The forest outside had grown quiet in the early morning, the wind whispering through the pines. Inside the cabin, the small group stirred from uneasy sleep, stretching and rubbing eyes that had seen too little rest. Soufiane kept watch by the window, machete in hand, eyes scanning the shadowed treeline.
A sudden knock at the door made everyone freeze. It was hesitant, timid, yet insistent. Soufiane tightened his grip on the weapon. "Who's there?" he called, voice low but sharp.
A crackling cough answered him, then the bolt slid back with a groan. The door creaked open, revealing a man, gaunt, filthy, and clearly exhausted. He stumbled forward and collapsed on the wooden floorboards, clutching a torn backpack. Behind him, two more figures appeared—one a woman gripping a young man by the arm, both wide-eyed and trembling.
Abderrazak dropped the bar into place with a heavy clang, his crowbar already in hand. "Hold it," he said, voice taut, eyes darting to the forest. The distant shrieks of the infected carried faintly on the wind. For now, the cabin remained their fragile refuge.
The woman sank to her knees, her hands shaking. "Thank you… thank you," she whispered, voice hoarse and breaking.
Soufiane stepped forward, knife ready, suspicion tightening in his chest. "Who are you?"
The older man on the floor, mid-forties, beard streaked with gray, coughed violently before answering. "Travelers… from Valencia. We've been running for days. No food… no rest."
Meriem rushed to offer a canteen, kneeling beside him, concern written across her face. Abderrazak's eyes flicked to her, a faint stir of protectiveness crossing his features.
Amal, however, wasn't convinced. She crouched near the younger man, observing his every movement. His arm was hidden under a sleeve, and his hands trembled slightly. "Why are you hiding your arm?" she asked sharply.
The boy stiffened. "Nothing… just scraped it on the run," he muttered, attempting to pull his sleeve lower. Amal grabbed his wrist firmly before he could cover it again.
The cloth slipped back, revealing a deep, ragged bite mark along his forearm. Dark veins were already spreading beneath the skin, the telltale sign of infection.
"No…" Meriem breathed, stepping back, her face pale.
Soufiane's chest tightened, the weight of their situation pressing down. "You brought this into our shelter?" His voice was a growl, edged with rage and disbelief.
The older man threw his hands up, desperate. "Please! He's my son! He… he can fight it—"
"There's no fighting it," Abderrazak snapped, stepping between Meriem and the boy, crowbar raised, stance unwavering.
The boy's breathing grew ragged, his eyes flickering with a hunger that made Soufiane's stomach twist. Amal's voice cut through the tension, firm despite the tremor beneath it. "If we don't act now, he'll turn. And then none of us will survive this cabin."
The father sank to his knees, tears streaking his mud-caked face. "Please… don't kill him! He's all I have left!"
Soufiane's hand tightened around the knife, the tattoo of Younes burning beneath his sleeve as if urging him forward. He thought of his son, of all the impossible choices this world demanded.
The boy shuddered, lips peeling back in a guttural snarl. Time had vanished. The moment demanded action.
Soufiane stepped forward, eyes locking on the boy, heart hammering. There was no room for hesitation.