Soufiane lingered near the fishing boat, hidden beneath the collapsed pier. The waves hissed against the hull, a rhythmic, urgent whisper that seemed to urge him forward. But he knew the sea could not save him alone—not for long. He needed help.
Then he heard it: a sharp, panicked cry from the boulevard above. His heart jolted, blood pounding in his ears. Too close.
He climbed the rocks cautiously, each step careful, crouching low as he crested the ridge. Smoke from fires mingled with the salty spray of the sea, and the smell of burning debris burned his nostrils. Near a burned-out kiosk, a lone figure swung a length of metal pipe at two infected closing in. Her strikes were wild and desperate, each blow a frantic attempt to survive.
Soufiane's eyes widened. Even beneath the soot, sweat, and blood, he recognized her. Amal Oubrain.
She wasn't just a former colleague from Lycamobile. She had been more. During his darkest days—after the divorce, when depression had swallowed his nights—Amal had been a quiet anchor. She had listened without judgment, urged him to believe the weight on his chest could lift, to fight for small joys. Whispered conversations in the office corners, fleeting smiles across cluttered desks—she had kept him alive in ways she never knew.
And now she was here, swinging for her life in a world gone mad.
"Amal!" His voice tore from his throat before he could stop it.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with shock and recognition. "Soufiane?"
That instant of distraction was enough. One of the infected lunged at her side. Soufiane reacted without thinking. He surged forward, knife flashing in the dim firelight, driving it deep into the creature's temple. It collapsed with a wet thud, twitching once before stilling. Amal slammed her pipe down on the second, splintering the wood against its skull until it fell limp.
Silence descended. Their ragged breaths mingled with the distant crackle of burning buildings and the crash of waves. Amal stumbled forward, clutching her arm where it had been grazed.
"I thought… I thought I was the last one," she whispered, tears streaking ash across her cheeks.
Soufiane shook his head, forcing calm into his voice. "You're not. Not while I'm here."
Her eyes searched his, a fragile mix of relief and exhaustion. The bond forged in office corners and quiet confidences was now being tested in blood and fire.
Behind them, the moans of more infected echoed through the streets. The fires painted their surroundings in a flickering orange glow, throwing long, dancing shadows across the ruins. Soufiane glanced toward the boat, then back at Amal. Hesitation was a luxury they couldn't afford.
"Come on," he urged, voice low but firm. "We move. Now."
Amal nodded, gripping her pipe like a lifeline. Together, they sprinted across the scorched street, the smell of burning tires and paper thick in the air. Each step was careful, precise, eyes scanning for movement—anything alive, anything dangerous.
They slipped into a shattered storefront, the glass crunching softly under their boots. Soufiane pressed himself against the wall, sweeping the interior with sharp eyes. He grabbed a broken shelf and shoved it against the door, creating a makeshift barricade, while Amal sank onto the dusty floor, still clutching her metal pipe.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The weight of everything pressed on them—the relief of reunion, the horror of what the city had become. Outside, the distant crackle of fire and the restless murmur of the ocean were constant reminders that Casablanca was no longer theirs.
Finally, Amal broke the silence, her voice trembling. "You… you made it out?"