Night had fallen over the coastline, casting Berrechid into shadows that seemed alive with danger. Soufiane led the way, machete in hand, eyes scanning every broken alley and abandoned street. Behind him, Amal stayed close, her pipe ready, and Meriem followed quietly, small and tense, clutching her pack like a lifeline. The distant glow of fires reflected off the water, painting the world in flickering shades of orange and black. Every step carried risk—one wrong move, and the infected would find them.
The air was thick with smoke, salt, and the stench of decay, clinging to their clothes and hair. A faint groan echoed from an alley to their left, halting them mid-step. Soufiane crouched instinctively, signaling with a hand for silence. Even the smallest sound—snapping debris, shuffling footsteps—could betray their presence.
"Stay low," he whispered. "Hands on the boat when we reach it. Don't make a sound."
The pier loomed ahead, the silhouette of the battered fishing boat barely visible under the moonlight. It rocked gently in the water, a fragile promise of escape. Soufiane moved first, checking the hull, inspecting the engine. Amal hauled their supplies aboard—cans of food, a few bottles of water, blankets—while Meriem adjusted her backpack and shivered, her small frame trembling against the cold night air.
A low growl sounded from the shadows of the pier. Soufiane froze, machete raised. One infected staggered into view, pale, twisted, and hungry. Amal swung her pipe without hesitation, the metal connecting with the creature's skull. It crumpled instantly. Another growl erupted from further back, reminding them that safety was temporary.
"Move. Now," Soufiane hissed.
They shoved the boat into the waves and climbed aboard. The vessel rocked violently, water splashing over its sides, soaking them. Soufiane steadied it, gripping the tiller, while Amal and Meriem clung to their packs. Behind them, the fires of Berrechid licked the horizon, smoke curling into the night sky like dark fingers reaching for them. The roar of distant flames, the occasional crack of collapsing buildings, and the moans of the horde merged into a grim symphony of destruction.
Soufiane's heart pounded. Thoughts of Younes and Zahira surged in his mind—his son far away in the Netherlands, his sister and her children somewhere in Germany. Could they survive this? Could he even reach them? He swallowed hard, forcing the fear down, replacing it with focus. Survive. First, survive. Then, save them.
The boat rocked again, more violently this time, as it caught a small wave. Amal gripped the side, her knuckles white. "Careful," she whispered. "It's slippery."
Soufiane nodded, adjusting his stance. His arms ached, but adrenaline sharpened his focus. He scanned the coastline. The fires still burned in an endless line, illuminating the skeletal remains of cars, buildings, and bodies strewn across the sand. For a moment, he saw a shadow—maybe another survivor? Or just the fire playing tricks. Either way, he couldn't afford distractions.
Meriem shivered beside him, eyes wide. "Will we make it?" she asked quietly, voice trembling.
Soufiane glanced at her, forcing a reassuring tone. "We have to. Together. Just stay with me, follow my lead. We'll make it."
The boat carried them slowly away from the burning coast, the waves rocking them gently, the dark water hiding all threats beneath its surface. The fires of Berrechid faded behind them, leaving only the endless black of the ocean and the faint glimmer of hope on the horizon.
For the first time since the world collapsed, Soufiane allowed himself a small measure of relief. They were alive. They were together. And though the journey ahead would be treacherous, for tonight, survival was theirs.
Soufiane's eyes lingered on the silhouette of the city behind them. Smoke still curled into the sky, flames still roared, but he clenched his fists and breathed deeply. Tomorrow, he would keep moving. Tomorrow, he would find Younes. He would find Zahira. And he would survive.
For tonight, they had escaped fire.