The road after the bridge wound through rolling hills covered in mist. Hours passed in silence, only broken by the distant caw of crows and the rhythmic crunch of boots on gravel. The air smelled faintly of iron and wet grass.
By midday, they reached a valley where the outlines of a small town appeared through the fog. The roofs were steep and dark, the streets narrow and still. A church bell tower rose above everything, its cross bent sideways. No sound came from it—no bells, no wind chime, only silence.
Amal stopped at the edge of the main road, tightening her scarf. "It looks empty."
Soufiane studied the town with a soldier's caution. "Looks can lie. Stay sharp. No noise unless necessary."
They moved carefully, weapons drawn, Younes and the children kept in the center of the group. Every window they passed was shattered. Cars lay overturned, their metal skeletons rusted. Posters from before the collapse flapped weakly against cracked walls—faces smiling for products that no longer existed.
As they reached the town square, Cynthia knelt beside an overturned cart. "There's dried blood here," she murmured. "A lot of it."
"Recent?" asked Murad.
She touched it, frowned. "A few days old, maybe less."
Soufiane's hand tightened on his rifle. "Then someone's been here. Or still is."
The church doors stood slightly open. The group exchanged uneasy glances. The silence pressed heavier with every breath, as if the air itself was holding them back.
Abdelrazak was the first to move. "Let's check inside. If it's clear, we can rest there."
Inside, the church was dim and cold. Sunlight spilled through stained glass, painting broken pews in shards of color. A few candles still stood near the altar, melted into puddles of wax.
Mouna whispered, "Someone lived here."
"Or prayed here," Zahira added quietly.
Soufiane approached the altar. A hand-carved crucifix hung crookedly above it, the wood stained dark. Below, a small notebook lay half open. He picked it up carefully, brushing away the dust.
The last page read:
> "The bells have stopped. We buried them under the nave. May God forgive us."
He read it twice before lowering his eyes. "They buried something here."
Cynthia looked around. "What does that mean? Buried who?"
Murad knelt and tapped the wooden floorboards with the butt of his knife. The sound changed—hollow. "There's a crawl space," he said. "Under the nave."
Before Soufiane could respond, a noise came from the far end of the church. A soft scraping, like nails dragging against stone. The group froze. Then—another sound. A breath. A groan.
"They're here," whispered Amal.
The back door burst open, and two infected stumbled in, their skin gray, eyes milky. Behind them came more—slow at first, then faster as they caught the scent of the living.
"Positions!" Soufiane barked.
The church erupted in chaos. Gunfire echoed between stone walls, deafening. Mouna fired twice, her hands shaking. Murad swung an iron pipe, striking one creature across the jaw. Blood splattered across a statue of the Virgin.
Cynthia pulled Younes behind the altar, shielding him with her body. "Stay down!"
Soufiane emptied his clip, then switched to his knife. He moved fast and precise, cutting through two attackers before they reached the group. Amal's scream tore through the noise as one infected lunged toward her—then Abdelrazak shot it down just in time.
The fight lasted less than a minute, but the echoes lingered long after the last infected fell.
When silence returned, it was thicker than before.
Soufiane leaned against a pillar, catching his breath. "Everyone okay?"
A chorus of shaken voices answered—yes, mostly. Only minor cuts.
Zahira looked around the desecrated church, her face pale. "This place is cursed."
"Maybe," said Murad, wiping blood from his arm. "But it's shelter for the night."
They barricaded the doors and windows as best they could. Outside, the fog thickened until the world beyond the stained glass vanished completely.
Later, as the group sat around a small fire made from broken pews, Cynthia's eyes drifted toward the darkened altar. "What did you read in that notebook, Sofiane?"
He hesitated. The firelight flickered across his face. "It said they buried the bells under the nave."
"Bells?" Mouna frowned. "Why would anyone bury bells?"
"Maybe they meant something else," said Abdelrazak. "Maybe… people."
A heavy silence followed.
Soufiane closed the notebook and stared into the flames. "Whatever it was, it's not our concern anymore. We rest until dawn, then move on."
But sleep came uneasily. The church creaked with the wind. Somewhere below the floorboards came faint, irregular thumps—soft, rhythmic, almost like something breathing underground.
Cynthia turned toward Soufiane in the dark. "Do you hear that?" she whispered.
He opened his eyes, listening. The sound came again—slow, muffled.
"Yes," he murmured. "I hear it."
Then another sound joined it—metal scraping against wood.
Something was moving beneath the floor.
Soufiane sat up, reaching for his knife, his voice low but sharp. "Everyone, wake up. Now."
The fire flickered as the first plank beneath the altar began to crack.