Dawn rose like a bruise over the horizon, a faint smear of pale orange bleeding through a thick mist that clung to the ground. The air smelled of rust, salt, and oil — the remnants of an industrial world long abandoned. Soufiane led the group along a cracked service road, boots crunching against broken glass. The sky hung low and heavy, muffling every sound except the whisper of the wind.
Zahira walked a few steps behind him, her eyes darting across the empty plains. She kept her son close, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder as if he might dissolve into the mist if she let go. The boy didn't speak — he hadn't since the incident near the river. Cynthia walked beside them, silent too, the fabric of her jacket torn at the sleeve. The cold bit through it, but she didn't complain. Her gaze stayed fixed on Soufiane's back, tracing the tattoo that disappeared beneath his collar.
They'd left the German border three days ago. The nights had grown quieter, but not safer. Fires still burned far in the distance — old villages now nothing more than feeding grounds for the infected or the desperate. The roads were littered with abandoned cars, their doors open like broken wings, the wind playing with torn maps and children's drawings left behind on the seats.
Soufiane stopped by a burnt-out gas station. The sign still read "Shell – Open 24h", its letters blackened and half melted. He crouched near the entrance, checking the tracks. "Nothing fresh," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Maybe we can rest here."
Zahira hesitated. "You said that last time, and we found bones inside."
He looked up at her — her eyes were sharp, but her voice trembled. "Then this time we'll make sure we're not the next bones."
Cynthia managed a small smirk, brushing the dust off her hands. "That's comforting."
They entered slowly. The building was gutted, the walls painted with soot and moss. A few cans lay scattered across the floor, empty. The shelves were bare except for a lone lighter and a cracked bottle of alcohol that Juliane would later turn into makeshift disinfectant.
Soufiane walked to the far end of the station, looking out the shattered window. Beyond it, a massive refinery stretched into the mist — a forest of rusted pipes and collapsed towers. Black birds circled above it. The place looked dead, but Soufiane's instincts told him otherwise.
"Amal," he called quietly. "Take Mourad and check the perimeter."
Amal nodded, her dark eyes scanning the fog as she loaded her rifle. Mourad followed her, muttering something under his breath — a prayer or a curse, Soufiane couldn't tell.
When they were gone, Cynthia approached the window. "You think we'll find something useful there?" she asked.
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He watched the refinery like it might blink. "I think," he said finally, "that's where we'll find out if luck still wants us alive."
Behind them, Zahira sat with her son, wrapping him in a blanket. Juliane helped her, her hands trembling slightly. "He hasn't eaten," Juliane whispered. "We're almost out of the biscuits."
Zahira nodded. "We always are."
The wind outside changed. It came from the direction of the refinery now, carrying a low metallic moan — like steel dragging across steel. Amal's voice crackled through the radio. "Soufiane," she whispered. "You'd better see this."
He grabbed his rifle and stepped out. Through the fog, he saw what Amal had found: footprints. Human ones, fresh and deep in the mud, leading straight toward the refinery gates. And next to them — a single handprint, smeared in dark red, on the hood of an overturned truck.
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "We're not alone."