The night smelled of burnt metal and rain.
Smoke from the refinery rolled over the hills like a living thing, heavy and oily, swallowing the stars. The group had taken shelter beneath a collapsed billboard half a kilometer away. From there, they watched the inferno devour what was left of the refinery, a pillar of orange rising into the bruised sky.
No one spoke for a long time. The crackle of fire was their only companion.
Soufiane sat apart, hands blackened with soot, rifle across his knees. His eyes were locked on the flames, unblinking. Each burst of light flickered across his face — guilt, fatigue, and something else: confusion.
Cynthia sat nearby, cradling Younes, who had finally fallen asleep against her chest. She looked smaller in the firelight, fragile in a way she'd never shown before. Amal and Mourad stood a few meters away, scanning the horizon for movement.
Juliane returned from a brief recon patrol, her expression grave. "The main road's gone," she said. "The explosion tore up the asphalt and set the forest edge on fire. We'll have to move east if we want to reach Lyon."
Amal nodded, but her eyes weren't on the road. "That woman…" she muttered. "What she said — about a father."
Cynthia looked up. "You think she meant Ayoub?"
Amal shook her head. "No. Ayoub was a monster, but not the kind that makes others worship him. She talked like she'd seen something divine. Or thought she had."
Soufiane finally spoke, his voice low. "A cult. Born from the flames. Maybe they turned the refinery into a shrine."
Mourad crouched, tossing a small rock into the dirt. "You think they're connected to the infection?"
Amal hesitated. The fire's reflection glimmered in her eyes. "Maybe not to the infection itself — but to how people survived it. Think about it. Every place we've been, we've seen groups twist their own tragedies into faith." She looked toward the burning ruins. "But this one felt… different. Organized. Like someone's guiding them."
Juliane frowned. "Someone who still believes the world can be rebuilt through fire."
A silence fell again. The kind that settles when everyone realizes they might have glimpsed something much larger than themselves.
Cynthia brushed Younes's hair back gently. "He's too young for this," she whispered. "He shouldn't have to see any of it."
Soufiane turned toward her, his voice softening. "He's seen more than any child should. But he's still here. That means something."
She looked at him — really looked at him — for the first time since they'd escaped. The dirt on his face couldn't hide the exhaustion in his eyes, nor the quiet strength still burning behind them. "You always think you have to carry it all, don't you?" she said.
Soufiane blinked, caught off guard.
Cynthia smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Even when it breaks you."
Before he could answer, a sudden metallic clang echoed through the distance — something heavy falling against steel. The group tensed instantly.
Amal raised her weapon. "Sounded close."
Juliane gestured for silence. They waited, listening. Another noise came — softer this time. Footsteps, scraping over gravel.
"Movement, north ridge," Mourad whispered.
Soufiane lifted his rifle and motioned for the others to fan out. They moved slowly, crouched, advancing toward the sound. The night wind carried faint whispers — not words, but breathing.
When they reached the ridge, Soufiane froze.
There, standing just at the edge of the firelight, were three figures — their clothes scorched, faces streaked with soot and ash. Survivors. Or what used to be survivors.
Their eyes glowed faintly red in the dark.
The same shade as the woman's.
Cynthia gasped softly. "No… it can't be."
One of the figures stepped forward, his voice rasping like sandpaper. "You woke the fire."
Soufiane aimed his rifle. "Stay where you are!"
But they didn't stop. The three moved closer, their movements wrong — too fluid, too synchronized. Amal fired a warning shot. It hit the nearest one in the shoulder. The man didn't flinch. He kept walking, a small smile spreading across his burned face.
Then all three began to hum the same melody — the same lullaby the woman had sung in the tunnels.
"Soufiane!" Cynthia shouted.
He fired. Once. Twice. Three times. The bodies fell, but the humming didn't stop immediately — it lingered, fading like an echo trapped in the air.
When silence returned, Mourad exhaled shakily. "They followed us."
Amal's hands trembled slightly as she reloaded her gun. "Or they were already here."
Soufiane scanned the darkness one last time, then lowered his weapon. "Either way, we can't stay."
He turned to the group. "We move at first light. East — through the forests. We find another route south."
Cynthia glanced back at the burning refinery. "And what if more of them come?"
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "Then we finish what the fire started."
He looked toward the horizon — a black line separating night from the faintest glow of dawn. The world ahead was still dying, but something inside him had begun to shift.
The cult, the infection, the strange persistence of faith in a dead world — it all connected somehow.
And deep down, Soufiane knew that if they didn't uncover who or what "the father" truly was, there might not be a world left to return to.