The descent toward Marseille began at dawn, when the sky still held the pale gray of ashes. From the ridge, the city stretched below them like a carcass devoured by time. The sea shimmered faintly in the distance, reflecting a sickly orange light where the sun fought through layers of smoke. Broken cranes leaned over the docks like dead giants, and ships—some capsized, others half-sunken—crowded the harbor like forgotten bones of a dying civilization.
Soufiane stood still for a long time, watching the city. Behind him, the group was silent. No one spoke, not even Younes, who usually hummed softly to himself. For a moment, the only sound was the rustle of dry grass beneath their boots and the faint hum of wind coming from the sea.
"We'll move when the light gets stronger," Soufiane said finally. His voice carried the weight of weeks spent walking, fighting, and burying memories. "We'll find a way down through the eastern road—if it's still standing."
Cynthia nodded, tightening her jacket. "And once we reach the harbor?"
"We look for boats," Mourad said, his tone pragmatic. "Even one that floats long enough to reach the African coast."
Zahira glanced toward the horizon. "If the coast still exists."
No one answered her. It was the kind of silence that followed them everywhere now—the silence of people who had seen too much and still had to keep going.
They began their descent through what had once been a scenic route overlooking the Mediterranean. Cracks split the asphalt like veins of a dying planet. Burned cars lay in ditches, and road signs were half-melted, their letters erased by heat. Along the cliffs, the wind carried the faint smell of salt—and something else, rotten and chemical.
Julian led the way, his rifle ready. "I can see smoke down there," he whispered. "Near the port."
Soufiane squinted. Indeed, thin columns of smoke rose from what looked like the remains of a shipyard. Not thick enough for fire—more like campfire smoke. That meant survivors. Or traps.
They reached the outskirts by midday. What had once been the outer neighborhoods of Marseille now resembled a war zone. Entire blocks were gone, reduced to skeletons of concrete and twisted metal. Posters still clung to some walls, their faces faded and torn by wind: Stay Calm — Help is Coming. The irony of it cut through everyone's mind.
Inside a half-collapsed supermarket, they stopped for water and supplies. Amal took a small notebook from her bag—her journal, still miraculously intact. She began to write, her pen trembling slightly.
> "We are at the edge of the sea.
The city smells of death, salt, and burned rubber.
Sometimes I wonder if the world ended because we stopped looking for beauty."
She closed it quickly, as if ashamed to have written it.
They moved again, crossing through streets overtaken by vegetation. Ivy had crawled up over cars and balconies, weaving a strange kind of rebirth over destruction. Myriam pointed toward a distant building shaped like a dome. "That must be the cathedral," she murmured. "It's still standing."
"Good," Soufiane said. "That means the port is close."
By the time the sun began to fall, the group had reached the lower district, where the sea wind hit their faces. The sound of waves was faint but real—something living among all that death. For Younes, it was mesmerizing. He ran ahead, his small shoes splashing through puddles of stagnant water.
"Papa! Look!" he called, pointing toward the water.
Soufiane followed—and froze.
Below the ridge, the harbor stretched like a metallic graveyard. Dozens of ships rested on their sides, tangled in debris and rusted cranes. But among them, one vessel stood out. It was not sunken, not destroyed. A large white ferry, tilted slightly but still afloat, anchored near a half-collapsed pier. On its side, barely visible through the grime, the name read: "TANGER EXPRESS."
"Tanger…" Mourad whispered. "You see that? It's a ferry from Morocco."
Zahira's hands trembled. "It's impossible. It can't still work."
Soufiane said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on the ship. Something about it—its stillness, its silence—felt unnatural, like a ghost waiting for passengers. The last ferry of the old world.
Cynthia took a step closer to him. "Do you think it's safe?"
"No," he said honestly. "But it's the first sign of home we've seen in months."
They descended slowly toward the docks. The air grew thicker with salt and decay. The wind carried the faint clatter of loose metal and the cry of gulls circling above. The closer they got, the more Soufiane felt his pulse rising. Every shadow, every echo could hide danger. He motioned for silence, raising his hand.
As they neared the pier, a sound broke the stillness. Not wind. Not gulls.
Footsteps.
Soft, dragging footsteps coming from the direction of the ferry.
Julian aimed his rifle immediately. Mourad crouched low, whispering, "Movement, left side!"
Shapes emerged between the wrecked containers—three, maybe four. Not moving like infected. Too steady. Too deliberate. Then a voice, hoarse and human, echoed across the harbor.
"Who's there?" it called in French. "Stay where you are!"
The group froze. Soufiane raised his hand slowly, signaling peace.
"We're survivors," he shouted back. "We're looking for a way south!"
For a moment, there was silence—then the sound of boots approaching, cautious but confident. A figure stepped out of the shadows, a man dressed in a tattered naval jacket, holding a flare gun.
"You picked the wrong night to come here," the man said. Behind him, two others appeared, faces half-hidden by salt and grime.
Soufiane's fingers brushed the handle of his pistol. "Why's that?" he asked.
The man raised his flare gun toward the sky—and fired.
A burst of red light illuminated the harbor.
And beneath it, the shadows of dozens of infected began to stir between the wrecks.
The ferry's echoing hull seemed to groan as if awakening from sleep.