The first night in the Spanish camp felt almost unreal to Soufiane. For weeks, the soundscape of his life had been the crash of waves, the moaning of the infected, and the hollow echo of footsteps through empty streets. Now, he was surrounded by voices—low murmurs, the occasional laugh, the crackle of a campfire. Human voices. It should have been comforting, but to him it was unnerving. Every sound reminded him how fragile this pocket of survival really was.
The camp was set on the remains of a small rural town, a cluster of stone houses surrounded by improvised barricades of cars, barbed wire, and wooden planks. By day, survivors worked to reinforce defenses and search for supplies. By night, they huddled close to the fire, as if the flames alone could push back the horror outside.
Amal walked beside him as they were given a brief tour. She seemed quietly impressed, but Soufiane noticed how her eyes scanned every corner, measuring exits and weaknesses. Meriem stayed close to Amal, holding her arm like a child despite her young age. For her, the sight of other living people was both reassuring and terrifying.
It was near the central square of the ruined town that Soufiane finally spotted him. A man leaning casually against the wall of a burned café, arms crossed, face lit by firelight. His skin was dark, his shaved head gleamed faintly, and there was something in his posture—calm, too calm, like nothing could surprise him anymore. When their eyes met, recognition struck like lightning.
"Soufiane? Ya khouya… is that really you?" the man said, pushing himself off the wall.
Soufiane froze. "Abderrazak?"
They embraced quickly, the kind of rough hug that only old friends from the same street could give each other. Memories of Hay-Mohammadi surfaced instantly—nights of smoke-filled cafés, arguments over football, shouting at TV screens as they bet on OneXBet and Melbet, always with that mix of bravado and desperation.
"You're alive," Soufiane muttered, stepping back. "I didn't think…"
"I didn't think either," Abderrazak cut him off with a smirk. His tone was cool, detached, but Soufiane could hear the shadow beneath it. "This world is finished, bro. But here we are, pretending we can survive a little longer."
Amal stepped forward, cautious. "You two know each other?"
"From the neighborhood," Soufiane said, his voice heavy with nostalgia. "We grew up together."
Abderrazak nodded at Amal and Meriem but didn't say much, his eyes already scanning the barricades like he'd been doing it all his life. He had that same energy as back in Casablanca—always calm, always joking, but never optimistic.
Later, as the camp settled into uneasy sleep, Soufiane sat with his old friend near the dim fire. Amal had taken Meriem to a corner to rest. For the first time in days, Soufiane allowed himself to speak without holding back.
"Do you think this place will last?" he asked.
Abderrazak chuckled bitterly, poking at the fire with a stick. "Nothing lasts, brother. Not the old world, not our bets, not even this camp. People here—they hope too much. Hope is dangerous now."
Soufiane stared at him, conflicted. The words rang true, but they carried the weight of surrender. Soufiane couldn't afford that—not when his son Younes was still out there, waiting.
Above them, the night sky was clouded, but a thin crescent moon slipped through, casting pale light over the barricades. The sound of the infected drifted faintly from beyond the fields, a reminder that danger was never far.
Soufiane clenched his fists. For a moment, he looked at his tattoo—the angel inked on his forearm, holding Younes' name. It was his anchor, the only thing that kept him from drowning in the darkness. He whispered to himself, almost like a vow:
"I will not stop. Not here. Not yet."
The fire crackled. Abderrazak only shook his head slowly, but Soufiane noticed something in his eyes—an unspoken respect. Maybe, just maybe, that fragile flame of determination could keep them alive a little longer.