By late morning, the rocky coastline emerged from the mist, jagged cliffs jutting into the Atlantic like broken teeth. The small boat bobbed cautiously on the restless waves, each swell threatening to knock it off balance. Soufiane's stance was steady, his hands gripping the tiller with precision. Every motion, though not muscular in appearance, was the product of years of discipline, of fights survived in the streets of Hay-Mohammadi. He guided the boat with the careful awareness of someone who knew one misstep could mean death.
Amal adjusted the supplies on the boat, her slightly rounded, athletic frame balancing against the roll of the waves. She kept her pipe close, scanning the shoreline as if expecting danger around every jagged rock. Meriem followed, smaller and lighter, clutching her backpack to her chest. Her wide eyes darted nervously between the water and the cliffside.
"Almost there," Soufiane muttered under his breath, dark eyes narrowing as he scanned the rocky beach. A flicker of movement caught his attention—a shadow shifting unnaturally against the pale sand. Figures emerged, armed with improvised weapons: broken boards, rusted pipes, knives scavenged from the ruins of the coast.
Soufiane's jaw tightened. He stood taller, exuding a calm authority that came from surviving everything from street fights to the apocalypse itself. His right forearm brushed against the tattoo of Younes, and he felt a familiar surge of protective determination. Every step, every glance, reminded him why he survived, why he fought.
One of the men stepped forward, eyes wary but curious, studying the angel tattoo etched on Soufiane's arm.
"Your son?" the man asked cautiously.
Soufiane nodded. "He's why I survive. Everything I do, everything I fight for, is because of him."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the distant crash of the Atlantic waves. The leader lowered his weapon slightly, signaling the others to hold back.
"Fine," he said. "But beware—this coast is dangerous. Not everyone here is human… or sane."
Soufiane exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Amal's hand rested briefly on his arm, a silent reassurance, while Meriem's gaze lingered on the stranger's weapons, absorbing the lesson that the world was harsher than she had imagined.
They moved toward the shore carefully, feet sinking slightly into the sand. Soufiane led, machete held loosely at first but ready. Amal stayed close, scanning, ready to strike at the first sign of threat. Meriem's steps were cautious, eyes wide, heart racing with every wave that lapped the rocks.
Suddenly, a low growl echoed across the beach. Not from the men—they were human—but from the shadows at the base of the cliffs. Something moved there, large, pale, unnatural. Amal tightened her grip on her pipe. Meriem froze. Soufiane's pulse quickened.
"Stay behind me," he hissed, positioning himself between the girls and the threat. The strangers on the beach tensed, unsure whether to flee or fight. The shadow shifted again, closer this time, revealing a figure disfigured, one of the infected—or something worse, twisted by desperation and hunger.
Soufiane's eyes met Amal's. No words were necessary. They were ready.
The beach, the coast, the ocean behind them—it was no longer just a passage north. It was a test. Their first real trial in a world that had already shown them how fragile life could be.
And as the shadow lunged from the rocks, Soufiane raised his machete, Amal swung her pipe, and Meriem gripped her sister's arm, the first real trial of the shore had begun.