The shot still echoed inside Soufiane's ears long after it was over.
He stood over the corpse, breathing hard, the gun lowered but still ready. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the salt and fuel that hung in the air. The man's eyes were open — clouded, empty, like sea glass.
For a long moment, Soufiane didn't move.
Then he crouched down, scanning the torn pockets of the dead man's jacket. The clothes were French Navy issue — old, faded — but the insignia on the shoulder caught his attention: Bretagne. That meant this ferry had been repurposed, maybe evacuated years ago, maybe weeks.
He found a tag on a cord around the man's neck: "Louis Devernay."
Soufiane turned it in his gloved hand. "You were trying to survive too, huh?" he murmured under his breath.
The deck creaked above, faint footsteps — Cynthia returning topside. He was glad she'd left. He didn't want her to see what was left of this man. The infection always took something familiar and twisted it — not just flesh, but identity.
He exhaled slowly, then looked around. The corridor was cramped, lined with corroded pipes and crates that had burst open, spilling their contents — canned goods, ropes, even a child's toy car. Someone had tried to live down here, for a while.
Soufiane felt the memory of their first nights back in France pressing on his chest.
Sleeping in an abandoned farmhouse, counting bullets instead of prayers. Zahira wrapping her children in old blankets. Amal whispering about her sister, Myriam, who used to be scared of thunder. Every name in the group had a weight now — a story trailing behind it like a shadow.
And here they were, drifting across a dead sea on a stolen ferry, heading south like ghosts following the memory of a home that might not even exist anymore.
He checked the lower engine room before heading back. The hum was steady but weaker than it should be. Amal had managed to stabilize the power, but the ferry was old. It wouldn't last forever.
Then something caught his eye — on a nearby bulkhead, scratched into the metal with a knife or nail:
"STAY AWAY FROM THE SOUTH."
The words looked fresh.
Soufiane traced them with his glove, frowning.
He pulled out his radio. "Amal, it's Soufiane. You copy?"
Static. Then Amal's voice, muffled by wind. "Yeah, I hear you."
"There's a message carved down here. Says 'Stay away from the south.' Could've been one of the crew. Maybe a warning."
A pause. Then Amal answered, "You think it's about the infection?"
Soufiane looked again at the corpse. "I don't know. But it's the direction we're heading."
He could hear Amal's sigh through the static. "We don't have a choice anymore."
"Yeah," Soufiane said quietly. "I know."
He climbed back up the stairs. The cold air of the main deck hit him like a slap — sharp, alive, real. Cynthia stood by the rail, watching the dark ocean stretch endlessly around them. Her shoulders were hunched, hair whipping in the wind.
She turned when she heard him approach. "Was he infected long?"
Soufiane shook his head. "Couldn't tell. Maybe a few days. Maybe less."
"He spoke," Cynthia said, eyes distant. "Just for a second. I think he tried to say something, but it was… broken."
Soufiane didn't answer right away. He looked out toward the black water, where the moon barely touched the waves. "Sometimes they do. Like pieces of who they were get stuck inside the thing that took them."
Cynthia crossed her arms. "Do you ever think about it? That maybe it's not just a disease? Maybe it's… punishment?"
He gave a tired half-smile. "Punishment implies someone's keeping score."
She looked away. The wind howled through the broken railing.
Behind them, the rest of the group was huddled near a small fire barrel — Amal, Juliane, Mourad, and Zahira with her two children asleep against her side. Their faces were dimly lit by the flickering light, eyes hollow but alive.
Soufiane felt something tighten in his chest. These people looked to him for direction, for hope — and he wasn't sure he had any left to give.
He walked toward the group, speaking quietly. "We'll reach the Strait in a day, maybe two if the currents stay with us. Once we hit Tangier, we find supplies, fuel, and then head inland."
Mourad nodded. "And if Tangier's gone?"
Soufiane hesitated. "Then we keep moving. South. Toward the Atlas."
No one spoke after that. The only sound was the sea, relentless and ancient.
He sat beside the barrel, the flames reflected in his eyes. His mind drifted back to Casablanca — the skyline before it fell, the mosque's white minaret against the blue. He remembered Younes laughing, cigarette between his fingers, saying "No matter what happens, we'll always have home."
Home.
That word felt like a memory now, not a place.
The wind shifted again. Soufiane thought he heard a low groan from somewhere below deck — maybe just the ferry settling, maybe not. But he didn't move. Not tonight. He'd already seen enough ghosts for one evening.
He glanced toward Cynthia. She was still by the railing, her silhouette framed by the moonlight, looking out toward the invisible horizon.
Somewhere ahead lay Africa.
Somewhere ahead, maybe, salvation.
But for now, only the sea spoke — whispering in the language of salt and loss.