They moved through the old medina at dawn, its narrow alleys choked with smoke and dust. The familiar walls, once painted in vibrant blues and whites, were scarred with soot. The shops were abandoned, shutters hanging broken, cats slinking silently through piles of trash.
Soufiane remembered walking these streets as a boy with his father, Mohamed, holding his hand while Naima bargained for spices. Those memories felt like they belonged to someone else, in another lifetime.
The medina was no longer a market. It was a hunting ground.
From behind a row of overturned carts came a shriek, high and piercing. An infected woman stumbled into view, her hair matted with blood, her jaw hanging unnaturally. She charged without hesitation.
This time, it was Zak who moved first. His hands shook, but he swung a metal pipe he had picked up earlier. The blow connected with her skull. She dropped instantly.
Zak stood frozen, staring at the body. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His cousins looked at him in shock.
"I… I did it," Zak stammered. "I killed her."
Nabil clapped him on the back with a cruel grin. "Took you long enough."
But Soufiane stepped closer, putting a hand on Zak's shoulder. "You did what you had to. Don't think about it. Just… keep moving."
They pressed deeper into the medina, passing burned stalls and abandoned homes. The air grew thicker with smoke. At the far end, the narrow street opened onto a square—now a battlefield.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered, both infected and human. A military truck sat abandoned, its back door hanging open. Soldiers' rifles glinted in the dirt beside corpses still wearing their uniforms.
Anas's eyes lit up. "Weapons."
They hurried forward, picking through the wreckage. Soufiane grabbed a handgun, heavy and unfamiliar in his grip. Nabil slung a rifle over his shoulder, a wild smile on his lips. Zak clutched a pistol awkwardly, his hands still trembling.
The sound of helicopters roared overhead, distant but growing. The cousins looked up. For a moment, hope surged.
Maybe the army was still fighting. Maybe there was still order.
But as the helicopters passed, they dropped not food nor aid—but fire. Napalm streaked across the horizon, igniting whole blocks of the city. The flames rose higher, the screams grew louder, and Casablanca itself seemed to burn.
Soufiane's heart sank. The government wasn't trying to save the city.
They were trying to erase it.