(From Cynthia's point of view)
The red flare hung in the sky like a bleeding star.
For a heartbeat, everything froze — the waves, the cries of gulls, even the air itself. Then came the sound that made Cynthia's stomach twist: a chorus of low, guttural moans rising from every shadow around the harbor.
They were surrounded.
"Run!" someone shouted — Mourad, maybe, or Julian — and chaos erupted.
Cynthia grabbed Younes by the arm and pulled him close, her heart hammering so hard it hurt. The boy stumbled but didn't cry out. His silence terrified her even more than the screams echoing through the docks. Soufiane was just ahead, yelling orders as gunfire cracked in the distance.
The infected poured from the wrecks like a tide of shadows — half-naked, limping, their flesh blistered and gray. Some crawled, others sprinted. The red flare still burned above them, painting everything in a terrible, dreamlike glow. Cynthia could see their teeth glinting as they charged through the smoke.
"Stay close!" Soufiane's voice cut through the noise.
He turned back, covering them with his rifle.
"Go, Cynthia! Take Younes to the ferry — now!"
She didn't argue. Her legs were already moving, splashing through pools of seawater and oil. The air stank of salt, blood, and fuel. Behind her, the sound of gunfire and screams mixed with the crash of waves against the docks.
Julian and Zahira were holding the line, shouting for the others to move.
Myriam tripped and Amal caught her, dragging her forward. The group scattered in fragments, trying to stay together and alive at the same time.
Cynthia's breath burned in her throat.
Every few seconds, she looked back — always finding Soufiane still there, firing, reloading, shouting. He seemed unstoppable, like something more than human, and yet every time he turned, she saw the exhaustion in his eyes. The same exhaustion that haunted her dreams.
They reached the base of the pier. The ferry loomed above them now — the Tanger Express, ghostly white under the fading flare. Its gangway hung at an angle, one chain broken, swaying over the black water. Rust had eaten through parts of the hull, but the ship looked intact enough to hold them. Maybe.
"Go up!" Cynthia shouted. "Quick!"
Younes climbed first, his small hands gripping the metal rail. Cynthia pushed him up, then followed, her fingers slipping on oil and sea spray. The air was colder here, and every step echoed against the ferry's steel skeleton.
A sudden scream tore through the night — Myriam's voice. Cynthia turned in time to see a figure grab her from behind. Before she could react, Amal swung a wrench into the creature's skull, sending it collapsing into the water below. Myriam gasped, her face pale but alive.
"Keep moving!" Amal yelled.
Cynthia didn't realize she was crying until the tears stung her lips. She pulled Younes against her chest as they reached the upper deck. The metal beneath their feet trembled with every step.
Soufiane was the last to climb. He turned halfway up the gangway and threw a Molotov cocktail behind him — a burst of fire exploded across the dock, lighting the infected in a storm of flame. Their screams filled the night, a twisted chorus of agony and hunger.
Then, with a final leap, Soufiane reached the deck. He landed hard, grabbed the chain, and kicked the gangway loose. It crashed into the water, cutting off the last of the infected trying to climb. The sudden silence that followed was deafening — only the crackle of flames and the hiss of the tide remained.
Everyone stood still, breathing hard. The air stank of burnt flesh and diesel. Cynthia held Younes tight against her chest; the boy's heart beat fast against hers. Soufiane approached slowly, his face smeared with soot and sweat.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, though her lips trembled. "I thought we'd lost you."
"You won't lose me," he said quietly. "Not now."
For a brief moment, their eyes met. Something unspoken passed between them — not love yet, but the fragile seed of it, growing in the ruins of the world. Then Soufiane turned away, his leadership instincts taking over again.
"Julian, check the engine room. Mourad, the bridge. See if anything still works. Zahira, Amal — get the kids inside and lock the doors."
The others obeyed, moving quickly. Cynthia guided Younes into what had once been a passenger lounge. Dust covered the seats and the smell of mold filled the air, but it was shelter — their first real shelter in weeks.
She found a broken window and looked out over the harbor.
From up here, the fire spread across the dock, reflecting off the waves like liquid gold. The city beyond burned quietly under the dark sky — a dead world, still pretending to be alive.
Younes tugged on her sleeve. "Cynthia… is that the sea that goes to Morocco?"
"Yes," she said softly. "That's home, Younes."
He smiled faintly. "Then we're close, right?"
She forced a smile. "Closer than before."
Soufiane entered the lounge a few minutes later. He looked around, checking everyone's faces. Amal and Myriam were patching up a wound on Mourad's arm. Zahira sat silently by the wall, holding her children close. Julian hadn't returned yet from the lower deck.
"The ferry's mostly intact," Soufiane said finally. "But there's no power. And… we don't know if there's anyone else aboard."
Cynthia frowned. "You mean survivors?"
Soufiane's expression hardened. "Or worse."
Before anyone could respond, a metallic thud echoed through the ship — deep, resonant, like something heavy striking from below.
Then again.
And again.
The group froze.
Soufiane drew his pistol, signaling silence. He looked toward the floor — toward the direction of the engine room.
The sound came once more, followed by a dragging noise.
And then, faintly, something that made Cynthia's blood run cold:
A voice.
Whispering.
Singing.
> "Sailing home… sailing home…"
Soufiane raised his gun and whispered, "Everyone stay back."
The ship creaked under their feet as the noise drew closer.