The morning fog hung low over the fields as the group resumed their journey. Every footstep was cautious, measured, almost reverent, as if the land itself could betray them to unseen threats. Soufiane led the way, his eyes sharp, ears tuned to the faintest sound. Younes walked close beside him, clutching Cynthia's hand, trusting her guidance but looking to his father for reassurance.
The landscape gradually shifted. Rolling fields gave way to wind-battered dunes and sparse coastal brush. The scent of salt reached them, faint but unmistakable, stirring memories of distant shores. For a moment, the group paused, taking in the sound of waves breaking far below the cliffs. Even amid the chaos, the sea reminded them that the world was still alive, still capable of beauty.
Mouna adjusted her pack and glanced at Soufiane. "We're close?" she asked quietly.
"Closer than we were yesterday," Soufiane replied, his voice low but steady. "We need to stay alert. The coast can hide more than just the ocean."
Amal and Myriam walked behind, checking on supplies and sharing quiet encouragements. Zahira held her children close, keeping them calm and focused. Julien scouted ahead occasionally, signaling when paths seemed safe or dangerous. Mourad, ever vigilant, scanned the dunes for movement, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
They descended a narrow path toward the coast, the sand crunching beneath their boots. Ruined shacks dotted the landscape, some offering temporary shelter, others hiding dangers that could strike at any moment. The group moved as one, silently, communicating with gestures and glances.
Suddenly, a faint noise carried on the wind—a shuffling, irregular and uneven. Soufiane froze, raising a hand. The group pressed against the dunes, blending with the shadows. A small group of infected emerged from the wrecked houses, drawn by the smell of living flesh. Soufiane counted four. Julien readied his weapon, Mouna gripped her spear, and Cynthia positioned herself protectively near Younes.
The encounter was swift. Coordinated, silent, and deadly. Each move precise, each strike careful to avoid attracting more danger. When the last of the infected fell, the group exhaled collectively, the tension lingering in their muscles. Younes clutched his father's sleeve. "Are they gone?" he whispered.
"For now," Soufiane replied, brushing the boy's hair back. "We keep moving."
By midday, they reached a high ridge overlooking the sea. The waves crashed against the rocky shore, white foam spitting up like tiny explosions. For a moment, the world seemed vast and calm, and the horrors behind them faded, if only briefly. The group settled here for a short rest. Some tended to small injuries, others checked weapons, but all kept a wary eye on the horizon.
Soufiane walked a little apart, taking in the view. He thought of the journey ahead, the route they would take across France, and the hope of finally boarding a ship that could carry them back to Morocco. Cynthia approached silently, carrying a small flask of water. She handed it to him without a word.
"Thank you," Soufiane said, meeting her gaze. Something unspoken passed between them—a quiet understanding, a recognition of shared burdens and shared responsibility.
As the sun began to dip, casting long shadows over the dunes, Soufiane gathered the group. "We push to the coast tonight," he said firmly. "We need a vantage point, a lookout. If a ship is there, we see it first. If not, we plan the next move."
The group moved again, descending through narrow paths and hidden trails. Their shadows stretched across the sand, merging with the darkness of evening. Somewhere below, the waves whispered secrets of distant lands.
And as night fell, Soufiane stood at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the sea, feeling the weight of the journey, the hopes of the group, and the promise of home that lay just beyond the horizon.
The road south was far from over, but for the first time in weeks, the horizon seemed within reach.