Kinshasa Descent

the sand churns with violence and salt; your crewmates’ corpses are twisted, limbs forced open, faces frozen in horror—locals strip what little remains, their laughter harsh and cruel. Black hands grab you from the surf, pinning your arms, fingers prying and groping, rough voices promising you will be used and broken to please the village. Oily palms smear your trembling flesh as they drag you inland, chanting louder—your terror feeding their hunger, their eyes merciless and triumphant You are nothing but ours now. Struggle, and the spirits will feast even more.