The infected poured into the supermarket, their guttural cries echoing through the empty aisles. The sound was deafening, bouncing off broken shelves and hollow spaces. Soufiane and Amal pressed themselves against toppled crates, hearts hammering like war drums.
"We can't fight them all," Amal hissed, eyes wide and shining with fear.
"Then we don't," Soufiane replied, voice low but firm. He pointed to a broken window at the back of the storage room. A small escape, a thread of hope.
They moved as shadows, crawling low across the debris-strewn floor. The dragging feet of the infected scraped against broken tiles, their sickly stench thick and clinging. One of the creatures lurched too close, and Amal's reflexes took over. She swung her pipe with deadly precision, smashing its jaw. Soufiane slashed with the machete into the neck of another; the body collapsed, nearly pulling him down, but Amal yanked him back just in time.
They scrambled to the window, shards cutting their hands as they wriggled through. Dirt and rubble greeted them outside. Amal's arm scraped against glass, blood running down her skin, but she didn't flinch. Pain was temporary; survival was permanent.
Behind them, the supermarket was alive with the infected's frenzy. Howls and snarls mingled with the crash of falling debris. Some had caught the scent of their escape, pounding toward the rear, teeth gnashing. Soufiane and Amal didn't look back. They sprinted down the alley, every step a defiance of death itself, packs heavy with precious food and water. Lungs burned, muscles screamed, but neither faltered.
The streets were eerily empty, punctuated only by distant fires and the occasional metallic echo of debris. The orange glow from the burning supermarket marked their trail, illuminating twisted shadows on the walls. Every corner felt like a gamble; every shadow, a potential threat.
After several blocks, they reached the cover of an abandoned bus. Collapsing against the rusted metal, they gasped for air. Soufiane dropped his pack, eyes scanning the contents: cans of beans, tuna, water—small but vital, lifelines in the chaos.
Amal leaned her head against the metal wall, tracing a finger along the blood streaking her arm. A faint smile curved her lips despite the exhaustion. "Best grocery run of my life," she said, voice rough but tinged with humor.
Soufiane chuckled, tension breaking in the faintest exhale. For a heartbeat, surrounded by darkness, ruin, and death, they were just two people sharing a strange kind of victory—a momentary reprieve in a world gone mad.
But the reprieve was fragile. Soufiane's eyes flicked toward the horizon, where smoke still rose in distant pillars, marking destruction and chaos. The road ahead was long, and the city was far from conquered.
The night had settled over Casablanca like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The distant fires flickered along the horizon, orange tongues licking at the edges of crumbling buildings, casting the city in a surreal, half-dead glow. Soufiane and Amal huddled together against a crumbling wall near the port, the faint scent of salt mixing with the lingering smoke of the destroyed city. For the first time in hours, the roar of chaos had faded, leaving only the whisper of waves against the rocks and the occasional groan of distant infected.
Amal's eyes were fixed on the horizon, reflecting the dying embers of the city behind them. But her hands fidgeted restlessly in her lap, fingers twisting and turning as if trying to hold onto a secret. Soufiane noticed the unease in her posture, the subtle tremor in her hands.