The clash of steel and wood reverberated in the cramped cabin, each strike echoing like a war drum. Javier swung the iron poker wildly, desperation turning his grief into savage strength. Soufiane blocked the first blow with his forearm, pain shooting up his muscles, before shoving back hard with his knife raised.
"Stop this!" Amal's cry cut through the chaos—just as Javier spun, catching her across the arm with the sharp edge of the poker.
She gasped, stumbling back, her sleeve tearing open as blood streaked her skin. Meriem screamed, reaching for her, but Abderrazak pulled her aside, crowbar ready. "Stay back!" he barked, eyes darting between the wounded Amal and the furious father.
Soufiane's vision narrowed. The sight of Amal's blood ignited something primal in him, a dark fire stoked by memories of his son, of the world that had taken too much already. Javier had crossed a line.
"Enough," Soufiane growled.
Javier roared in reply, charging again, poker raised high. Soufiane sidestepped, his knife flashing with brutal precision. The blade sank deep into Javier's side. The man gasped, stumbling, but Soufiane didn't hesitate—he pushed forward, twisting the knife free and plunging it once more into Javier's chest.
The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun. Javier staggered, eyes wide, hands trembling as the poker slipped from his grip. His voice rasped in broken Spanish—half curses, half pleas—as blood bubbled from his lips. He collapsed to the floorboards with a dull thud, the firelight painting his final moments in orange and red.
The cabin fell silent except for the ragged breathing of those still standing. Amal clutched her arm, wincing as blood seeped between her fingers. Meriem rushed to her side, whispering her name in panic.
Soufiane stood over Javier's body, chest heaving, knife dripping. He didn't speak, didn't need to. His expression—hard, shadowed—was enough to silence any protest. He had done what had to be done.
Abderrazak broke the stillness with a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn, hermano… you don't play." He crouched quickly by Amal, inspecting the wound. "It's not too deep," he muttered, relief softening his usually cynical tone. "She'll live, if it doesn't get infected."
Soufiane finally knelt beside Amal, tearing a strip from his own shirt to press against her wound. Their eyes met—hers wide with pain but also trust, his burning with unspoken guilt. "Hold it tight," he said firmly. She nodded, her breath trembling but steady.
Then the sound came.
At first faint, like wind in the branches. Then louder. Groans. Snarls. The unmistakable chorus of the infected. The noise of their fight, Javier's final struggle, had drawn them like moths to flame.
Soufiane turned sharply toward the window. Shadows moved between the trees, shapes swaying, stumbling, but gathering with intent. Eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, reflecting the dying firelight.
"They heard us," Abderrazak muttered, voice low. "We're surrounded."
Soufiane rose, scanning the cabin—one barred door, shuttered windows, supplies barely enough for a day. The cabin had been safety for a night, maybe two. Now it was a trap.
Meriem clung to Amal, her young face pale with fear. "What do we do?" she whispered.
Soufiane tightened his grip on the bloody knife. His voice was calm, but each word carried iron resolve. "We don't stay here. We get out. Together."
Outside, the groans grew louder, the infected circling the cabin like wolves closing on prey. The fragile walls shook as something heavy slammed against them, testing their strength.
The night was no longer silent. Death had found them again.