The air was thick with rot and smoke. Most shelves had been stripped bare, torn open in the first wave of panic. The faint buzz of flies echoed in the silence. Soufiane gripped a rusted machete in one hand, feeling the weight of survival, while Amal raised her pipe, scanning the aisles for any movement.
"Check the back," she whispered, eyes narrowed. "Sometimes people hide stock there, stash it before the chaos began."
Soufiane nodded. They slipped through the swinging doors into the storage room, each step careful, measured. The dim light revealed crates overturned, spoiled produce scattered across the floor. The buzz of insects mingled with the metallic scent of blood in the air. Soufiane's stomach churned at the smell, but he forced himself to focus.
Then he spotted it—cans stacked in a corner, dusty but sealed. Relief, small and fragile, tightened his chest.
"Here," he murmured, shoving as many into his backpack as it could hold: beans, tuna, a few bottles of water. Amal found a crate of biscuits, half-crushed but still edible, and loaded them into her own pack. For a brief moment, the weight of the apocalypse felt slightly lighter.
"Feels almost normal," Amal said, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Like grocery shopping after a long day at the call center."
Soufiane smirked despite the tension. "Except no one's yelling at us about their phone bills."
They laughed quietly, the sound strange and fleeting against the backdrop of destruction. For a heartbeat, it felt human again.
Then a crash echoed from the front. Soufiane froze, senses sharpening instantly. The metallic scent of panic mingled with decay. Through the dusty glass of the storeroom door, shadows moved—limping, erratic, desperate.
"Infected," Amal mouthed, her hand tightening around the pipe.
Soufiane's grip on the machete stiffened. They had supplies. Enough to survive another day. But now they had to survive leaving. He nodded to Amal. Silence, measured and tense, passed between them. One wrong move, one misstep, and all of it—the food, the water, their lives—would be lost.
They edged toward the door, moving like shadows themselves. A low groan from the front made them freeze, listening. The infected were closing in, drawn by the sound of movement. Soufiane's pulse hammered in his ears. He could feel Amal beside him, tense, ready.
The first creature lunged from behind a fallen shelf, its jaw snapping. Soufiane swung the machete with precision, slicing through the air, connecting with a sickening thud. It dropped instantly. Amal spun, smashing the second with her pipe, knocking it to the floor.
More followed. They ducked and weaved, the narrow aisles offering little cover. Glass shattered beneath them, cans rolled, and the smell of blood and rot thickened with every breath.
They fought with controlled fury, each move a calculation. Soufiane realized this was no longer about scavenging—it was about claiming the right to live another hour. Each swing, each strike, was a small victory against the chaos consuming Casablanca.
When the last of the infected staggered away, moaning into the distance, Soufiane and Amal leaned against the shelves, breathing hard. Their packs were heavier now, but their relief was short-lived. Outside, the city still waited, hungry and unpredictable.
Soufiane wiped sweat and blood from his brow, eyes flicking to Amal. "We got what we needed," he said quietly. "Now… we move. To the boat. To the sea. It's the only chance we have."
Amal nodded, pipe lowered but ready, eyes scanning for movement. For the first time in hours, they felt the fragile, fleeting pulse of hope. Together, they would face the streets again—and survive.
The hunt for supplies was over. The hunt for survival had just begun.