The storm had passed, but the sea still heaved like a wounded beast. The small lifeboat drifted for hours under a pale gray dawn. The air smelled of salt and decay — a reminder that death was never far, even in calm waters.
Soufiane woke first, stiff and cold, his back pressed against the damp wood. The waves slapped lazily against the sides of the boat. Amal sat near the bow, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Cynthia and Zahira were asleep, curled around Younes, whose tiny breaths formed faint clouds in the morning chill.
"Anything?" Soufiane asked quietly.
Amal shook her head. "Just fog. Nothing else."
He rubbed his hands, the joints aching from the night before. "We'll find it. Julien said the radar picked up land close by."
Amal gave a small, bitter smile. "If the radar didn't die with the ship."
Soufiane didn't answer. He just stared into the mist, his mind replaying the sinking ship — the screams, the gunfire, the water swallowing everything. Another piece of Europe lost forever.
Hours passed before the fog began to thin. Slowly, dark shapes emerged in the distance — jagged rocks first, then a stretch of coastline choked with broken trees.
"There!" Amal stood, pointing ahead. "Land!"
Cynthia stirred at the sound, blinking against the pale light. "Are we... really there?"
"Looks like it," Soufiane said. "Everyone, hold on."
They paddled weakly, the last of their strength scraping against exhaustion. The lifeboat bumped against a sandbank, and with a final push, Soufiane jumped into the shallow water, dragging the boat toward shore.
When his boots hit solid ground, he exhaled hard. For the first time in days, they were no longer adrift.
---
The island was small, covered in twisted pines and black sand. Waves crashed violently against cliffs to the north, while the interior seemed quiet — too quiet.
Julien stepped onto the beach and looked around. "No buildings. No smoke. Nothing."
Amal knelt, scooping a handful of wet sand through her fingers. "It's volcanic. Maybe one of the Corsican islets."
"Could be," Soufiane said. "Or maybe not. Let's move inland before dark."
They followed a narrow path through the forest, the silence pressing on them like weight. The air smelled of salt and rotting seaweed. Every sound — a snapping branch, a distant gull — felt amplified.
Zahira held Younes' hand tightly. The boy looked around with wide, fearful eyes. "Mama... are there monsters here too?"
She hesitated. "I don't know, Younes. But we stay close to your uncle, okay?"
Soufiane looked back at them, his expression softening for a moment. Then he scanned ahead again, rifle ready.
---
After a while, they found an old cabin near a cliffside — half-collapsed, but dry. Inside, there were traces of human life: rusted cans, torn clothing, and a burned-out campfire.
"Someone was here," Amal said, kneeling beside the ashes. "Not long ago, maybe weeks."
Julien kicked at a tin cup. "You think they're still around?"
Soufiane crouched beside the door, inspecting faint footprints in the dirt. "Could be. But if they are, they're watching us already."
Cynthia frowned. "Then we need to be careful."
They set up what little they had — a few rations, two blankets, and the remaining weapons salvaged from the lifeboat. As night fell, the sea turned black again, whispering softly below the cliffs.
Zahira managed to light a small fire in the fireplace. Its glow painted their tired faces in flickering orange.
For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the wind sighing through the cracks of the walls.
Then Amal said quietly, "Do you think we'll make it to Africa?"
Soufiane looked into the flames. "We have to. We didn't come this far to die on some forgotten rock."
Julien sighed, leaning back. "I used to dream about the sea. Now it feels like it's dreaming about us — waiting to take what's left."
Cynthia gave him a tired smile. "You always had a poetic way of being depressing."
They all chuckled softly — a fragile, human sound in a world that had forgotten laughter.
But the moment didn't last long.
Younes suddenly sat up, his small face pale. "Uncle... there's someone outside."
The group froze.
Soufiane rose silently, signaling Amal and Julien. They grabbed their weapons, creeping toward the window. The firelight shimmered on their faces.
Outside, the fog had returned, rolling like ghosts across the beach.
And through that fog... a silhouette moved.
Slow. Human.
But the sound it made — the uneven dragging of feet, the low, guttural breathing — told them otherwise.
Soufiane whispered, "They're here too."
He chambered a round into his rifle. The others braced themselves.
Outside, the figure stopped — as if listening. Then, from the shadows, came a chorus of distant growls.
The dead had found the island.