The first sound was a low, dry creak — wood bending under pressure.
Then a second, sharper crack.
Soufiane motioned for silence, his hand raised. The group froze in the half-light of the fire. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic thump from beneath the church floor. Something was down there — something alive.
"Everyone stay behind the benches," he whispered. "Murad, Amal — with me."
Murad nodded, grabbing his crowbar. Amal's breath trembled, but she steadied her grip on the rifle. Soufiane crouched by the altar and pressed his ear to the floor. The sound was closer now — a dragging, wet scrape, followed by a faint rasping breath.
Cynthia clutched Younes tighter. "It's human," she said softly. "That doesn't sound like an infected."
Soufiane looked at her. "We'll find out soon enough."
With a single motion, Murad jammed the crowbar under a loose plank and pried it up. A rush of cold, foul-smelling air flooded the church — damp, rot, and metal. The fire flickered weakly, casting long, trembling shadows.
Beneath the floor was darkness. And a hole.
Soufiane aimed his flashlight down. The beam revealed a narrow tunnel, no wider than a man's shoulders. The walls were brick, slick with moisture. And on one of those walls, smeared in black-red, were words:
> "DO NOT RING THEM."
Amal swallowed hard. "Them? The bells?"
Before anyone could answer, a hand shot up from the tunnel — pale, bony, fingers clawing at the air.
Mouna screamed. Murad swung his crowbar, but Soufiane stopped him just in time. "Wait! Wait — it's a person!"
The hand trembled, weakly grasping the air. Slowly, Soufiane reached down and grabbed it. It felt cold as stone, the skin flaking beneath his grip. With Murad's help, he pulled.
A man emerged — or what was left of one. His clothes were torn, his face gray and hollow, eyes sunk deep in dark sockets. He gasped, blinking at the light. His voice came out as a whisper scraped raw by thirst.
"They… they wouldn't stop ringing them…"
Soufiane crouched down. "Who? What happened here?"
The man's eyes rolled toward the altar. "The priest… he said the bells kept them away. But… but when we buried them…"
His words fell into a coughing fit. Cynthia rushed over, holding his head, trying to give him a sip of water. He drank greedily, choking.
Amal leaned closer. "Buried who?"
The man's eyes widened suddenly. "Not who. What."
The moment hung still. Then came another sound from below — a hollow metallic chime, faint but unmistakable.
Ding…
Everyone turned toward the open hole.
Ding… ding… ding.
The sound of church bells — but muffled, warped, as if underwater.
The man began to scream, thrashing in Cynthia's arms. "No! No! You woke them!"
Soufiane grabbed him by the shoulders. "What's down there?"
The man's voice broke. "They buried the bells with the infected! They thought it would silence their screams!"
Before Soufiane could react, the floor beneath the altar buckled. Wood splintered, and a putrid hand burst through the planks, followed by another. Dozens of them.
"Everyone out!" he shouted.
The group scrambled for the doors as the floor collapsed. From the darkness below, the half-rotten bodies of infected dragged themselves upward — their skin blackened, eyes glowing faintly in the light. The trapped moans turned into howls as they clawed their way into the open air.
Murad and Amal fired at the swarm, bullets tearing through skulls. But for each one that fell, two more rose from the pit. The bells kept ringing faintly with every movement, a haunting sound that echoed through the town.
Soufiane grabbed Cynthia and Younes, shoving them toward the side exit. "Go! Don't stop!"
Zahira stumbled, nearly falling as the ground shook under their feet. Abdelrazak caught her arm, pulling her up. "Move, Zahira!"
They burst into the fog-covered street, gasping. Behind them, the church glowed orange as Murad threw a flare through the window. The light illuminated the silhouettes of the undead clawing at the windows, pressing their faces against the glass.
Soufiane turned to Murad. "We need fire. Something big."
Murad nodded, breaking open a jerrycan they had scavenged earlier. He poured gasoline across the steps of the church, then tossed another flare. Flames erupted, racing upward. The wooden structure caught fast, sending sparks into the mist.
Inside, the infected screamed — the sound merging with the tolling of the buried bells until both faded into a single, low rumble.
The group stood in silence, the fire reflecting in their eyes.
Cynthia whispered, "May they finally rest."
Soufiane exhaled, wiping soot from his face. "Let's hope so."
Behind them, the fire devoured the church, and for the first time, the bell tower gave one last, faint chime before collapsing into the inferno.
The group began to move again — slowly, wordlessly, through the ashes and fog.
They didn't notice the small notebook that had fallen from Soufiane's pocket, lying half-burned near the flames. The last line, barely visible, read: