"You've been quiet since we got here," he said softly, voice careful not to startle her. "Something's bothering you."
She drew a shaky breath, her voice barely a whisper, carried away almost by the wind. "I… I need to go to Berrechid."
Soufiane's brow furrowed, the tension tightening in his chest. "Berrechid? That's far, and dangerous… the city is burned, streets crawling with infected. Why?"
Amal's gaze fell to her knees, fingers clenching tightly. She swallowed, and the faint glow of moonlight caught a tear glistening on her cheek. "It's my family… my sister, Meriem. I need to see if… if anyone survived. The rest…" Her voice broke, almost lost in the crash of distant waves. "They… they didn't make it."
Soufiane felt a tightening in his chest, the weight of her confession pressing heavily on him. He had never seen Amal like this—vulnerable yet resolute, fear and determination coexisting in her eyes. His hand rested lightly on the ground near hers, a silent reassurance.
"I… I understand," he said quietly, his voice measured, steady. "We'll need a plan. Careful movement. Maybe allies along the way. But I'll go with you if it's important. You won't have to do this alone."
Amal's shoulders sagged, releasing a fraction of the tension she had carried for hours. For the first time in days, a flicker of relief passed across her face. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice raw but sincere. "I can't do this alone. And I trust you… more than I've trusted anyone in a long time."
Soufiane nodded, glancing at the darkened harbor. The port was littered with abandoned boats and scattered debris, the water reflecting the red-orange glow from the burning city. Each ripple of the tide seemed to whisper both danger and opportunity.
A quiet understanding settled between them, unspoken yet palpable. This wasn't just about survival anymore. The nights of fleeing, fighting, and scavenging were no longer enough. Now it was about family, about hope, about holding onto the fragments of the world that still mattered amidst the chaos.
Soufiane shifted closer, scanning the horizon one more time. The city behind them burned, but ahead—Berrechid, the unknown, and perhaps a chance at something more than mere survival—beckoned. They would face infected hordes, crumbling streets, and perhaps hostile survivors, but together they would endure.
Amal's hand brushed against his, a fleeting contact, grounding them in a moment of fragile humanity. "Let's rest for a bit," Soufiane said softly. "Then we start early. First light, we move."
She nodded, eyes heavy but resolute. They leaned against the cold stone wall, the rhythm of the waves outside mingling with the distant crackle of fire. The night stretched long and quiet around them, carrying the weight of loss, determination, and unspoken promises.
In that silence, Soufiane realized something important: survival alone was not enough. To fight for family, for hope, for those who still mattered—that was why they moved forward. And whatever lay ahead on the road to Berrechid, they would face it together.
At first light, the city lay in a haunted quiet. Smoke still curled from smoldering ruins, and the acrid scent of ash lingered in the streets. Soufiane tightened the strap of his backpack, machete in hand, while Amal gripped her pipe, knuckles white. Every step was measured, cautious. Every shadow could hide death.
The journey to Berrechid was a treacherous maze. Fires licked the edges of streets, sending flickering light across scorched walls. The occasional groan of the infected echoed from abandoned buildings, a cruel reminder that the city's nightmare was never far behind. They avoided open avenues, slipping through alleys, ducking behind ruined cars, and moving silently through the skeletons of homes when necessary.