By dawn, Casablanca was unrecognizable. Smoke rose from entire blocks. Car alarms wailed into empty streets. The smell of fire and rot hung heavy in the air.
Soufiane and his cousins moved cautiously, sticking to narrow alleys, avoiding the main roads where screams still echoed. His knife was clenched in his hand, his shirt already stained from last night's fight.
Their first stop was a corner grocery store, its glass doors shattered. Inside, shelves had been stripped bare. Empty cans rolled across the floor. Behind the counter, a shopkeeper lay slumped against the wall, his throat torn out.
Zak gagged and turned away.
"Don't look," Anas said firmly. "Take what's left."
They scavenged what they could—two bottles of water, a pack of stale bread, and a handful of canned sardines. Not much. Not enough.
Nabil stuffed the sardines into his backpack. "Better than nothing."
As they prepared to leave, the roar of an engine filled the street. A battered pickup truck screeched to a halt outside. Three men jumped out, armed with crowbars and knives. Their eyes weren't clouded—they weren't infected.
"Drop the bag," one of them barked in Darija. His voice was low, dangerous.
Soufiane's heart sank. The infected weren't the only threat anymore.
Anas stepped forward, raising a hand. "We don't want trouble. We'll share—"
The man cut him off with a sneer. "Share? This is survival, cousin. And survival has no friends."
The men advanced, weapons gleaming.
For the first time, Soufiane realized the apocalypse wasn't just about monsters. It was about people—what they would become when everything was stripped away.
He raised his knife. His cousins braced themselves.
The city wasn't just burning. It was eating itself alive.