The apartment smelled of fear. The cousins argued in low, tense voices, their shadows dancing on the walls as the power flickered again. Outside, the city had turned into a graveyard of silence punctured by sudden bursts of chaos—glass shattering, engines roaring, and the occasional inhuman scream.
Anas paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "We need a plan. Supplies won't last more than a day. Food, water, something to protect ourselves with. We can't stay here."
Nabil slammed his fist on the table. "We don't need a plan. We need action! You saw what's happening out there. The people who hesitate are already dead. I say we raid the stores before they're empty."
Zak sat on the couch, trembling. "You don't understand… I saw them with my own eyes. They don't feel pain. I watched a man shoot one in the chest—it didn't stop him. We can't fight them!"
Soufiane tightened his grip on the fishing knife, his mind racing. He wanted to call his parents again, to hear his mother's voice and know she was safe. But the phone lines were useless. He wanted to hold Younes, to protect him from the horrors he hadn't yet seen. But his son was across the sea, and Soufiane was trapped here.
A sound at the window froze them all.
Slowly, Soufiane turned. A silhouette pressed against the glass. A man—or what was left of one. His eyes were clouded, his mouth smeared with blood. He let out a guttural moan and slammed his head against the glass. The pane cracked.
"My GOD…" Zak whispered, backing away.
The glass shattered. The creature tumbled into the apartment, landing in a heap of broken shards. It rose instantly, lunging forward with animal hunger.
Anas grabbed a chair and smashed it down on the thing's head. Wood splintered, but the monster barely flinched.
"Soufiane!" Anas shouted.
Instinct took over. Soufiane drove his fishing knife forward, straight into the creature's temple. It jerked, twitched, and collapsed, finally still.
For a long moment, the room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
Soufiane stared at the blood dripping from his knife. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the realization of what he had just done. This wasn't fishing. This wasn't survival of hobby. This was survival of species.
"It's us or them," Nabil said coldly, staring at the corpse. "And we'd better get used to it."
Soufiane wiped the blade on his jeans, his jaw set. He didn't want to get used to it. But he knew he would have to.
The night had officially drawn its first blood.