The storm had not yet come, but the ship already sounded like one. The metal hull groaned, echoing with the wet thuds and snarls of the dead pressing upward from the lower decks. Every corridor reverberated with dread.
Soufiane slammed another door shut, wedging a broken pipe through the handles. His palms were slick with sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin. "That won't hold for long," he muttered.
Amal knelt near the stairwell, counting her remaining bullets. "Seven," she said grimly. "And three magazines between all of us."
Julien cursed under his breath, pacing near the control console. "We need another plan. We can't shoot our way through all of them."
Zahira stood near the children, her hand pressed protectively on Younes's shoulder. Cynthia knelt beside them, eyes darting between the metal doors that trembled every few seconds. The sound was almost rhythmic now — thud… thud… thud… like a heartbeat of something monstrous.
Soufiane turned toward Amal. "Is there another exit? Something that leads above deck?"
"There's a maintenance hatch through the storage room," she said, recalling the ship's layout. "But it's on the same level as the infected. We'd have to fight our way through."
He exhaled slowly. "Then that's what we'll do."
Amal frowned. "We'll lose people."
Soufiane's eyes hardened. "We'll lose everyone if we stay."
---
Down below, the infected were spreading fast — wet, bloated bodies crawling through the tight hallways, their jaws snapping in the half-dark. The water that had seeped in through the hull now carried more than salt; it carried death.
Some of them still wore fragments of uniforms — sailors, perhaps, or passengers who never made it off another ship. Their eyes gleamed with the dull reflection of Soufiane's flashlight beam through the floor grates.
Julien leaned against the console, trying to stay calm. "What if we cut power to the lower decks? Seal them off?"
Cynthia shook her head. "They'll still find another way up. They don't stop. Not anymore."
Her voice trembled slightly. Soufiane looked at her — she was shaking, holding Younes tightly. For a moment, he thought of how he found them, how Cynthia had been the only one who kept the boy alive all this time. There was fear in her eyes now, but there was also the same fire that had saved his son.
He moved closer. "Stay behind me no matter what happens," he said softly.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. "You're not dying here, Soufiane."
He managed a faint smile. "Then we'd better move fast."
---
They gathered near the hatch leading down to the lower corridor. Amal took the lead, weapon ready. "Once we get to the storage room, we climb up to the maintenance deck. There's an access ladder to the roof."
Soufiane nodded. "We move in pairs. Quietly. No unnecessary noise."
But as soon as he turned the latch, a wet crack echoed below — the sound of something slamming metal. The ship jolted, and the hallway filled with screams.
"Infected—coming from the starboard side!" Julien shouted.
Soufiane pushed the door open, firing down the stairwell. The flash illuminated the swarm — a mass of pale faces, torn flesh, and water dripping from their jaws.
"Move!" he shouted.
They bolted through the corridor, gunfire echoing in the confined space. Amal's rifle barked beside him; Cynthia covered the rear, her hands steady despite her trembling breath.
An infected sailor lunged from a doorway, grabbing Zahira by the arm — but Amal swung the rifle stock, cracking its skull open before it could bite. Blood sprayed the wall.
"Keep going!"
They reached the storage room, slamming the door behind them. Amal locked it, panting. "Ladder's there!" she shouted, pointing to the corner where a metal hatch led upward.
Soufiane hoisted Younes first, then Cynthia. "Go, go!"
As Cynthia climbed, her foot slipped. Soufiane caught her by the waist, steadying her. Their faces were inches apart. For a brief heartbeat, time froze — the noise outside faded, and all he could see were her eyes, full of terror and something deeper.
"Thank you," she breathed.
"Keep climbing," he said, voice rough.
She nodded, pulling herself up.
---
Below them, the pounding grew louder. The door began to dent inward. Julien fired through the metal, but it only slowed them down. "They're breaking through!"
Amal climbed up last, followed by Soufiane. As soon as his feet left the floor, the door burst open — hands clawing through, reaching. He grabbed the hatch, slamming it shut above his head just as a hand brushed his boot.
The group collapsed onto the upper deck, gasping. Rain had begun to fall, light but steady, washing away the blood on their clothes.
For a moment, the night air felt like freedom.
Soufiane turned toward Amal. "We can't stay on this ship."
Amal nodded grimly. "Then we find a way off."
Julien looked over the rail, the black sea stretching endlessly around them. "And go where?"
Soufiane's gaze drifted toward the horizon — dark clouds rolling in, a storm approaching.
"South," he said simply. "Always south."
Cynthia stepped beside him, still catching her breath. "If we survive the storm."
He looked at her, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. "We've survived worse."
Behind them, thunder rolled like distant cannon fire — and beneath the deck, the moans of the infected still echoed, hungry and relentless.
The ship kept moving through the dark, half-dead but still afloat — a coffin on the sea, carrying the last hopes of a dying world.