By morning, hunger pushed them forward. Following broken roads, they walked through small villages where silence screamed louder than any crowd. Cars rusted in place, doors wide open, as if the world had ended mid-breath.
It was Meriem who first spotted smoke rising in the distance. "A fire," she whispered. "Maybe… people?"
They followed the signal cautiously, hearts pounding. Soon, a makeshift camp appeared—tents stitched together with tarps, wooden barricades forming a crude circle. Figures moved inside, thin and weary but alive.
Sofiane raised his hands as they approached. A guard pointed a rifle at them, but lowered it when another man stepped forward. Sofiane froze. The face was older, marked with struggle, but unmistakable.
"Abderrazak?" Sofiane muttered.
The man grinned faintly, his dark skin glistening with sweat, his calm aura unchanged despite the chaos. He was 38 now, taller than Sofiane remembered, still with that cool, laid-back way of standing.
"Ya khouya… I thought I'd never see you again," Abderrazak said.
Memories of nights in Hay-Mohammadi came rushing back—their endless talks, the foolish bets on 1xBet and Melbet, the laughter that once drowned out their hardships.
Abderrazak pulled him into a rough embrace. "You survived. Wallah, you really survived."
But the joy was short-lived. Inside the camp, the atmosphere was heavy. Survivors ate quietly, always watching the barricades. Whispered words about attacks, about infected swarms nearby, spread through the air. Amal clutched Sofiane's arm, uneasy.
For one brief moment, Sofiane felt warmth—he had found an old brother in this wasteland. Yet, deep inside, he knew camps like these never lasted long. Survival, once again, would demand choices no one wanted to make.