The wind had died. The sea was too still — unnaturally flat, as if the entire world had stopped breathing. Only the dull metallic groans of the ship echoed in the night, accompanied by that slow, deliberate thud… thud… thud from below.
Soufiane stood at the bow, eyes scanning the black water. The moon hung low and pale behind heavy clouds, throwing a faint silver light over the surface. Every few seconds, he thought he saw something move — a ripple, a shape, too quick to be sure.
Behind him, the group gathered, tense and silent. Amal clutched the rifle she had found days earlier, while Zahira held her son close, whispering soft prayers under her breath. Cynthia had her flashlight trained toward the side of the hull, the trembling beam of light cutting across the darkness.
"Nothing," she murmured. "There's nothing there."
"Then what's making that sound?" Julien hissed. His knuckles were white around the crowbar he carried.
Soufiane didn't answer. He felt the vibration under his feet again — a deep, hollow reverberation that seemed to rise from the belly of the ship. The kind of sound that doesn't just reach your ears, but crawls up your bones.
Farid, the half-starved engineer they'd found below deck, stood a few meters behind them, muttering to himself in Arabic. "They said the sea was changing," he whispered. "They said the infection doesn't stop at land anymore…"
"Enough," Soufiane snapped, more sharply than he meant to. "No ghosts. No curses. Just reality."
But as soon as he said it, a new sound shattered the fragile calm.
A scrape.
Like nails dragging across the hull.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Cynthia gasped, backing away. "They're under us."
The entire ship rocked slightly — just a tremor, but enough to send a shiver through every soul on deck. Soufiane leaned over the railing, flashlight in hand. The beam hit the water and caught something pale drifting just beneath the surface.
At first, it looked like fabric. Then it turned.
A face.
Bloated, gray, and eyeless — its mouth open in a silent scream as it floated upward, pressing gently against the side of the ship. The jaw twitched. Then the hand — limp and swollen — lifted and slapped the metal.
Thud.
Soufiane stumbled back, heart hammering. "They're rising!"
Before anyone could react, another corpse surfaced beside it. Then another. And another. Within seconds, dozens of pale figures were floating around the vessel, their movements slow but purposeful. Some were tangled in each other's limbs, others drifted like puppets pulled by unseen strings.
"Get away from the sides!" Soufiane shouted. "Everyone, move back!"
Amal helped Zahira and the children retreat toward the center of the deck, while Julien and Abdelrazak secured the hatch leading below. But the noise kept growing — that horrible, wet chorus of hands slapping metal, of bodies bumping against the hull.
"They're… they're trying to climb," Cynthia stammered.
Soufiane swung his flashlight again and saw one of the figures reach upward, grasping the railing with broken fingers. He fired — the shot echoed like thunder across the ocean. The creature's skull burst apart, but three more hands appeared to take its place.
The stench of rot filled the air as seaweed and blood smeared the deck. Amal pulled a flare from her belt, struck it, and tossed it overboard. The red light illuminated the water — revealing a mass of corpses swirling around the ship like a living tide.
Julien cursed. "There's hundreds of them!"
Farid dropped to his knees, praying faster now. "I told you… I told you they don't sink anymore…"
Soufiane fired again and again, but the crowd of dead didn't stop. They didn't even react — they just kept reaching, clawing, pressing their weight against the ship until the metal itself began to moan in protest.
"Soufiane!" Amal cried. "We can't hold them off forever!"
He turned to her, his face lit by the glow of the flare. "We don't need to — we just need to move."
"What?"
"The engines," he said. "If this ship still floats, then maybe it still runs. Farid — can you get us power?"
Farid looked up, eyes wide and trembling. "It's not that simple! The generator's dead, the tanks are dry!"
"Then find another way," Soufiane barked. "You said you were an engineer — prove it!"
The ship lurched again, harder this time. Cynthia screamed as one of the infected managed to grab the railing and pull itself halfway over. Amal swung her rifle like a bat, smashing the creature's face until it fell back into the black water.
The sound of the waves grew louder — or maybe it was the sound of the dead thrashing below. Soufiane felt the ship tilting ever so slightly to the right, the balance shifting under their feet.
He grabbed Amal's shoulder. "Get everyone below. Barricade the stairs. I'll stay with Farid."
"No," she said firmly. "You're not staying up here alone."
They locked eyes — a brief flash of defiance, fear, and something deeper. Then Soufiane nodded. "Fine. But if the ship starts going down, you run. You take them and you run."
As the group retreated below deck, the world outside erupted into chaos. The dead were no longer just floating — they were climbing, one over another, forming a grotesque wall of flesh and bone.
Soufiane and Amal rushed to the control room with Farid, who was already tearing open panels, wires spilling from the walls like veins.
"Can you do it?" Soufiane asked.
Farid didn't look up. "If there's still fuel in the reserve tanks… maybe. But it'll take time."
A loud metallic clang echoed from above — something heavy hitting the deck. Then another. The ship shook.
"They're aboard!" Amal shouted.
Soufiane aimed toward the doorway as the first of the infected appeared — its body dripping seawater, skin shredded by barnacles, eyes glowing faintly in the red emergency light.
He fired once. Twice. The creature fell. But behind it, more shadows moved in the corridor, crawling and dragging themselves forward.
"Farid!" Soufiane roared. "Now would be a good time!"
The old man gritted his teeth, twisting a final valve. A low hum rumbled through the ship, followed by a cough of the engine below. The floor trembled.
"It's working!" he shouted.
Soufiane grabbed Amal's hand. "Then let's get the hell out of here."
The ship began to move, slow at first, then faster — cutting through the water as the dead clung desperately to its sides. Waves crashed, washing some of them away, but many still hung on, pounding, screaming without voices.
Soufiane climbed back to the deck and looked out. The sea behind them was a field of pale faces, sinking slowly into the darkness.
But in the distance, on the horizon, faint lights flickered — maybe from another ship, or maybe from the African shore.
He didn't know yet.
But for the first time in weeks, hope and horror moved together in his chest like twin tides.
And beneath the deck, where no one noticed, a trail of dark seawater seeped slowly through the cracks — carrying something alive with it.