The napalm strike had turned night into day. Orange flames rolled over rooftops, black smoke curling into the sky like the city itself was screaming in agony. The acrid smell of burning concrete and charred flesh filled the air. Ash rained down, coating their hair and clothing, filling Soufiane's lungs with grit.
The cousins ducked into a narrow alley, pressing themselves against the soot-dark walls, covering their mouths and noses. Nabil spat onto the ground, eyes glinting with fury. "Idiots," he growled. "The army isn't saving anyone. They're cleaning up their mess."
Anas's jaw tightened, his eyes scanning the horizon. "If they plan to erase Casablanca," he said quietly, "then we burn with it. We can't wait here."
Soufiane's gaze rose to the distant helicopters disappearing into the smoke-heavy clouds. Rage coiled in his stomach—not just at the soldiers, but at the suffocating feeling of abandonment. Their city, their people, being treated as disposable.
Then, a decision crystallized inside him. His voice cut through the chaos, steady and commanding. "We head to the coast. If the city is finished, the sea is our only chance."
Nabil laughed bitterly, the sound hollow amidst the crackling fires. "And then what? Swim to Spain?"
"No," Soufiane replied, gripping his fishing knife, the dried blood still caked along the handle. "I've spent my life on the shore. I know boats, tides, the currents. If there's a way out, it's through the sea. Nothing else will save us."
Zak's hands trembled around his pistol. His pale face reflected the flickering flames. "And… your parents? Your sister?"
Soufiane's throat tightened. The thought of Mohamed and Naima, trapped somewhere in this burning city, made his chest ache. And Zahira, across the sea in Germany, waiting for news she might never receive. He couldn't save them all—not yet. But survival tonight was the only chance to save anyone at all.
A sudden rumble shook the ground, low and violent, vibrating beneath their feet. Soufiane froze for a heartbeat, heart hammering. From the boulevard ahead came a rising wave of sound: screams, guttural moans, and the thunder of countless feet pounding the cobblestones.
"They're coming!" Anas barked, pushing them forward.
The cousins sprinted through the maze of alleys, flames licking walls, sending showers of sparks into the sky. Smoke stung their eyes, scorching their lungs, but they did not stop. Behind them, shadows surged—dozens, maybe hundreds of infected flooding the medina, their hunger unrelenting, their movements jagged and horrifying.
When they burst onto a wider street, the cousins froze. Ahead loomed a barricade of abandoned cars, twisted metal, and barbed wire. Soldiers had tried to hold this position, but now their corpses dangled grotesquely, torn apart and impaled on their own defenses.
The path forward was blocked. Behind them, the horde advanced. Flames roared across the rooftops, casting the twisted barricade in a hellish glow.
Soufiane's grip on the knife tightened. Every muscle in his body screamed exhaustion, every breath burned, every heartbeat demanded action. This was the end of the line.
For a long, tense moment, he studied the barricade, the horde, the fire racing across the medina, and the exhausted faces of his cousins. Decisions had to be made—fast, decisive, and unflinching.
He swallowed hard, the weight of responsibility crushing him. Survival wasn't just about fighting monsters. It was about leading the living. About keeping those he could still protect alive.
Soufiane raised his head, eyes meeting Anas, Nabil, and Zak. His voice was firm, unwavering despite the chaos. "We go through it. Together."
Behind them, the roar of the infected rose. Ahead, fire and corpses blocked the way.
The medina had become a furnace of death, and there was only one choice: fight, or be consumed.