A heavy silence settled over the medina, broken only by the distant crackle of fire and the occasional inhuman groan. Nabil clenched his fists, disappointment etched across his bloodied face. Zak and Anas exchanged wary glances, understanding Soufiane's determination but feeling the weight of separation pressing on them.
"Alright… take care of yourself," murmured Anas, voice trembling.
Soufiane nodded once, running a hand over the tattoo on his forearm—the tiny angel Younes, etched delicately, a constant reminder of the son he could not yet reach. "I'll come back if I can… Take care of yourselves until then. Find my parents, Head somewhere safe, away from the monsters. When I find my son and my sister… I'll meet you there once it's all over."
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the boat. His cousins lingered for a moment, shadows in the early light, before slowly disappearing into the streets, each following the path Soufiane had urged, their futures uncertain but faintly hopeful.
Casablanca had become a labyrinth of dread. Soufiane moved cautiously through narrow alleys, sticking close to damp, soot-stained walls. The cries of the infected echoed through the ruined streets, carried on smoke-choked air that reeked of fire, ash, and blood. His backpack thudded softly against his back, holding the bare essentials: a bottle of water, a few biscuits, and the fishing knife he had sharpened again, its edge glinting faintly in the dim light.
Every corner felt like a gamble. He turned one, nearly colliding with an overturned cart. Its contents—tomatoes, now crushed and rotting—bled into the cracked pavement like a warning. Soufiane crouched, listening intently. From the boulevard ahead came the sound of pounding feet and guttural growls. A horde. Too many.
He ducked into a side street where laundry still hung between buildings, swaying gently as if the city itself had not yet noticed it was dead. His throat tightened with the thought of Younes—seven years old, alone across the sea, unaware of the apocalypse engulfing Casablanca. Did his ex-wife know what dangers lurked nearby? Was his boy safe tonight?
Soufiane shook the thought aside. Survive first. Then find them.
Passing an abandoned café, a shadow flickered inside. He froze, muscles taut. Another survivor—or one of them? The faint whisper that escaped the darkness sounded almost human, but Soufiane had learned to trust nothing. Slowly, he tightened his grip on the knife, advancing cautiously. The door creaked on its hinges, moved by the wind, revealing nothing more than the murky interior.
Not yet. Don't take chances. He backed away silently, every nerve alert. In this city, mistakes were deadly. The streets had a way of punishing carelessness, and the horde had already claimed too many victims.
As he emerged into a broader avenue, smoke rose in thick black columns ahead, twisting into the sky like the fingers of a giant, angry hand. Perhaps it was the military, perhaps another collapse. Either way, it was a signal: the city was burning, and the path forward was one of shadows.
Soufiane's eyes swept the ruins. Cars lay overturned, streetlights flickered in the haze, and the distant wails of the infected merged with the crackle of fires. Every shadow could hide danger. Every alley, a trap. Yet he pressed onward, the Atlantic glimmering faintly on the horizon, a distant promise he had no choice but to pursue.
Step by step, he moved through the ash-choked streets, alert to every sound—the shuffle of feet, the moan of a distant creature, the snap of debris under his boots. His heart raced, adrenaline sharpening his senses. The world he had known was gone. Casablanca, once alive with people, markets, and laughter, had become a maze of fire, death, and uncertainty.
Yet in the midst of this ruin, one thought guided him: survive. Find Younes. Find Zahira. Find his parents. Every step, every careful move, carried him closer to that goal.
The road of shadows stretched endlessly before him. Each corner held danger. Each breath was heavy with smoke and the metallic tang of fear.
But Soufiane walked it anyway, alone, carrying the impossible weight of hope—and the promise of reunion.