Sofiane moved through the skeletal streets of the Dutch border villages with quiet precision. Each step on the cracked cobblestones, each brush against shuttered doors, was measured. The wind whispered through empty alleys, carrying the faint scent of rot and smoke from fires long extinguished. Life had left these villages, but danger lingered in every shadow.
He paused at the edge of the first square, scanning the deserted market stalls. A toppled cart creaked in the wind, its wooden wheels groaning against the cobblestones. Broken signs swayed from rusted hinges. Sofiane's dark eyes swept across the scene, noting every potential hiding spot. One wrong move here, and an ambush could spring from anywhere.
Ahead, he spotted a scattering of footprints partially covered by loose soil. The patterns weren't random—they showed signs of careful movement, supplies carried in and out, someone cautious but organized. Sofiane crouched, tracing the paths with his eyes. "Someone's here," he whispered under his breath, fingers brushing the grip of his knife.
The silence was broken suddenly by a faint yelp. Sofiane ducked behind a collapsed wall, eyes narrowing. Around the corner, a small figure—a teenager—was being circled by a group of infected, their movements erratic, jerking, teeth bared. Sofiane's jaw tightened. There was no time to hesitate.
He slipped forward, silent and deliberate, positioning himself on higher ground atop a broken archway. With a calculated toss, he sent a rock skittering across the street, drawing the attention of two infected. They turned, their snarls filling the air. Sofiane moved like a shadow, dispatching them swiftly with precise strikes. The teen didn't have time to speak, only wide, terrified eyes meeting his before Sofiane nodded reassuringly.
"You're safe," he said, low and steady. "Follow my lead."
As they moved further, Sofiane noticed subtle signs—a bundle of supplies carefully stashed behind a broken door, a message scrawled on a wall in charcoal: Leave nothing unattended. Whoever lived here understood caution and survival. He glanced toward the horizon, spotting two figures helping an elderly man free a trapped cart from debris. They moved with deliberate coordination, alert to every sound and shift in the shadows. Sofiane didn't reveal himself immediately; he observed.
Julien and Mouna, he thought. The names didn't matter yet, only that they were survivors, capable, alert. He made a mental note to approach when the moment was right. Patience would matter more than speed.
The village stretched ahead in a silent maze. Sofiane kept to the shadows, occasionally ducking behind overturned carts or crumbling walls, analyzing each corner. He checked rooftops for vantage points, doors for signs of occupation, and windows for movement inside. Every detail was critical. One misstep, and not only his life, but his mission—the search for Younes—could end.
He crouched briefly in the remains of a bakery, listening. The faint clatter of metal in the distance suggested supplies being moved, but no voices carried. Whoever lived here was careful, cautious, like him. He allowed himself a small nod, acknowledging the subtle connection he felt to these unseen allies.
As the day waned, the shadows grew long, stretching across the empty streets. Sofiane paused on a ridge overlooking the village, his eyes scanning the horizon. He could see the faint outline of windmills in the distance, the Netherlands sprawling out, silent and foreboding. Somewhere beyond those fields, Younes waited. Somewhere beyond, dangers waited.
Sofiane's chest tightened—not with fear, but with resolve. Every step, every calculation, brought him closer. The boy had survived so far, and he would not fail him now.
For now, he watched. He learned. And he waited.
The silent villages whispered in the wind, telling stories of absence, survival, and danger. Sofiane listened, already planning the next move. Patience was his ally; observation, his weapon. And somewhere in the quiet, beyond the streets and shadows, he knew the threads of his path were beginning to converge.