Morning in the camp arrived under a gray, heavy sky, the kind that presses down on shoulders and fills the lungs with cold dampness. The survivors gathered near the makeshift kitchen, a cluster of rusted tables and overturned crates. A woman stirred thin soup in a dented pot, the smell faint but warm, a small comfort in a world otherwise dominated by decay and fear. For a moment, Soufiane allowed himself to imagine that normal life had returned—a fleeting fragment of the past—but his eyes quickly roamed the crowd, and reality intruded.
Faces were tired, hollow, etched with suspicion and exhaustion. These people were not a community; they were a collection of broken lives stitched together by necessity. Every glance, every tense movement told stories of past loss, harsh choices, and the lingering threat outside the walls. Soufiane's chest tightened. He understood survival better than most, and he knew this fragile peace could shatter at any moment.
Amal knelt beside Meriem, holding a bowl close so the young girl could sip carefully. "It's not much, but it's something," she whispered, her voice carrying the same note of forced calm Soufiane remembered from their darker days in Casablanca. He recalled how she had once nudged him away from despair at the call center, how her stubborn optimism had anchored him when depression threatened to drown him. Seeing her now, trying to comfort Meriem in a world gone mad, made his chest ache with both gratitude and sorrow.
Abderrazak approached with his usual casual stride, soup in one hand, eyes sharp as ever. "You know what this reminds me of?" he said, half-smiling. "Prison. Everyone waiting for scraps, hoping the guards don't forget."
Soufiane shot him a look. "You're still the same—always negative."
"Not negative, realist," Abderrazak replied, smirking. "The difference is, I see the end coming before others do."
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by shouting near the gates. Survivors returned from a supply run, dragging sacks of canned food and water, but instead of relief, chaos erupted. Accusations flew, voices raised in anger. Two men claimed the returning group had hidden part of the loot, a woman screamed that her child hadn't eaten in two days. For a terrifying moment, it seemed the fragile camp might collapse from within.
Amal moved closer to Soufiane, whispering, "If they start fighting among themselves, this place won't last a week."
Soufiane's gaze swept over the crowd. Camps like this existed only as long as trust and vigilance endured. Hope was powerful—but brittle. One spark of betrayal or mistrust could ignite disaster.
Later, while helping reinforce barricades, Soufiane noticed deep scratches along the outer walls—long grooves gouged into wood and metal, as though claws had raked at the defenses in the night. A man working beside him muttered, "They came close last night. Too close."
Soufiane's eyes narrowed. Each mark was a reminder that even within temporary safety, the threat never fully receded. Every movement in the shadows, every rustle of wind or distant groan, had to be watched. Complacency was death.
That evening, the survivors gathered once more near the fire. The camp leader, a weary man with a gray-streaked beard, addressed them, trying to restore calm. "We're safe here as long as we stand together," he said firmly. "We keep watch, share what we find, and fight if we must. The infected are out there, but they don't control us."
Some nodded, reassured, while others muttered doubts. Abderrazak leaned close to Soufiane, voice low. "He talks like a preacher… but preachers die first."
Soufiane didn't reply. He scanned the horizon again, thinking of Younes in the Netherlands, his sister Zahira in Germany, his parents somewhere in Morocco. This camp was a pause, a fragile respite—not a destination. Every decision, every night awake, mattered.
As darkness deepened, he sat beside the dim fire while Amal and Meriem slept nearby. The glow illuminated the tattoo on his forearm—the small angel clutching Younes' name. It seemed to pulse with its own quiet fire. He whispered under his breath:
"I will not stop. Not here. Not yet."
Abderrazak sat beside him, silent, a shadowed figure in the flickering light. Respect, unspoken yet undeniable, passed between them. Perhaps determination could keep them alive a little longer.
Then, from the shadows beyond the camp's barricades, a low, deliberate growl emerged. Closer this time. Not the wind. Not an animal. Something was watching. Something waiting. Soufiane froze, heart hammering. He instinctively gripped his machete tighter.
The cracks in the walls weren't just wood or wire—they were in the people, in the fragile unity of the camp, in their fleeting hope. And now, a new danger approached, unseen but certain, ready to test everything they had built.