The ferry's corridors had gone quiet, too quiet. Cynthia could still hear the hum of the engines beneath her feet, but something about the rhythm felt wrong — uneven, like a heart skipping beats. The air had grown colder, heavier, filled with a damp metallic taste.
She tightened her grip on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating rusted metal walls streaked with salt and age. The others had stayed above deck — Soufiane was securing the wheelhouse, Amal checking fuel levels — but Cynthia had volunteered to go below. Part of her wanted to prove she wasn't afraid anymore. The other part just needed to move, to escape her thoughts.
Her boots echoed on the grated floor as she descended the narrow stairs. The smell of oil and stagnant water thickened. Somewhere behind her, the ferry creaked as if sighing under its own weight.
She reached the lower deck — cargo hold level — and froze.
There were sounds.
Soft, dragging sounds.
Her flashlight swept across stacks of abandoned crates, a few torn nets, and then— movement. A flicker, something darting out of the light. Cynthia's breath caught in her throat. She whispered, "Hello?" before she could stop herself.
No answer. Only the sound of something scraping against metal.
Cynthia swallowed hard. "Probably rats," she muttered — though she hadn't seen a single one since the plague began. Even animals seemed to sense what had changed in the world.
She kept moving, step by step. The beam wavered slightly as her hand trembled.
Then she saw it.
A trail of something dark smeared across the floor — almost black, but with that faint, sickly red sheen she recognized too well. Blood. And not old either. It glistened.
She crouched down, touched the edge of the stain with her glove, and whispered, "No…"
It led between two large cargo containers, deeper into the shadows.
Every instinct screamed at her to go back. But she couldn't. Not after everything they had survived. If something — or someone — was here, she had to know.
Cynthia steadied herself and followed the trail. Her light quivered over the floor, the walls, the thick cables dangling from the ceiling. Her breath echoed inside her mask.
Then, from behind one of the containers, came a low, wet sound — like breathing, but wrong. Too deep. Too guttural.
She aimed the flashlight — and froze.
A man knelt there, hunched, his back toward her. His clothes were shredded, soaked in blood. He was muttering something in a language she couldn't catch, voice rough, feverish. His shoulders twitched violently, like he was trying to peel his own skin off.
Cynthia took a careful step closer. "Hey— are you okay?"
He stopped moving.
The sound of his breathing deepened. His head tilted slowly — too slowly — until she saw part of his face in the light. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Mouth trembling.
"Don't move," she whispered.
He turned fully then — and the light revealed the ruin of what used to be his jaw. Flesh torn, veins pulsing black beneath translucent skin.
Cynthia stumbled back, the flashlight shaking wildly.
He let out a noise that wasn't human.
She ran.
Her boots hammered against the deck, the sound echoing through the corridor. She could hear him behind her — not fast, but relentless. A dragging, shuffling pursuit, the kind that made her chest seize with panic.
"Soufiane!" she shouted into her radio. "Below deck— there's someone— infected!"
The radio crackled, Soufiane's voice breaking through: "Stay where you are, I'm coming!"
But Cynthia didn't stop. She turned a corner, ducking behind a bulkhead. Her breath came in sharp, silent bursts. She pressed her back to the cold metal wall, heart pounding so loud she feared it would give her away.
The footsteps came closer. Slow. Heavy.
Then silence.
She risked a glance — nothing. Just the beam of her flashlight flickering weakly.
That's when she saw the reflection.
In a puddle of dark water near her feet — a shape standing right behind her.
Cynthia spun, flashlight raised —
Bang!
The sound tore through the hold, deafening and final.
For a moment, she didn't even realize it hadn't come from her. The infected body crumpled to the floor, a hole smoking through its temple. Soufiane stood at the top of the stairs, pistol in hand, his face pale and furious.
He rushed down, checking her with quick, precise movements. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, trembling. "No. I— I didn't know he was there. He looked… human."
Soufiane's expression softened, just slightly. "He was, once."
They both looked at the body. The man's chest still moved faintly, a slow twitch as something black seeped from his veins. Soufiane didn't hesitate. One more shot. Silence again.
Cynthia turned away, swallowing hard.
Above them, the ferry groaned as waves struck its hull. She realized how deep the night had become — the world outside was nothing but endless, devouring dark.
Soufiane touched her shoulder. "Go back up. Amal will need you."
Cynthia nodded. Her throat felt tight. She climbed the stairs, one hand gripping the rail like she might fall without it.
When she stepped back onto the main deck, the wind hit her face — cold, briny, and alive. For a second, she looked up at the sky, trying to breathe.
Somewhere out there, beyond that black horizon, was Morocco. Home. Hope.
But tonight, she realized, the sea wasn't the only thing carrying the dead.