The night air on the island felt thick, heavy with salt and dread. The fog swallowed the world beyond a few meters, and the whisper of the waves had turned into something more sinister — a rhythm that seemed to breathe with the island itself.
Inside the cabin, the group moved in silence. Zahira hugged Younes against her chest, whispering prayers under her breath. Cynthia checked the pistol's magazine with trembling hands, her face pale but her eyes steady. Amal and Julien guarded the windows while Soufiane stood by the door, rifle raised, every muscle taut.
The growls came again — closer this time. Wet, broken noises, like the sound of animals feeding.
Julien whispered, "How many you think?"
Soufiane's voice was calm, almost too calm. "Enough to kill us if we panic."
The door creaked suddenly under pressure — a body slamming against it. The wood shuddered. Zahira gasped.
"Stay back," Soufiane hissed. "No light near the windows."
The infected had found them.
Through the cracks in the wall, Amal caught sight of pale, twitching shapes. The fog made them almost ghostly — silhouettes staggering forward, their skin stretched thin like wax over bone. Some crawled, others dragged broken limbs, leaving streaks of black fluid in their wake.
Then came the sound that froze everyone — the gurgling, almost human cry of one infected calling to the others.
"They're not alone," Amal murmured.
Soufiane kicked over the small fire, plunging the cabin into darkness. "Everyone, stay quiet."
The infected reached the door. Another slam — harder this time. Then another. The hinges began to crack.
Soufiane raised his rifle, waiting until the moment the wood gave way. When it finally did — splintering into shards — he fired. The first shot tore through the skull of a man whose mouth still hung open mid-scream.
Julien fired next, dropping another that tried to crawl through the window. Cynthia screamed when a decaying hand grabbed her shoulder, but Amal swung the axe down, severing it at the wrist.
Gunfire echoed through the fog. The sound rolled down the cliffs and back, turning into a chorus of ghostly replies.
Soufiane shouted, "They're surrounding us! Out the back — now!"
They burst through the rear door, stumbling into the mist. The beach below was barely visible, but they ran anyway, feet pounding against the damp sand. Behind them, the cabin was now alive with the howls of the dead.
Julien turned to fire again but froze. "Sofiane... look!"
One of the infected, standing near the water's edge, didn't move. It simply watched them — head tilted, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight.
It didn't rush forward like the others. It just stared.
And then, slowly, it raised its arm and pointed toward the cliffs — toward a path they hadn't noticed before.
"What the hell..." Amal breathed.
Cynthia grabbed Younes. "We have to move!"
They ran toward the cliffs, the creature's eerie gesture burned into their minds. Behind them, the others followed, the horde howling through the night.
---
The cliff path led to an old stone tunnel carved into the rock — perhaps once part of a military outpost. The walls were wet, covered in moss, and the smell of salt and decay filled the air.
Soufiane pushed ahead, flashlight trembling in his hand. "Keep close. We don't know what's in here."
Inside, the tunnel opened into a large underground chamber — half flooded, lit by the faint reflection of moonlight through cracks above. Rusted crates and faded warning signs marked the place as something older.
Julien brushed the dust off one of the signs. "It's in French... Base Militaire de Recherche – Année 1986."
Amal frowned. "A research base? What were they researching out here?"
Soufiane ran his hand over a steel door, half-buried under debris. "Something they didn't want anyone to find."
Then Younes whispered, "Uncle... I hear them again."
From deep in the tunnel came a sound — not growling this time, but something softer. Breathing.
Soufiane turned his flashlight slowly.
On the far wall, behind a broken glass chamber, something moved.
A woman's face — or what was left of one — pressed against the cracked glass, eyes open but empty. Tubes ran into her skin, and faint symbols glowed beneath the surface of her flesh.
Zahira screamed.
The sound echoed down the tunnel, and from the darkness beyond, came the answering chorus — the infected had found the way in.
Soufiane chambered another round. "Everyone! Barricade the door — now!"
The others moved fast, dragging crates and debris while Cynthia shielded Younes behind her. Amal helped Soufiane seal the entrance, her voice shaking. "What was that thing?"
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "Whatever they were doing here... it wasn't just research."
The first infected hit the door. Wood splintered.
He turned to the others. "If this place connects to the cliffs, there might be another way out. Amal, Julien, find it. Cynthia — keep the boy safe."
"And you?" Zahira asked, trembling.
Soufiane lifted his rifle, his eyes cold. "I'll hold them off."
As the infected broke through the first barrier, the echo of gunfire once again filled the island — a relentless, desperate rhythm of survival against the rising dead.
And beneath it all, faintly, the woman behind the glass began to move again — her lips twitching as if trying to form words.
Words that no one alive could yet understand.