s anxiety truly took root. He watched every guest with a hawk’s eye, his instincts honed by the shadows lurking outside.

That evening, Marcelino returned home to find solace in the familiarity of family. His wife, Bella, and their three daughters—Roberta, sixteen; Margareta, fourteen; and the youngest, Arquilla, who was just ten—gathered around the dining table. They played dominoes, their laughter blending into the night, a brief respite from the chaos outside.

But as the evening wore on, darkness enveloped their home when the power went out. “Could this be loadshedding?” Marcelino asked, concern etching his features.

“Yes, Papa,” Margareta replied, “they said it would start at ten.”

“Shit,” he muttered, anxiety creeping in.

“Luckily, we have the generator,” Bella reassured him.

“Of course,” he said, though the unease lingered.

Just then, a bodyguard emerged from the shadows, concern etched on his brow. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Can you switch the generator on, please?” Marcelino instructed, his mind racing.

As the bodyguard left, Marcelino’s mischievous side surfaced. “Imagine if someone were standing in our aisle, staring at us,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Fuck you, Marcelino!” Bella shot back, but he only laughed, unfazed by his daughters’ groans of disapproval.

In the darkness, Marcelino spun chilling tales of ghosts and monsters, oblivious to the true horror that loomed nearby. Little did they know, the Angel of Death was watching from the end of the dark corridor, a sinister presence hidden in the shadows.

Suddenly, the bodyguard’s voice crackled over the radio. He was struggling with the generator. “How long has Mano worked here again?” Marcelino asked, his tone shifting from humor to urgency.

“Four months or more,” Bella replied, worry etched on her face.

“Let me go check,” Marcelino insisted, but Bella urged him to call another guard.

“Nah, I’ll be quick,” he reassured her, heading down to the basement.

The dimly lit space felt eerie, and as he approached the generator, he froze. A glowing figure stood before him, its presence chilling. The spectral figure wore a green alien mask, and before Marcelino could comprehend the threat, a machete sliced through the air, severing his hand. Pain surged through him as he stumbled, stepping on something slick and warm—a bodyguard’s dismembered eye.

“Oh shit, you stepped on your bodyguard’s eyeball,” the Angel of Death said, amusement dancing in his voice.

Upstairs, Bella and the girls heard the commotion. “No, don’t go!” Bella commanded, gripping her daughters tightly.

“Momma, we have to see what’s wrong with Papa!” Roberta protested.

Silence enveloped them, thick with dread. Bella’s heart raced as she fumbled for her phone, frantically dialing the police while her daughters whispered anxiously.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream erupted from the basement. Arquilla, terrified, pointed toward the darkened hallway. There, looming with a bloody machete rested on his shoulder, was the Angel of Death.

The police arrived moments later, but they were greeted by a scene of carnage. Blood smeared the entrance, marking a path of horror that led to the home. All twenty of Marcelino’s bodyguards lay dead, and in a tragic twist, Bella was found lifeless as well. Roberta and Arquilla survived, but Margareta had vanished, taken by the very embodiment of death.

As the investigation unfolded, whispers filled the air: “It was the Zulus.” The words echoed through the streets, igniting a war between rival factions, each desperate to claim the territory and settle old scores.

Meanwhile, the Angel of Death drove away from the chaos, a chilling figure of vengeance. He stopped five kilometers from the scene, near a railway, and opened the trunk of his car. Marcelino lay half-conscious, fading fast. The Angel of Death pulled him out and laid him beside Roberta.

“It’s simple,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Who are your informers?”

With a machete poised at Roberta’s throat, he demanded names. Marcelino, desperate to save his daughter, complied, offering the information that would seal his fate. As the Angel of Death left them, Marcelino succumbed to his injuries, leaving Roberta and Arquilla alone in a world plunged into darkness.

The aftermath was brutal. The Zulus, the New Guys, and Ruthless were now locked in a deadly war, each faction seeking control and vengeance. Among the chaos, Marcelino’s informers—the undercover officer Thandoxolo Thandaza, security officer Fabian Appels, and station commander Koos Bosman—found themselves in peril.

In the park, Fabian sat on a bench, weary from years of service. Nearby, two men debated the urban legend of the Angel of Death, unaware of the danger lurking close by. As they spoke, the Angel of Death awaited them, donning a new gray mask, ready to strike.

When the men finally noticed him, it was too late. The Angel of Death revved the engine of his truck, barreling toward them, leaving only screams and chaos in his wake.

Fabian, now alert, tried to intervene, but the truck bore down on him with unstoppable force. The crowd shrieked as they witnessed the horrific scene. The Angel of Death, unfazed, measured the angle of his truck’s wheels before executing a gruesome finale.

With every life he claimed, the Angel of Death pushed the city further into chaos, drawing lines of blood between rival factions. The war raged on, spiraling toward a climax that would determine the fate of Akkerstad.

As the evening fell, the Angel of Death reveled in the destruction he had sown, his laughter echoing against the backdrop of a city consumed by fear and violence. Each target marked, each life extinguished, was just another notch in his belt—a twisted game in a world where shadows reigned supreme.