A heavy silence settled. Nabil clenched his fists, disappointment evident on his face. Zak and Anas exchanged worried glances but understood Soufiane's determination.
"Alright… take care of yourself," murmured Anas, his voice trembling.
Soufiane nodded. He ran a hand over the tattoo of Younes, the little angel etched on his forearm, and took a deep breath. "I'll come back if I can… take care of yourselves until then. Head somewhere safe, away from the monsters. When I find my son and my sister, and see my parents again… I'll meet you there once it's all over."
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the boat. His cousins stayed for a moment, then slowly, silently, they went their separate ways, following his advice, each aware that their paths were now diverging—but with hope that they would reunite once the mission was complete.
Casablanca's streets had become a labyrinth of dread. Soufiane moved swiftly through narrow alleys, hugging the damp walls of old buildings as the cries of the infected echoed through the city. The air was heavy with smoke, mingling with the metallic stench of blood. His backpack thudded softly against his back, carrying only a bottle of water, a few biscuits, and the battered fishing knife he had sharpened earlier.
Every corner felt like a gamble. He turned one, nearly colliding with an overturned cart. Its contents—tomatoes, now crushed and rotting—bled into the cracked pavement. Soufiane crouched, listening. From the boulevard ahead came the sound of pounding feet and guttural growls. A horde. Too many.
He ducked into a side street, where laundry still hung between windows as if the city hadn't noticed it was dead. His throat tightened at the thought of Younes. Seven years old, far away in the Netherlands. Did his boy even know what was happening? Was his ex-wife keeping him safe?
Soufiane shook the thought aside. Survive first. Then find them.
As he passed an abandoned café, he noticed a shadow flicker inside. He froze. Another survivor? Or one of them? Slowly, he tightened his grip on the knife, stepping closer. The door creaked open just slightly with the wind. From within came a faint whisper, almost human.
His heart raced. Not yet—don't take chances. He backed away, careful not to disturb the silence, and kept moving. The city wasn't forgiving mistakes anymore.
Far ahead, he could see smoke rising—black, dense, and twisting into the night sky. Maybe the military, maybe another collapse. The road of shadows stretched endlessly forward, and Soufiane had no choice but to walk it.