By the time Soufiane reached Ain Diab, night had fallen completely. The ocean roared against the jagged rocks, waves crashing and sending brine into the air, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke and decay. Fires burned along the beachside, licking skeletal remains of overturned cars, charred remnants of restaurants, and torn umbrellas that had once shaded tourists. The glow of the flames reflected off the dark water, casting the night in a hellish red and black.
He crouched behind a low stone barrier, eyes scanning the chaos. A group of survivors fought desperately near a parking lot, swinging metal pipes and batons at infected whose jaws snapped and clawed with inhuman ferocity. Blood splattered across asphalt, mingling with sand and smoke. The clash of flesh and bone rang sharp in the night, echoing across the empty coastline.
For a fleeting moment, Soufiane considered helping. But he counted at least twenty infected closing in, their movements jagged and relentless. He couldn't risk it—not with so many against him. Staying low, he pressed against the barrier, teeth clenched, and crawled along it with careful precision until he was safely clear of the melee.
The sea called to him, as it had always done. Even now, with the city burning behind him, the ocean reminded him of simpler times. He recalled afternoons spent fishing with his father, Mohamed, shoulder to shoulder, the salty spray on their faces, the gentle tug of a fish on the line, the patient waiting that seemed endless but safe. Back then, the greatest worry had been losing a hook or watching a line drift away. Now, the ocean was something else entirely: a potential escape, a lifeline from death itself.
Soufiane climbed down the jagged rocks, each step precarious. He scanned the shoreline, looking for anything that could carry him away. A boat—no matter how small—would give him mobility, a chance to survive, and perhaps even to find Younes, Zahira, and his parents. His pulse quickened with a dangerous mix of hope and fear. One wrong move, one misjudged step, and he could be gone before even starting.
Then he saw it. Hidden beneath the shadow of a collapsed pier, half-concealed by debris, a small fishing boat rocked gently against the tide. Its hull was scarred, paint flaking, but structurally sound. Soufiane's chest tightened. Relief, cautious and fragile, washed over him. This could be the beginning—not just of fleeing Casablanca, but of reclaiming his life, of pursuing the family he had lost and protecting those who still depended on him.
He approached the boat cautiously, ears straining. The waves whispered, soft and rhythmic, contrasting with the distant crackle of flames. Every shadow along the pier could conceal danger. The hissing of fire on metal and the occasional groan of a collapsing building kept his nerves taut. Yet the promise of the boat, floating patiently in the dark water, was intoxicating.
Soufiane knelt beside it, testing the ropes, peering inside. Supplies were minimal—an old fuel canister, a coil of rope, a tattered net—but it was enough. Enough to start, enough to move, enough to survive for at least one night. He could fix the hull if needed, gather what else he required, and set his course for somewhere safer.
The fires of Ain Diab burned behind him, a furious, inescapable reminder of the city's collapse. But ahead, the sea shimmered in the moonlight, whispering a fragile promise: escape, survival, and perhaps, eventually, reunion.
Soufiane ran a hand along the boat's edge, feeling the salt and rough wood beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath of the briny, smoke-laced air. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself a sliver of hope.
Tonight, Casablanca would burn. Tomorrow, the sea might save him. And beyond that—beyond fire, beyond chaos—his family awaited.