The first light of dawn revealed a coastline that seemed both welcoming and foreboding. Jagged cliffs rose along the horizon, and the gray sand shimmered wet under the remnants of the storm. Soufiane guided the group toward a small cove, the boats scraping against the sand with gentle shudders. Every muscle ached, every bone throbbed, yet exhaustion could not overcome the need for caution.
They stepped onto the shore, water dripping from clothes, hair plastered to their faces. Younes clung to Cynthia, his small fingers intertwined with hers. Soufiane's eyes scanned the beach, alert for signs of danger. Ruined buildings and abandoned vehicles hinted that they were not alone in this devastated world.
Amal and Myriam helped unload the supplies, while Zahira checked on her children. Mouna and Julien surveyed the perimeter, finding natural barriers that could offer protection if needed. Soufiane took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air mixed with the faint tang of decay. The sea was behind them, but the unknown lay ahead.
"Keep moving," Soufiane said, voice low but firm. "We can't linger too long. Supplies, shelter, and safety—these are our priorities."
As they walked along the shoreline, remnants of civilization appeared in fragments: rusted cars half-buried in sand, collapsed shacks, and the skeletal remains of fishing boats. Each object told a story of lives interrupted, of sudden chaos and the fight to survive. The group moved silently, absorbing these reminders with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
Suddenly, a low growl echoed from the dunes. Abdelazar's hand flew to his weapon, and the group froze. A figure stumbled into view—an infected, moving with jerky, unpredictable motions. Myriam shivered but steadied herself; Mouna gripped her rifle tightly.
"Stand back," Soufiane instructed, stepping forward. "We handle this together."
The infected lunged, and the group reacted as a single unit. The attack was brief but intense, leaving no doubt of the danger they faced. Younes hid behind Cynthia, peeking through the narrow gap between her arms, watching his father and the others dispatch the threat with precision and unity.
Soufiane allowed himself a brief moment of reflection as the adrenaline faded. This was the new reality: every step forward was a gamble, every decision a potential life-or-death choice. Yet the group's cohesion had grown stronger, forged through storms and battles, both literal and emotional.
By midday, they had found an abandoned warehouse, partially intact and offering shelter from the elements. Soufiane assigned watch rotations, organized supplies, and allowed the group to rest. Even in this brief reprieve, tension remained. Every noise, every shadow, every distant shout could signal a threat.
Cynthia approached Soufiane quietly. "Do you think… Morocco is close?" she asked, voice tinged with hope and doubt.
Soufiane shook his head slightly. "Closer than Europe was," he admitted. "But we still have miles to go. And the journey will test us again and again. We must stay sharp."
The group gathered inside the warehouse, tending to injuries and mending torn clothing. Small fires flickered in containers, casting dancing shadows that revealed exhaustion etched into every face. Yet beneath the weariness, there was determination—an unspoken promise that they would reach Morocco, that they would survive together, and that Younes' safety was the ultimate priority.
Outside, the wind moaned through the broken walls, carrying the faint scent of salt and decay. The world was harsh, unforgiving, and indifferent—but Soufiane and his group had found something that even chaos could not erase: unity, courage, and the drive to reclaim a fragment of the life they had lost.
As night fell, Soufiane stood at the edge of the warehouse doorway, looking toward the darkened horizon. The road south remained uncertain, but every step brought them closer. And though challenges awaited—infected, hostile survivors, and the relentless march of survival—they would face them together, unwavering.