The morning mist clung to the fields, curling around the edges of abandoned fences and the broken remains of farmhouses. Soufiane led the group along a narrow dirt path that followed the edge of a shallow canal, the water dark and sluggish, reflecting the pale light of dawn. The landscape felt both familiar and alien—countryside stripped of life, quiet except for the occasional whisper of wind through reeds.
Cynthia walked beside Younes, who clung to her hand tightly. The boy had grown quieter over the past days, learning to move with caution, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Soufiane noticed the subtle change in him, the sharpening of instinct, and he felt a mix of pride and unease. Children should not have to grow this fast.
Julien and Mouna walked a few steps ahead, scouting the path and murmuring to each other about possible dangers. Julien, tall and wiry, had a hunter's intuition, always pausing to listen for the slightest movement. Mouna, more reserved, had a quiet ferocity—she could strike without warning and disappear before anyone could react. Soufiane had learned to trust both of them, though he knew the world often demanded more than mere trust.
The group passed through an overgrown orchard, the skeletal remains of apple trees lining the canal. The smell of rotting fruit hung in the air. Suddenly, a rustle from the undergrowth made them all freeze. Soufiane signaled silently, raising a hand. The children were quickly pulled behind him, safe from whatever lurked nearby.
A single infected emerged, limping, a grotesque shadow of humanity. Its eyes were milky and unfocused, its movements jerky. The group acted as one—Julien's knife flashed, a precise strike ending the threat before it could get close. Mouna cleaned her weapon silently, her gaze scanning for more. Soufiane exhaled slowly, tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. This was the rhythm of survival: alert, strike, move on.
As they continued, the group passed small villages, some partially collapsed, others still holding faint traces of life. Smoke curled from chimneys where fires had long since gone cold, and the faint echoes of distant groans carried on the wind. Every turn of the path was a decision: to go around, through, or risk exposure.
Cynthia walked beside Soufiane for a moment, glancing at him. "Do you ever wonder," she said quietly, "if we'll ever see a place untouched by all this?"
He met her gaze, the weight of years and battles in his eyes. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But we keep moving. We survive, and we hope that one day we'll find it—or at least a chance to rebuild something. That's all we can do."
The hours stretched, the sun climbing higher, burning away the mist. They crossed a small bridge, the canal running deep below, water dark and reflective. The sound of a distant motor startled them. Soufiane signaled to hide along the remains of a collapsed wall. Through the gap, they saw a lone vehicle, moving slowly, probably scavengers or worse. They waited, holding their breath until the vehicle passed, leaving only the echo of its engine.
At mid-afternoon, they reached a cluster of farmhouses that looked more intact than others they had seen. Soufiane gestured for caution. "We rest here. No fires. Keep your eyes open, your ears open. Small groups sometimes hide in the shadows."
Inside one of the barns, the group settled. Soufiane scanned faces: Cynthia tending Younes, Julien checking the perimeter, Mouna cleaning her weapon. Amal and Myriam shared whispered words about what to scavenge next, while Zahira comforted her children. For a moment, the weight of survival lifted slightly, replaced by quiet reflection.
Soufiane allowed himself a brief moment alone outside. The horizon stretched endlessly, dotted with ruins and distant treelines. He thought of the journey ahead, of the distance to Marseille, and beyond that, the uncertain crossing to Africa. The road was long, and danger was constant, but they had survived so far.
A sudden screech from the treeline brought him back to reality. Hands tightening on his weapon, he saw movement: a group of infected, larger than any before, shuffling through the orchard, drawn by sound, scent, or instinct. He whistled sharply. The group assembled instantly, weapons ready. The children were ushered into the barn, hidden behind hay bales.
Soufiane signaled the attack. Julien and Mouna struck first, taking two down silently. Amal fired carefully, each shot calculated, while Myriam helped Zahira barricade the children inside. The rest followed with a coordinated sweep, driving the creatures back into the mist, ending the encounter without further harm.
Breathing heavily, Soufiane looked at his companions. "Stay alert. This isn't over. The farther south we go, the closer we get to our goal—and the more dangerous it will become."
The evening settled, shadows stretching across the fields. The group remained on high alert, resting but never fully letting their guard down. The journey south was far from over, and the road ahead promised both hope and peril. Tomorrow, they would continue, step by step, inching closer to home, closer to answers, and closer to the final tests of endurance and will.