The silence after the knocks felt alive. Soufiane stayed frozen in the narrow passageway, gun aimed, heart pounding in his chest. The dim light of his flashlight caught flecks of dust floating in the air, making the whole corridor look like a tunnel of ghosts. He listened again — nothing now but the slow groan of the ship as waves rolled beneath it.
He swallowed hard and took a careful step closer to the metal door. The paint was peeling, revealing layers of rust like dried blood. He reached out and pressed his palm against the surface. Cold. But something inside, something faint, shifted again.
A whisper. Maybe a breath.
"Who's there?" he called quietly, his voice low but steady. "We're not here to hurt anyone."
No answer. Just the rhythm of the ocean and a muffled scraping sound from inside.
Soufiane tightened his grip on the gun. He didn't want to shoot — not here, not in this fragile steel coffin floating in the middle of nowhere. But whatever was inside wasn't dead silent anymore. It was moving.
"Soufiane?"
The voice behind him made him flinch. It was Amal. She stood a few steps back, holding a small lantern and her knife. Her eyes widened when she saw his expression.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"Someone's inside," he replied. "Or something."
She stepped closer, lowering the lantern. "It could be someone who hid here before we found the ship."
"Or someone who didn't want to be found," Soufiane said.
They stood side by side in front of the door. Amal ran her fingers along the lock — corroded but not impossible to break. "If we force it, we'll wake everyone," she murmured.
"Then let's wake them," Soufiane said. "I'm not spending another night wondering what's behind this."
Minutes later, the small group gathered in the lower deck corridor — Cynthia, Mouna, Julien, Zahira, Abdelrazak, Murad, and Amal. The air was cold, thick with tension. The children stayed above, under Mouna's watchful eyes, half-asleep and unaware.
Soufiane explained in few words what he'd heard. No one spoke for a moment. Then Julien nodded slowly. "If someone's alive in there, we need to know. But if they're dangerous…"
"Then we deal with it," Soufiane finished.
He gestured for Amal to hold the light while Abdelrazak and Murad took position with metal bars, ready to strike if needed.
Soufiane wedged the butt of his gun under the handle, gave it a firm pull — nothing. He tried again, this time with Murad's help. The rusted hinges screeched like a wounded animal as the door cracked open a few inches, releasing a burst of foul, damp air that smelled of decay and salt.
Everyone stepped back instinctively.
Cynthia covered her mouth. "Oh my God…"
Soufiane pushed the door open the rest of the way, and his light swept into the darkness beyond.
At first, all he saw were bunks — a dozen of them, stacked and rotted. Blankets. Empty bottles. The remains of a human handcuffed to a bedpost, nothing left but bone and cloth. And in the far corner, something moved.
"Stop!" Soufiane barked, aiming the light.
The figure froze — a man, thin as a skeleton, eyes wide and wild. His skin was gray with grime, his beard overgrown. He blinked rapidly, shielding his eyes from the beam.
"Please… don't shoot," the man rasped. His French was broken, heavy with an Eastern accent. "I thought… you were them."
Soufiane lowered the gun slightly but didn't step closer. "Who?"
"The ones who took the others," the man whispered. "The ones from the other ship."
Amal's brow furrowed. "What other ship?"
He coughed violently, clutching his chest. "There was another vessel. They came two weeks ago… raided us. Took the fuel, the medicine… everyone they could. I hid."
Julien stepped forward cautiously. "And the others? They left you here?"
"They left me with the dead," the man said, his eyes glistening. "They said they'd come back when the sea was calm again. But they never did."
Soufiane studied him — the trembling hands, the empty look of a man who'd seen too much. "What's your name?"
"Farid," he answered weakly. "I was an engineer… on this ship before the outbreak."
Amal handed him a bottle of water. He took it with shaking hands, drinking slowly.
"There's something else," Farid said between gasps. "They said the infection… changed again. It spreads faster. The sea isn't safe anymore."
Cynthia frowned. "What do you mean?"
Farid looked up at her, his eyes hollow. "They found something in the bodies floating near Gibraltar. They said… the dead don't sink anymore."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
Soufiane glanced toward the ceiling, toward the quiet waves above. He thought of how calm the ocean had seemed all day — too calm.
Then, somewhere deep in the hull, a hollow thud echoed.
Everyone froze.
Another thud. Then another. Slow. Rhythmic. Coming from outside the ship.
Soufiane raised his gun again, backing toward the stairs. "Up. Now. Everyone up!"
As they scrambled to the upper deck, the knocks grew louder — dull and wet, as if hands were striking metal from beneath the water.
Amal grabbed his arm, her face pale in the lantern's glow. "Soufiane… what if he's right?"
He stared at the dark sea beyond the railing. The waves were rippling strangely now, small circles forming around the hull as if something large moved below.
"Then," he said quietly, chambering a round, "we just found out the dead can swim."