The morning air was thin, sharp against their lungs as they left the battered cabin behind. Soufiane walked first, boots crunching through dead leaves, his knife strapped tight against his thigh. The tattoo on his arm itched beneath his sleeve, a reminder of why he pushed forward: Younes, Zahira, his parents. He couldn't afford to falter.
Behind him, the others moved in silence. Amal leaned on Meriem's arm, her wound inflamed, lips pale, whispering fragments of thought as if lost in a fevered haze. Abderrazak stayed close, crowbar ready, dark eyes restless. Trust had fractured since Javier's death, but survival kept them bound—tenuous, fragile, but necessary.
They had chosen to follow the smoke. A gamble, forced upon them. Either it led to survivors—maybe medicine, maybe food—or it was nothing but another nightmare waiting to swallow them whole.
The closer they drew, the stronger the smell became. Not wood smoke. Not cooking. Something heavier. Something wrong. A rancid sweetness clung to their tongues and throats, turning each breath into an act of choking.
Meriem pinched her nose. "It smells… like death."
Soufiane said nothing, jaw tightening. Birds that had followed them all morning wheeled once above, then vanished, abandoning the trees as though they, too, sensed what waited below.
They crested a low ridge, and the sight made Meriem gasp.
The camp—or what had once been one—was a graveyard masquerading as a village. Half-burnt huts sagged inward, roofs collapsed. Blackened poles jutted from the ground, clinging with charred remains of bodies—some half-intact, some nothing but twisted bone. Around the edges lay others, stripped bare, flesh carved with butcher's precision.
Soufiane's grip tightened around his knife. This wasn't the infected. This was human work.
Abderrazak swore under his breath. "These bastards… they ate them."
Amal stirred, her voice thin but sharp. "They fed on their own." Fever-bright eyes scanning the grisly scene, she muttered, almost like a prophecy, "Humans will always be worse than the monsters."
They moved deeper, cautious, boots crunching over ash. A hut stood near the center, walls smeared with symbols. Some looked religious—crosses distorted, painted black—others spirals and crude figures, like a child's drawing turned mad. Above the entrance, a banner hung crookedly, words scrawled in dripping red:
"The Cleansing Fire."
Inside, horror intensified. A cauldron sat in the middle of the hut, ash still glowing beneath it. The smell was unbearable. Soufiane lifted the lid—and froze. Stew, thick and greasy, chunks of meat floating in the broth. But it wasn't animal. It couldn't be.
Meriem backed away, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with revulsion. Abderrazak dragged her outside before she could collapse.
Soufiane lingered a moment longer, staring into the pot, fighting bile rising in his throat. This was what humanity had come to—eating its own to survive, cloaking madness in ritual and fire.
When he stepped outside, Amal leaned against the wall, sweat beading her brow. Her gaze was distant. "Don't trust the smoke," she whispered. "It's never for warmth… only for bait."
Her words chilled him more than the wind.
Then came the sound.
Low at first. A murmur, like wind moving through hollow wood. But it wasn't wind—it was voices. Chanting. Growing louder. From beyond the treeline, shadows stirred. Dozens of them. Figures wrapped in tattered cloaks, faces streaked with ash, moving with slow, deliberate steps.
Soufiane raised his hand, signaling silence. His heart hammered, mind razor-sharp. He glanced at Abderrazak, at Amal, at Meriem. Their eyes mirrored his fear.
The smoke hadn't been a beacon. It was a trap.
And now, the ones who set it were coming back.