Soufiane lingered near the fishing boat, hidden beneath the collapsed pier. The waves hissed against the hull, as though urging him to act quickly. But he knew he couldn't survive the sea alone—not for long. He needed help.
That was when he heard it: a sharp, panicked cry from the boulevard above. His heart jolted. Too close.
He climbed the rocks cautiously, crouching low as he peered toward the source of the sound. Near a burned-out kiosk, a woman swung a length of metal pipe at two infected closing in on her. Her strikes were wild, desperate, the creatures snarling as they lunged again.
Soufiane's eyes widened. Even beneath the soot, the fear, the sweat—he recognized her. Amal Oubrain.
She wasn't just a colleague from Lycamobile. She was more than that. During his darkest days—after the divorce, when depression had swallowed his nights—Amal had been the one person who listened. She had urged him to think positively, to believe the weight on his chest could lift. They had shared whispered conversations in the office corners, when others weren't paying attention. She had kept him alive in ways she never knew.
And now she was here, swinging for her life in a world gone mad.
"Amal!" The word tore from his throat before he could stop it.
Her head snapped toward him, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Soufiane?"
It was enough. In that instant of distraction, one of the infected lunged. Soufiane didn't think—he surged forward, knife in hand, and drove the blade deep into the creature's temple. It collapsed, twitching. Amal slammed her pipe down on the second until its skull caved in.
For a moment, silence. Their ragged breaths filled the night. Then Amal stumbled forward, clutching his arm.
"I thought I was the last one," she whispered, tears mixing with ash on her cheeks.
Soufiane shook his head, forcing calm into his voice. "You're not. Not while I'm here."
Behind them, more howls echoed. They had to move.