The night passed with the uneasy rhythm of rain tapping on broken wood. When dawn finally came, it brought no warmth—only a pale gray sky stretched over the horizon. The group rose quietly, one by one, shaking off the chill that had settled deep into their bones.
Soufiane was already awake, crouched near the barn's doorway, cleaning the mud off his rifle. His eyes traced the faint outline of a bridge visible in the distance—an old steel structure spanning a river swollen with rain. It was the only route south for miles.
Cynthia approached him, wrapping a worn jacket tighter around her shoulders. "You didn't sleep."
He gave a small shake of the head. "Couldn't. The storm masked too much noise. If something came near, we wouldn't have heard it."
She followed his gaze toward the bridge. "Looks unstable."
"Yeah," he murmured. "But it's that or a two-day detour through the woods. We don't have that kind of time."
Behind them, the others were stirring. Amal was tending the fire's dying embers, her sister Myriam sitting beside her, combing her tangled hair with her fingers. Murad helped Zahira pack what remained of their supplies, while Younes and the two children played quietly with a piece of chalk they'd found, drawing crooked shapes on a wooden plank.
There was something achingly human in that sight—a brief illusion of childhood in a world that had devoured innocence long ago.
Soufiane stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "We move out in ten."
The road to the bridge wound through open farmland. Fields stretched on either side, flooded and glistening with water. Scattered farmhouses leaned at odd angles, roofs caved in, windows broken. They passed a field where a scarecrow still stood—its fabric face washed pale by years of sun and rain. Murad gave it a grim look. "Seems like the only one left guarding anything."
Soufiane managed a faint smile. "And doing a better job than most."
When they reached the bridge, the river roared beneath it, brown and wild from the storm. The steel frame groaned in the wind, pieces of it twisted and rusted. A faded sign read Pont de Chalon.
Abdelrazak stepped forward first, testing the planks with his boot. "It'll hold," he said after a moment. "If we go one at a time."
Soufiane nodded. "Alright. I'll lead. Cynthia, you come after me with Younes. Then Zahira and the kids. Murad, you and Abdelrazak take the rear."
They started across, the metal creaking under every step. Below, the water churned violently, swallowing fallen branches and debris. Soufiane kept his eyes forward, ignoring the dizzying pull of the drop beneath him.
Halfway across, a sound cut through the wind—a guttural, distant shriek.
Mouna froze. "Was that—?"
"Yes," Soufiane hissed. "Keep moving!"
From the far end of the bridge, shadows emerged—three, then five, then more. Infected. Their skin gray, their movements jerky but fast. They'd heard the group, drawn by the echo of footsteps and human scent.
Cynthia clutched Younes close, her face pale. "They're coming!"
"Run!" Soufiane barked. "Go, go!"
The bridge shuddered as everyone broke into motion. The infected rushed forward, their screams blending with the roar of the river. Abdelrazak turned and fired, bullets tearing through the first two creatures, but more came, scrambling over the fallen bodies like rabid animals.
"Keep shooting!" Murad shouted. "Don't let them reach us!"
Soufiane reached the other side first and spun around. Cynthia and Younes were halfway across; Zahira and her children just behind them. Amal stumbled as a plank broke under her foot, splinters flying. She caught herself with a gasp, clinging to the railing.
"Amal!" Myriam screamed.
"I'm fine—keep moving!"
Soufiane ran back a few steps, grabbed Cynthia's arm, and pulled her forward. "Hurry!"
Behind them, Murad fired again—click. Empty. He cursed, tossing the rifle aside and grabbing a metal rod instead. An infected lunged at him, its mouth open wide. Murad swung the rod, crushing its skull with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed across the rusted metal beams.
Abdelrazak threw his arm around Murad's shoulder. "We're out of ammo! Move!"
They were almost across when a violent crack split the air. A support beam gave way, and a section of the bridge lurched downward. Mouna screamed as she fell to her knees, gripping the railing with both hands.
Soufiane rushed forward, reaching her just in time. "Hold on!"
"I can't!" she cried, her fingers slipping on the wet steel.
He leaned over, grabbing her wrist. The strain pulled at his shoulder, pain shooting through his arm. "Don't let go!"
Cynthia and Amal rushed to help, each grabbing an arm. Together, they hauled Mouna up just as another infected fell onto the collapsing section behind her. The bridge shook violently.
"Run!" Soufiane shouted again.
They sprinted the last few meters and jumped as the middle section gave way behind them, crashing into the river below with a deafening roar. The infected were swept away, their screams drowned by the raging current.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the sound of rushing water filled the air.
Soufiane dropped to his knees, chest heaving, soaked in sweat and rain. Younes clung to Cynthia, trembling. Amal sat beside Mouna, gripping her hand tightly.
Finally, Murad let out a shaky laugh. "Well," he said, breathing hard, "at least we know we can't go back."
The tension broke. A few nervous laughs echoed through the group. Soufiane managed a small, tired smile. "No," he said softly. "We move forward. Always forward."
They left the broken bridge behind, heading toward the hills beyond. The morning sun began to rise through the clouds, casting pale gold over the flooded fields. For the first time in days, the light felt almost warm.
As they walked, Cynthia glanced at Soufiane. "You didn't think it would hold, did you?"
He gave her a faint, weary grin. "Didn't think we would either."
They kept walking, silhouettes against the morning mist—tired, battered, but alive.
And somewhere ahead, beyond the hills and rivers and ruin, waited the road that would lead them home.