The sea stretched endlessly, a dark mirror that reflected both the stars above and the fear inside their hearts. Soufiane's hands were stiff from gripping the edge of the small boat, knuckles pale, eyes scanning the horizon for the faintest hint of land. Every wave seemed to mock them, every gust of wind a reminder that the Atlantic was as unpredictable as it was relentless. Amal sat beside him, her lips trembling from the cold, yet she forced herself to smile every time their eyes met—a fragile act of courage in a world that had lost all certainty. Meriem clutched her knees tightly, whispering small prayers that mingled with the hiss of the waves, her tiny voice swallowed by the roar of the sea.
Hours blurred into each other. The darkness was thick, and exhaustion gnawed at their muscles, but still they rowed, fought, and endured. Then, at last, a shadow broke the monotony of the water. Land. A faint outline of coast, jagged and unfamiliar, emerged on the horizon. Soufiane's chest tightened—not with relief, but with dread. Reaching land meant nothing if the shore itself held dangers. It meant a new battleground awaited them, a test they could not avoid.
As they neared the beach, the scent changed. Salt and spray gave way to the acrid smell of burned wood and decay. Amal's voice trembled as she whispered, "Spain… we made it." Her eyes glistened, reflecting the faint moonlight.
Soufiane kept his expression cold, instincts honed in Hay-Mohammadi warning him that nothing was safe. He was the first to jump into the shallow water, his boots sinking into wet sand. The boat scraped against the shore behind him. His tattoo of Younes glimmered faintly in the moonlight—a silent vow that guided him through fear. Amal followed cautiously, helping Meriem over driftwood and debris, the girl's small hands gripping her sister's coat.
The shore was deserted, but nothing about it felt welcoming. Abandoned clothes, broken luggage, and skeletal remains of small fires hinted that others had passed—or fled—before them. Soufiane scanned the ruined huts and ruined piers with sharp, calculating eyes. Every sound—the crack of shells underfoot, the whistle of wind through broken structures, the distant howl of an animal, or worse—kept them on edge. Spain might be free of the infected, or it might already be crawling with them.
They moved inland cautiously, hugging shadows and keeping low. Soufiane noted every path, every potential shelter, every place an enemy could be lurking. Even in exhaustion, the lessons from his neighborhood, from countless fights and near-death moments, guided his movements. Amal stayed close, scanning the trees and shoreline, her athletic frame taut, ready to swing her pipe or protect Meriem at a moment's notice. Meriem's small frame trembled, but she followed obediently, eyes wide, absorbing every warning from her older companions.
By nightfall, they reached the remnants of an abandoned fishing hut. Its walls were weathered and cracked, but it offered enough cover to rest. They arranged their meager supplies in a corner: cans of food, water bottles, a blanket for warmth. Soufiane remained vigilant, gripping a piece of rusted metal he had found nearby, eyes fixed on the treeline that marked the boundary between safety and unknown danger. Even with land beneath their feet, he knew the real test lay beyond—the forests, the hills, and the shadows that waited for the careless.
The ocean whispered behind them, but Soufiane could hear something else—a distant, irregular sound, faint against the wind. He froze, heart hammering, ears straining. Amal sensed it too, her eyes snapping toward the sound. Meriem, unaware, clutched her blanket tighter. The noise grew—a dragging, a shuffle, almost human, almost… something else. Soufiane's breath hitched.
"We're not alone," he murmured, voice tight, barely audible.
The darkness ahead seemed to pulse, waiting. And in that moment, the shore that had promised safety revealed its first true danger.