The woods gave way to a stretch of cracked asphalt, half-swallowed by weeds and dust. What once had been a village now lay in ruin—shattered windows, rusted cars leaning like corpses, the husks of storefronts with signs dangling loose. A faint scent of smoke lingered, though no fire burned.
Soufiane raised a hand, signaling the others to stop. His eyes scanned the broken outlines, every shadow a potential threat. Amal leaned on Meriem's shoulder, breathing shallow, her wound now red and swollen. The cut wasn't fatal—yet—but without antibiotics, it would become a death sentence.
"We don't have time to debate," Soufiane said, voice hard, final. "We go in, find what we need, and get out. Quiet and fast."
Abderrazak muttered, "Quiet isn't possible in a place like this." His crowbar rested heavy on his shoulder, but his eyes kept darting to Amal. Meriem frowned, whispering something too soft for Soufiane to catch, but he felt the weight of doubt pressing from the others. Since Javier's death, since Soufiane had taken the choice into his own hands, trust had become fragile.
The first shop they entered was a small pharmacy, its glass doors shattered, shelves stripped bare. Dust clung to everything, and broken pill bottles crunched under their boots. Amal sagged against the counter, her skin pale.
Soufiane searched the cabinets behind the counter, hands moving quickly, methodically. Empty. Empty. A half-full box of aspirin—useless. He bit down a curse. The others looked at him, eyes wide, silently demanding hope from the rubble.
Then—footsteps.
Faint. Dragging. Echoing through the stillness. Not one set. Several.
Soufiane froze, hand tightening on his knife. The groans followed, low and guttural, carried through the hushed ruin.
"They're here," Abderrazak hissed.
"Not yet," Soufiane snapped. "We hold. We finish." His voice cut through panic like a blade. He forced himself to keep searching, heart hammering.
In a back cabinet, wedged behind dusty boxes, his hand closed around a bottle. Amoxicillin. The label was faded, but intact. He pulled it free, holding it up like a treasure.
Relief surged, but he didn't smile. There was no time. The echoes outside grew closer, heavier. A window rattled; shadows brushed across the broken glass.
Soufiane stuffed the antibiotics into his bag and turned. "We've got what we need. Move. Now."
Meriem helped Amal to her feet, but Amal stumbled, nearly falling. Abderrazak caught her, grip firm, jaw tight. Soufiane saw the flicker in his friend's eyes—not just duty, but something softer. For a heartbeat, he wondered what it could mean in this broken world. Then the sound of shattering glass erased the thought.
The infected poured in.
Soufiane shoved the others toward the back door, slamming his shoulder against it until the rotten wood cracked open. They spilled into the alley, air sharp with decay. More shadows moved at the far end.
"We go right!" Soufiane barked. He drew his knife, slashing at the first figure that lunged through the door. The blade sank deep into its neck, hot spray hitting his arm. He pushed forward, relentless, clearing the path with brutal precision.
Behind him, Amal whimpered, Meriem whispered desperate prayers. Abderrazak dragged her along, eyes blazing.
They ran, every breath a ragged echo in the hollow street. The infected howled behind them, their cries rising, carried by the ashes of a world already gone.
And though fear burned in the eyes of his companions, Soufiane felt the fire in his chest harden. He had chosen. He would always choose. Even if they hated him for it.