By the time Soufiane reached Ain Diab, night had fallen completely. The ocean roared against the rocks, carrying with it the scent of salt and decay. Fires burned along the beachside—cars overturned and torched, restaurants once buzzing with tourists now skeletal frames of ash.
He crouched behind a stone barrier, watching a group of survivors fighting off infected near a parking lot. Their shouts were desperate, the clash of metal against bone sharp in the still night. For a moment, Soufiane considered helping them—but he counted at least twenty infected closing in. He couldn't risk it. He stayed low, teeth clenched, and crawled along the barrier until he was clear.
The sea… it calmed him, even now. His old hobby. He thought of the afternoons spent fishing with his father, Mohamed, by these very shores. Back then, the greatest danger was losing a line or having to wait hours for a catch. Now, the ocean represented something else: a way out.
He climbed down the rocks, searching. If he could find a boat—even a small one—he could begin planning his escape. He needed supplies, fuel, maybe other survivors who could handle the sea. His pulse quickened with a dangerous kind of hope.
Then he saw it. Hidden beneath the shadow of a collapsed pier, a fishing boat rocked gently, abandoned. Its hull was scarred, but intact. Soufiane's eyes widened. This could be the beginning. The first step not just to flee Casablanca, but toward Younes, toward Zahira, toward survival beyond this crumbling city.
The fires of Ain Diab burned behind him, but the sea ahead whispered a fragile promise: escape.