The road stretched endlessly before them, cracked and pale beneath the soft drizzle. The French countryside, once green and filled with quiet villages, had become a wasteland of silence. The group moved cautiously—Soufiane in front, rifle in hand, scanning every bend in the broken asphalt. Behind him walked Cynthia, Younes close to her side, his small backpack bouncing with every step. The others followed in pairs: Amal and her sister Myriam, Murad and Abdelrazak, Mouna, and Zahira with her two children, their faces pale but determined.
A distant wind carried the faint smell of ash and wet soil. Nature was slowly reclaiming what humanity had left behind. Ivy crept over rusted cars, grass pierced through the cracks in the road, and birds—few but defiant—sang from the skeletal remains of trees.
They hadn't seen an infected in hours, but no one dared to relax. In this new world, peace was always temporary, and every silence felt like a warning.
"Are we close to Lyon?" Amal asked softly, tightening her scarf against the cold.
"Two, maybe three days," Soufiane replied without turning. His voice was low, weary. "If the roads stay clear."
Mouna kicked a small rock off the edge of the road. "If," she muttered, her tone sharp but tired.
They walked for a while in silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot their only companion. Soufiane glanced back occasionally, counting heads the way he always did—an instinct he couldn't let go of. He remembered the nights in Germany when they thought they wouldn't survive, the screams in the dark, the loss of Ayoub… the blood on his hands.
Sometimes, he could still see Ayoub's eyes before the end—wild, broken, filled with something that looked almost like regret.
Cynthia noticed his distant stare. "You're thinking of him again," she said gently.
Soufiane nodded. "It never really leaves you."
She didn't respond. Instead, she reached for Younes' hand and squeezed it. The boy was humming a song his mother used to sing, a tune that floated through the cold air like a ghost.
They reached a small hill overlooking what used to be a village. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys—too steady to be from a fire long gone. Soufiane crouched and raised his hand for the group to stop.
"Someone's there," he whispered.
Murad and Abdelrazak moved forward, flanking him quietly. The others crouched low, tension spreading through the air like static. From the distance came faint voices—human, not infected. Three of them, maybe four.
Soufiane gestured for the others to wait. He crept down the slope with Murad. When they reached the edge of the first ruined house, they saw movement—two men rummaging through a burnt vehicle, one holding a machete, the other a pistol. Both looked exhausted, desperate, and dangerous.
"Scavengers," Murad whispered.
"Maybe worse," Soufiane murmured.
He studied them carefully. Their clothes were torn but dry, meaning they hadn't been on the road long. A small campfire flickered nearby, and behind it lay something covered with a tarp—supplies, maybe stolen.
Soufiane's hand tightened on his rifle. He hated this part—the human part. He'd fought monsters, but people… people were unpredictable.
Suddenly, a voice shouted from behind them. "Hey! Who's there?"
Soufiane froze. One of the scavengers had seen them.
Within seconds, chaos erupted. The man with the pistol fired a shot that cracked through the still air. Soufiane rolled behind a wall, returning fire. Murad shouted for the others to get down. Zahira screamed for her children.
Bullets shattered glass and bit into the stone. Mouna grabbed a metal pipe from the ground and pressed her back against a wall, her breath quick and ragged. "How many?" she shouted.
"Four!" Soufiane yelled back. "Stay low!"
Abdelrazak moved to cover the left side, firing short bursts to keep them pinned. Amal crawled toward Zahira and the kids, shielding them behind an overturned cart. Cynthia held Younes tightly, whispering for him to stay quiet.
The gunfire echoed for what felt like forever. Then, silence.
Soufiane waited, heart hammering. He gave Murad a look. Murad nodded and moved forward cautiously. One of the scavengers lay on the ground, bleeding, his pistol a few meters away. The others had fled into the trees, leaving behind their makeshift camp.
Soufiane approached the fallen man. His face was pale, eyes half-open. "Please…" the man gasped. "We just wanted food."
Soufiane hesitated. He could have ended it there, but something inside him recoiled. He lowered his weapon and turned away. "Take what you need from the camp," he said to Murad. "Then let's move."
As they gathered the supplies—some canned food, a few blankets, a map—the rain began to fall harder. Amal looked at Soufiane, her eyes full of quiet anger. "You should've killed them," she said. "They'll come back."
Soufiane looked down at his wet boots. "Maybe," he said. "But maybe they'll remember mercy."
They continued south as the storm thickened, walking in silence except for the soft patter of rain on the road. The children were tired, their small feet dragging through puddles.
As dusk fell, they found shelter inside a half-collapsed barn. The smell of hay and damp wood surrounded them. Amal started a small fire, and the group huddled close.
Zahira brushed her daughter's hair and whispered stories of Casablanca, of the sea, of days when laughter still existed. Cynthia smiled faintly at the mention of Morocco, then looked toward Soufiane, who sat apart, staring into the fire.
"We'll get there," she said quietly. "Home."
Soufiane didn't answer at first. His mind was far away—on the journey still ahead, on the unknown dangers waiting for them across the sea.
Finally, he nodded. "We'll get there," he repeated. "Whatever it takes."
Outside, thunder rumbled over the distant hills, and the flames flickered like fragile hope against the cold night.