By morning, hunger pushed them forward, urging their exhausted bodies over cracked roads and through villages that had been abandoned in a breathless hurry. Silence hung over the remnants of these towns like a thick fog, broken only by the distant creak of rusting metal or the whisper of wind through shattered windows. Cars lay rotting where they had stalled, doors gaping open as if their owners had vanished mid-step. The smell of decay clung to the streets, a reminder that the world they once knew was gone.
It was Meriem who first spotted a faint curl of smoke rising in the distance. "A fire," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Maybe… people?"
Soufiane's dark eyes narrowed. "Maybe," he replied cautiously, scanning the horizon for movement. The faint orange glow promised warmth and safety, but after Casablanca, Berrechid, and the open sea, he had learned that hope often came with a price.
They approached with measured steps, keeping low. As they neared the smoke, the outline of a makeshift camp emerged—a scattering of tents patched together with tarps, wooden barricades forming a crude circle, and figures moving within. The survivors were thin and weary, faces lined with fear and exhaustion, but undeniably alive.
For Soufiane, it felt almost unreal. For weeks, the soundscape of his life had been the crashing waves, the moans of the infected, and the hollow echo of his own footsteps. Now, voices murmured around him, accompanied by the occasional laugh and the soft crackle of a campfire. It should have been comforting, but it was unnerving. Every noise reminded him of how fragile this pocket of survival truly was.
Amal moved beside him, scanning the camp as if evaluating every potential threat. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, missed nothing—measuring exits, barricade strength, and the body language of each survivor. Meriem, clinging to her arm, seemed simultaneously reassured and terrified, her small frame trembling despite the fire's warmth.
The camp itself was built upon the remnants of a small rural town, stone houses charred and crumbling. Survivors worked by day to reinforce defenses, scouring nearby ruins for food or salvaging wood and metal. By night, they huddled close to the fire, drawing fleeting comfort from its glow, as if its fragile flames could push back the darkness creeping ever closer.
It was near the central square, amidst the flickering shadows of the campfire, that Soufiane finally saw him. A familiar silhouette leaned casually against the wall of a burned café. Arms crossed, head shaved, and face illuminated by the warm firelight, Abderrazak exuded the same calm and self-assurance that had defined him since their youth.
"Soufiane? Bro… is that really you?" the man asked, pushing himself off the wall. Recognition ignited in his eyes.
Soufiane froze for a heartbeat. "Abderrazak?"
They embraced, a rough hug born of long years of shared streets, fights, and memories of Hay-Mohammadi. The faint aroma of smoke and the distant cries of the infected created a surreal backdrop, blending nostalgia with harsh reality.
"You're alive," Soufiane muttered, stepping back to study his friend's face.
"I didn't think… either," Abderrazak replied with a smirk, though his eyes held a shadow beneath the casual grin. "This world… it's finished, bro. But we pretend we can survive a little longer."
Amal observed silently, curiosity tempered by caution. "You two know each other?"
"From the neighborhood," Soufiane said, voice weighted with memory. "Kickboxing gyms, smoke-filled cafés, street games we never won… we grew up together."
Abderrazak nodded at Amal and Meriem but quickly returned his attention to the barricades, scanning as if calculating their odds of survival in seconds. Soufiane noticed the same energy that had always defined him—cool, calm, and joking, yet never optimistic.
Later, as the camp settled into uneasy sleep, Soufiane found himself sitting beside Abderrazak near the dim fire. Amal had tucked Meriem into a corner, and the flickering flames painted long shadows across the scorched ground. For the first time in days, Soufiane allowed himself to speak without restraint.
"Do you think this place will last?" he asked quietly, voice almost lost to the crackle of fire.
Abderrazak chuckled bitterly, poking the embers with a stick. "Nothing lasts, brother. Not the old world, not our bets, not even this camp. People here—they hope too much. Hope is dangerous now."
Soufiane stared at him, weighing the truth in the words. Surrender was a luxury he could not afford—not while Younes remained out there, waiting, vulnerable, counting on him.
Above, the crescent moon slipped behind clouds, casting the camp in a muted silver glow. Somewhere beyond the fields, the faint, unmistakable sound of shuffling caught his attention—a subtle rustle, distant but deliberate. His grip tightened on the machete, knuckles whitening.
He glanced down at his tattoo—the small angel holding Younes' name—and whispered a vow, low enough that only he could hear:
"I will not stop. Not here. Not yet."
Abderrazak shook his head slowly, but Soufiane noticed a spark of respect in his eyes. Perhaps this fragile flame of determination could keep them alive a little longer.
Then, from the shadows beyond the camp's barricades, a sudden, low growl pierced the night—closer than before. Something was moving… watching. And this time, Soufiane had no illusions: the danger was not only outside; it might already be inside.