The first light of morning crept through the trees, pale and uncertain. The group stirred slowly, stiff from the cold ground and the restless night. Soufiane was already awake, crouched near the edge of the clearing, sharpening his knife against a flat stone. The scraping sound carried across the camp, harsh in the silence.
Amal tried to sit up but winced, clutching her arm. The infection hadn't spread farther thanks to the antibiotics, but the swelling looked angry, and the fever hadn't broken. Soufiane knelt beside her, adjusting the bandage with a gentleness that surprised even himself.
"You need rest," he told her quietly.
"I need hope," Amal murmured, lips pale. "That's rarer than rest these days."
Before Soufiane could answer, Abderrazak spoke from the opposite side of the clearing. "What we need is food. The antibiotics bought us time, but time doesn't fill stomachs. Walking through the woods aimlessly will get us all killed."
Meriem nodded, supporting him. "He's right, Soufiane. We can't just keep moving without a plan."
Soufiane's gaze flicked between them. He hated how quickly Meriem's trust shifted, like sand beneath his feet. But she wasn't wrong. "Then we find shelter," he said firmly. "Somewhere sturdier than this. A farmhouse, maybe. A place with supplies."
Abderrazak's laugh was short and bitter. "And if there's nothing left? If it's already overrun? What's your plan then—kill whoever stands in the way like you did with Javier?"
Soufiane's jaw tightened. The words stung, carrying the weight of truth—or at least the version Abderrazak wanted everyone to believe. He stood slowly, sliding the knife back into his belt. "Javier was a danger. Don't twist it into something else."
"Danger or inconvenience?" Abderrazak pressed, tone low and cutting. "Because lately, it feels like you decide which is which."
Meriem's voice broke through the tension, sharp and pained. "Stop it! Both of you. We can't—" She paused, swallowing hard as her eyes flicked between them. "We can't afford this. Not now."
Soufiane studied her, noticing the way her shoulders trembled. She was afraid—not just of the infected outside, but of the cracks inside their small circle. That realization hit harder than Abderrazak's accusations.
The uneasy silence stretched until Amal, coughing weakly, whispered, "He's right about one thing… we need food. And a roof."
Soufiane nodded reluctantly. "Then we move at first light tomorrow. I'll scout ahead today with Abderrazak."
The man raised a brow. "You and me? After last night?"
"Unless you'd rather leave Amal unprotected and Meriem alone," Soufiane countered. "We don't have the luxury of choice."
Abderrazak didn't argue further, but his smirk said enough. The two men would go—but their partnership was a blade balanced on its edge.
As the day unfolded, Soufiane and Abderrazak moved through the forest, weapons ready. The woods were eerily quiet, broken only by the occasional groan drifting in the distance. They kept their distance from each other, both alert—but also watching one another, as if the real threat wasn't out there, but walking beside them.
Back at the clearing, Amal drifted in and out of fevered sleep, her mind restless. Meriem sat close, eyes clouded with worry. She glanced at the trees often, not for the infected, but for the men. For whether they'd return side by side—or not at all.
As shadows lengthened, Soufiane and Abderrazak reappeared. They carried little—no food, no clean water—but they had seen something in the distance: smoke, faint against the horizon.
"Could be survivors," Soufiane said.
"Could be death," Abderrazak countered.
And for the first time, everyone realized the truth: in this world, those two things were often the same.