The Hand of God
Omolemo hated Tuesdays.
Not only were they on the wrong side of the weekend (not that she really got a weekend), but the buses never seemed to run properly on Tuesdays. Or, at least, never on schedule. That inevitably meant that instead of relaxing on her way home, letting the breeze from an open window wash away the stress of the week’s start, she was here, on the side of the highway, walking the six kilometers from the shared working space back to her small home.
It wasn’t the walking in general that bothered her, or even the distance. She had walked most places since she was a little girl. It was this walk. The highway route was loud, dusty, and the air left anyone outside a vehicle coated in a marinade of exhaust, sweat, and refuse that made them wish they had been born without a nose.
Mercifully, a mild breeze was trying its best to push away most of the stench. For now, at least.
And if all she got was a moment’s reprieve… she’d take it.
She wasn’t alone on her journey along the highway path. Thankfully, all the travelers at this time of day were heading in the same direction: away from the city. The path sat about three meters from the highway’s edge and was wide enough for two people to walk side by side, or pass each other without stepping off completely. While It wasn’t paved, the hard-packed dirt stayed solid even into the rainy season.
The space between the road and the path was just enough for a car to pull over without blocking traffic. While generally convenient, this also meant that if a strange vehicle decided to stop, there was nowhere to disappear to.
Ahead of her, two men that were probably her father’s age, walked side by side, deep in conversation about politics. She caught snippets of their discussion over the road noise (maybe something about the new mayor) but nothing coherent. She could overtake them if she wanted, but she held back on purpose.
Her shoes weren’t ideal for speed. Besides, the men’s pace was steady enough that she wouldn’t lose much time in the long run, and their presence provided an unspoken layer of security. Older company nearby would help dissuade anyone who thought a young woman walking alone might be worth noticing.
Glancing back, she checked the path behind her. The next closest person was still at least half a kilometer away. A woman, from what Omolemo could tell, though she was too far to gauge her age.
Suddenly, the bright evening sunlight dimmed.
A great shadow swept over the land, as if a vast storm cloud had drifted in front of the sun. But even before she instinctively turned her head westward, Omolemo knew what she would see. The sun hadn’t disappeared behind a cloud.
It had passed behind The Hand.
The colossal shape loomed in the sky, impossibly still. It had a technical name—long, sterile, and difficult to remember—but everyone just called it The Hand. The name fit. While not a true facsimile of a human hand, it had five massive extremities that stretched outward from a central body, each curved slightly downward, as if it were meant to be cradling an invisible sphere.
Black as a moonless night, The Hand seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, swallowing light rather than casting reflection. As a child, when its study had dominated every conversation, Omolemo could remember being told by her mother that its surface was smooth, matte, and made from something that didn’t exist on the periodic table of elements. Scientists had tried to break through it with every destructive force they could muster. Not a single scratch.
There had been talk, once, of even detonating a nuclear blast against its skin. Thankfully, saner minds had prevailed before that idea became a reality.
When they measured it, scientists determined that The Hand covered roughly 800 square kilometers—larger than New York City.
For most of her childhood, The Hand had been the subject of conversation, drawing people from every corner of the world. Some called it “the hand of an old god.” Others believed it was a spaceship, proof of travelers from the stars. Many claimed it had answered humanity’s oldest question: Are we alone?
And yet, because it had done nothing but remain—silent, motionless, indifferent—there were still those who argued that it proved nothing at all.
Omolemo’s family had once lived beneath its shadow. Their village had been one of the ones inside the exclusion zone, and they had been among the first to be relocated when the government declared the land uninhabitable. At first, there had actually been excitement. They were told that with so many tourists coming to see The Hand, they would be compensated for their displacement, paid to share their stories with the world.
The tourists came.
The payments never did.
Not that it would have mattered. Without sunlight, nothing under The Hand survived. Crops withered. Animals vanished. By the time the government erected the exclusion zone’s wall, it was almost unnecessary. No one wanted to live in a place where the sun never touched the earth.
A car honked sharply as it swerved around another vehicle that had slowed beneath The Hand’s shadow.
That actually surprised Omolemo. It was rare to find anyone distracted by the sight anymore. For years, The Hand had captivated the world. Now, twenty-eight years later, people barely noticed it. It had drifted to a stop over the plains and simply… stayed.
She turned her eyes back to the path ahead. A fork was coming up—one trail leading west.
The Indlela KaNkulunkulu. The Path of God.
The long road stretched miles from the city, winding through the exclusion zone until it reached the very heart of The Hand’s shadow. There were still those who traveled it. Pilgrims, the locals called them. Men and women who left everything behind to walk beneath The Hand, seeking answers, or maybe absolution.
But those who lived and worked in the city? They didn’t go out there. They knew there was nothing in the shadow but emptiness.
Even the animals had fled once the plants withered and died. Without the sun, nothing survived. And where nothing lived, no one sane had reason to follow.
Omolemo refocused, pushing forward up the incline. Had it been darker, she might have seen the lights of her village in the distance from the top of the hill. Instead, cresting the rise just as the sun emerged from behind The Hand’s highest “finger,” her stomach dropped.
A sea of brake lights clogged the highway below. Flashing strobes cut through the fading daylight.
“Can this day get any worse?” she muttered under her breath.
A checkpoint.
A checkpoint meant police. And police meant questions, papers, and the likelihood of being searched under the pretense of looking for contraband that didn’t exist. She didn’t have the patience—or the stomach—for their leering hands and empty threats.
She glanced back toward the fork in the path. Then, sparing one last look at The Hand on the horizon, she turned.
And started walking toward the path less traveled.
At least the smell isn’t as bad this way, Omolemo thought as she picked her way along the narrowing path. What had started as a rough track was rapidly degrading into something closer to a game trail.
The true Indlela KaNkulunkulu was still miles away, but this particular feeder path looked long abandoned. Still, landpaths never fully disappeared once they had been cut by a thousand footsteps.
She knew this detour would add forty-five minutes to an hour to her journey, but the roadblock likely would have cost her the same. At least this way, she wasn’t weighing the risk of making it home against the possibility of spending the night in a barred room with twenty strangers, staying awake just to make sure nothing happened to her.
The trail sloped down from the road, leading into the open plains. After five minutes of walking, the traffic noise faded into a distant hum, indistinct and forgettable. The breeze still carried a coolness with it, stirring the tall grasses that flanked the trail ahead.
Then—movement.
She froze. Her head snapped to the right, eyes tracking the sudden blur.
A fox.
A small, brown Cape fox stood motionless halfway up the hillside, staring back at her. Its sharp ears twitched, its body tensed. Then it turned its head—
And Omolemo’s breath caught in her throat.
Its left ear was torn.
It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Foxes didn’t live that long.
Before she could process the thought, it was gone, vanishing into a thicket at the base of the hill. Two birds burst from the brush in protest, their sharp cries spiraling into the sky.
Her eyes followed them as they circled each other, wheeling upward into the fading light.
Beyond them, in the hazy distance, The Hand loomed.
A mountain suspended in the sky.
Black against the dimming horizon.
Unmoving. Unchanging.
As if it had always been there.
Back in temporary shadow once more, as the sun dipped behind another of The Hand’s “fingers,” Omolemo’s thoughts drifted back to the first time she had seen a Cape fox.
She had been a child. A small girl, playing inside their hut when the screaming started outside.
At first, she thought it was a fight—someone arguing in the village square, maybe. But then the light from the windows dimmed, as if storm clouds had rolled in early, or a great curtain had been drawn across the sun.
She remembered the confusion. The creeping unease. The way her mother hesitated, breath held, listening.
Then she ran—pushing through the doorway, ahead of her mother, out into the open air.
She expected to see rain, maybe fire, something explainable.
Instead, she saw darkness.
Not the soft darkness of twilight, nor the shifting shadows cast by passing clouds. This was different. Solid. Spreading. A void swallowing the land.
She looked down the long road in front of their house with wide eyes, watching as the shadow stretched beyond the village, pouring into the bush like ink spilled across the earth.
What had started as a faint shade, like the flickering silhouette of a tree in the afternoon sun, was deepening into something else. Something heavy. Something absolute.
She ran.
She didn’t know why—only that she needed to see where the darkness ended.
She made it to the edge of the village before she thought to look up.
Her breath caught in her small chest.
She stumbled, her feet tangling beneath her, and fell into the dust of the road. But she didn’t take her eyes off the sky.
Terror curled inside her like a living thing.
She had seen a lion once, out in the bush with her father at camp.
“Don’t look away, Omolemo,” he had warned. “If you look away or run, it will think you’re scared. It will think you’re something to eat.”
She hadn’t looked away then.
She wanted to look away now.
But she couldn’t.
Blackness moved through the sky, vast and relentless. It was as if someone had placed a lid over the world, sealing them in—but the lid was still sliding into place.
It was massive. Too massive.
Things like this didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist.
The mind rebelled against it, the way it did when staring into something it was never meant to comprehend.
And yet… here it was.
Blotting out the sun.
The birds knew before they did. She heard their cries, saw them scatter toward the open plains, running from the sky itself. The few dogs in the village howled, their voices tangled with the distant screams of women.
A rustling sound broke through the noise, drawing her gaze to the side of the road.
A small cape fox stood just meters from her, staring at the sky the way she had been. It turned its head, locking eyes with her, its left ear torn from some long-forgotten fight.
It looked up once more.
Then it was gone, slipping into the brush.
Leaving her alone with the dark.
Looking west, Omolemo watched as the sun dipped lower, now caught between two of The Hand’s lower “fingers.” She doubted she’d make it home before dark.
There were still at least twenty minutes left before the trail rejoined one of the more traveled footpaths leading back to her village.
Her foot caught on a loose stone, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself before she fell. She exhaled sharply, about to scold herself for not watching where she was going—
Then she stopped cold.
Out ahead, toward the open plains, a thin cloud of dust was rising into the air.
“Shit.” The word slipped out before she could stop it.
There were only a few reasons a dust cloud would be kicked up out here.
None of them were good.
Especially not for a woman walking alone on an empty trail.
She turned, glancing behind her. No cover. Just the long, open path sloping back the way she’d come.
To the right, up toward the highway, she knew there was a gully that cut into the hillside. It would get her out of sight—but it was the wrong direction. Away from the footpath. Away from where she might find other travelers.
The whine of an engine reached her ears, faint but growing louder.
She didn’t wait.
Muttering a curse under her breath, she cut off the trail and started jogging toward a small rise to the east, her breath quickening as she pushed toward the gully.
She needed to disappear. Fast.
Omolemo reached the top of the rise, just as the crack of a rifle shattered the air.
She froze.
A shout followed, then the growl of a motorcycle engine coming to a stop.
Slowly, she turned.
Two men dismounted from the large dirt bike, their faces obscured. Sunglasses and wrapped clothes hiding their faces. The one from the back of the bike held an old hunting rifle, the barrel still pointed skyward, as if she wasn’t worth the effort of aiming.
They don’t think I’m a threat.
The first man, the one in front, stepped forward slightly. His voice was deep, laced with a Zimbabwean accent.
“What is someone like you doing out here in the bush, so far from home?”
Omolemo swallowed the dryness in her throat. Confidence. Confidence.
“I’m just heading home,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
“Back home, yeah?” The man echoed, the hint of a smirk in his tone. “Well, why don’t we give you a ride? It’s not safe to be out here alone. There are…” he glanced back at his companion, and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was smiling. “…dangerous creatures in these parts.”
Omolemo forced a polite smile. “Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s just a short way to the main road.”
“Still,” the man mused, looking her up and down. “I think you should come with us. We wouldn’t want anything… bad to happen to you out here.”
He stepped forward.
She glanced behind her—down into the gully. The dry riverbed lay just below. If she was fast…
“I said you will come with us.” The man’s voice snapped like a whip, all pretense of charm gone.
Omolemo turned back to face them.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll come with you. I’d appreciate the escort.”
She started walking toward them, buying herself seconds to think. The first man’s eyes followed her movements. Behind him, the second man turned to restart the bike.
Then—
A flash of movement.
A small, grey blur shot out from behind a bush, darting toward the gully. It crossed her path, streaking between her and the men.
The first man’s head snapped down, startled.
Omolemo didn’t hesitate.
She launched forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest with everything she had.
She hit hard, rebounding awkwardly, nearly losing her footing. But he wasn’t expecting it—he stumbled back, arms flailing—
And tripped.
The second man, hearing the commotion, pivoted, raising his rifle—
Too late.
The first man crashed into him.
They toppled backward, slamming into the bike. The motorcycle lurched sideways, sand spraying as it tipped over, dragging both men down with it.
The rifle went off.
A sharp crack, followed by a spray of blood.
Omolemo didn’t wait to see whose it was.
She turned and ran.
Bolted back up the rise, heart hammering, lungs burning, and threw herself over the edge into the gully below.
Omolemo was falling.
Loose rocks tumbled around her, sliding down the slope in a cascade of dust and gravel. She flailed, reaching out to grab anything that might slow her descent—nothing.
Then—wham.
She hit hard. The impact jarred through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her left arm bent awkwardly beneath her, and a searing pain shot up from her wrist, sharp and unrelenting.
For a moment, she could only lie there, her breath ragged, her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. She had always thought of herself as strong. But this—this made her want to curl up in the dirt and sob.
She needed to move.
But gods, it hurt.
Just for a moment, she let herself imagine lying here until someone found her. Until they picked her up, carried her home—
Someone will find you.
Her stomach turned.
Not someone. Them.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She had to move. Now.
Biting back a cry, she forced herself onto her knees, cradling her left arm against her chest, gasping as the pain threatened to pull her back down. She planted her right foot, trying to stand—
The sound of shifting rocks made her head snap up.
One of the men was already coming down the slope. His face was bare now, his cloth mask gone, revealing a twisted snarl.
Adrenaline hit her like a wave.
Omolemo shoved herself up, turned, sprinted toward the dry riverbed five meters away—
Pain lanced up her right leg. Her ankle buckled. She stumbled and went down again, barely breaking her fall with her good arm.
Laughter echoed off the gully walls.
She twisted, glancing around. More figures emerged from behind the larger rocks on the far side of the gully.
They had been waiting for her.
The two men on the bike hadn’t been chasing her away. They had been herding her here.
Her heart pounded, panic clawing at her throat.
Behind her, the second man reached the base of the slope, his rifle no longer aimed at the sky.
Omolemo pushed herself up again, staggering toward the riverbed. Maybe if she made it to the flat, she could—
What? Run?
“I always told Tembo not to take his eyes off the prize,” the man behind her called out, his voice loud, mocking. “He always got… distracted.”
He barked out a laugh, then spat into the dirt.
She was almost there. Just a few more steps.
“Maybe I should thank you,” he mused, his voice closer now. Too close. “One less mouth to feed. One less…share to give out.”
Laughter erupted from the men on the far hill.
“But,” the voice came again, right behind her now, thick with fury.
A hand clamped onto her shoulder and spun her around.
“That stumble broke my fucking nose, you bitch.”
She barely had time to see the rifle butt swinging toward her face.
A burst of white-hot pain exploded behind her eyes.
Then everything tilted—
And the world went dark.
Blood.
She tasted it in her mouth, thick and metallic. It ran down her throat, choking her.
Her vision swam, her head ringing, her body screaming in pain. She tried to crawl toward the riverbank, but as soon as she put weight on her left arm, agony lanced through her, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.
The laughter was gone.
She thought she heard rocks tumbling down the hillside.
Then—hands.
Someone grabbed her foot. She kicked weakly, but there was no strength left in her.
Through the haze of pain and fear, she saw them. Three more men closing in, their movements purposeful, predatory.
No. No, no, no. Not this way. Not like this.
Tears blurred her already unsteady vision.
The man holding her legs dropped down onto his knees, straddling her. She tried to sit up, to fight — to do — anything…
She forced herself up, swinging at him with her right hand—
He caught it easily. Smiled with a bloody grin.
“I like the ones with fight in them,” he sneered, his bloody mouth twisting into a grin.
Then, with casual cruelty, he wrenched her own fist back, slamming it into her face.
White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes.
The men around her laughed.
Then his hand was at her top, fingers curling in the fabric.
Not like this!
Omolemo screamed.
A scream of terror. Of rage. Of desperation.
A scream that she knew, with chilling certainty, would be her last.
And then—
The sky screamed back.
A sound, vast and impossible, deeper than thunder, primal - like the sky itself was groaning under some impossible weight.
It rolled through the air, through the ground. The very riverbed trembled with a force that felt as if the Earth itself was splitting at the seams.
Then—wind.
Not a gust. Not a storm.
A single breath, vast and unfathomable, howling through the gully, stripping dust and sand from the ground, tearing at loose cloth and exposed skin. It roared through the canyon like the exhalation of a god, an unseen titan roused from its slumber.
Then…silence.
High above, a small cape fox poked its head over the ridge, ears twitching. It peered down into the dry bed below, Its torn left ear twitched, listening.
There was nothing.
Nothing where the men had stood.
Nothing where the girl had laid in the dirt.
Only rock, orange sand, and the whisper of the dying wind.
It turned as a bird wheeled overhead, cutting across the twilight sky. The fox watched it for a moment, then turned back toward the plains and trotted away.
Behind it, the sky stretched vast and empty, the light of the setting sun unmarred.
Empty.
Unbroken.
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