Morning in the camp came with a gray, heavy sky. The survivors gathered near the makeshift kitchen, where a woman stirred thin soup in a dented pot. The smell was weak but warm, and for a moment Soufiane almost believed they had found a fragment of normal life. But as he looked around, he noticed the faces—tired, hollow, etched with suspicion. These people weren't a community; they were a collection of broken lives stitched together by necessity.
Amal held a bowl close to Meriem, letting her sip carefully. "It's not much, but it's something," she whispered. Her voice carried a note of forced calm, the way she always tried to lift Soufiane's spirit during his darker moments. He remembered their talks in the call center back in Casablanca, when she would nudge him away from despair with her stubborn optimism. Seeing her now, trying to comfort Meriem in this ruined world, made his chest ache with both gratitude and sorrow.
Abderrazak joined them with his usual calm stride, carrying his soup in one hand. "You know what this reminds me of?" he said casually. "Prison. Everyone waiting for scraps, hoping the guards don't forget."
Soufiane shot him a look. "You're still the same. Always negative."
"Not negative, realist," Abderrazak replied, smirking. "The difference is, I see the end coming before others do."
Their conversation was cut short by shouting near the gates. A group of survivors had returned from a supply run, dragging bags of canned food and bottled water. But instead of relief, the camp erupted in argument. Two men accused the group of hiding part of the loot. A woman cried that her child hadn't eaten in two days. Voices rose, anger flared, and for a terrifying second it looked like the fragile camp might tear itself apart.
Amal moved closer to Soufiane, whispering, "If they start fighting among themselves, this place won't last a week."
Soufiane watched carefully. He knew camps like this were built on hope, but hope was also brittle. One spark of mistrust, and everything could collapse.
Later that afternoon, while repairing the barricades with a few others, Soufiane noticed something strange. Deep scratches marked the outer walls, long grooves as if claws had scraped against the wood. The man working beside him muttered, "They came close last night. Too close."
That evening, as the survivors gathered again near the fire, the camp leader—a weary man with a beard streaked gray—tried to restore order. "We're safe here as long as we stand together," he said firmly. "We keep watch, we share what we find, and we fight if we must. The infected are out there, but they don't control us."
His words fell over the crowd like a fragile blanket. Some nodded, others muttered doubt. Abderrazak leaned close to Soufiane and murmured, "He talks like a preacher, but preachers die first."
Despite the tension, Soufiane found himself scanning the horizon. He couldn't let despair root itself inside him. He thought of Younes in the Netherlands, his sister Zahira in Germany, his parents still somewhere in Morocco. The road ahead was long, but he had to keep moving. This camp was only a pause, not a destination.
That night, while Amal and Meriem slept near the dim fire, Soufiane sat awake, tattoo burning under his sleeve as if it carried its own fire. Abderrazak sat beside him in silence. For once, neither spoke. The night carried distant groans, faint but undeniable—the infected were drawing closer.
The cracks in the walls weren't just wood and wire. They were in the people, in their unity, in the very idea of survival. And Soufiane knew, deep in his chest, that soon this fragile refuge would be tested.