The gates closed behind them with a metallic groan that echoed through the ruins. Soufiane felt the weight of it in his chest — that sound meant they were trapped inside, at least for now.
Inside the compound, a dozen faces watched from the shadows: men and women wrapped in tattered coats, their eyes hollow yet alert. Each held a weapon — rifles, machetes, even sharpened pieces of rebar. It was not the look of a military camp, but of people who had survived by becoming wolves.
The man who had spoken at the gate stepped forward. He was tall, his beard flecked with gray, his eyes a sharp hazel that missed nothing. "Name's Rafael," he said in accented English. "And this place — we call it the Coast. You'll find no welcome here until we know who you are."
Soufiane nodded, lowering his pack slowly. "We understand. We've been on the road since Germany. We're not looking for trouble, just shelter."
Rafael's gaze flicked from Soufiane to the others — Cynthia, Amal, Zahira, Julien, Myriam, and the children. His expression softened just slightly when he saw Younes leaning against Zahira's side, shivering.
"You have a boy with you," Rafael said. "No one travels with children anymore."
Zahira's voice broke the silence. "He's my nephew. He's all we have left."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Rafael motioned toward one of the guards. "Take them to the infirmary. The man who's bleeding—patch him up. The rest of you, stay close. If you wander, you'll be shot."
Julien gave a weak laugh as two survivors lifted him. "Friendly people."
"No one's friendly anymore," Amal muttered under her breath.
They followed Rafael through narrow lanes made from stacked vehicles and rusted shipping containers. Makeshift fires burned in barrels, the smoke mixing with the sharp scent of oil and rot. On the walls, graffiti marked the territory — "THE SEA TOOK THEM. THE LAND REMAINS."
The camp was alive in its own grim way. People repaired solar panels scavenged from the ruins. Others stripped ammunition, cleaned weapons, or boiled seawater for drinking. Every movement was efficient, practiced — the rhythm of people who had turned survival into a profession.
Inside the infirmary — a repurposed fish cannery — the air smelled of disinfectant and salt. A young woman with braided hair approached. "Lay him here," she said, pointing to a table. "I'm Inés. Doctor, or what's left of one."
Cynthia helped lower Julien, her hands trembling. "He was cut by glass during the storm. We stopped the bleeding, but—"
Inés lifted the cloth and grimaced. "You stopped nothing. Infection's set in. I'll do what I can."
Soufiane stood by the doorway, watching as she worked. The others sat quietly, exhausted. Amal rubbed her hands against the warmth of a small heater. Zahira held Younes close, whispering something softly in Arabic — a lullaby their mother used to sing.
Rafael reappeared a few minutes later. "You're not the first to come from the north," he said. "Most didn't make it this far. You're either lucky or cursed."
"Maybe both," Soufiane replied.
Rafael studied him. "Why risk the sea? What were you running from?"
Soufiane hesitated. The memories of Rotterdam, the ship, the dead in the waves — they came back sharp as broken glass. "We weren't running," he said finally. "We're trying to get home."
"Home?"
"Morocco."
Rafael raised an eyebrow. "That's a long way from here. And the Mediterranean isn't what it used to be. You won't cross it without a ship—and a miracle."
Cynthia looked up. "Then maybe we find both."
Rafael almost smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If you plan to move south, you'll need fuel, food, weapons — and those don't come free. We have a way of testing newcomers."
Soufiane tensed. "Testing how?"
"Work," Rafael said simply. "You help us with something, we help you in return. There's a wrecked supply ship stranded down the coast. Dangerous place, but we need what's inside — medicine, metal, maybe fuel. You want to earn your keep? You go there."
Soufiane nodded slowly. "And if we refuse?"
Rafael shrugged. "Then you go back to the sea. Your choice."
The group exchanged glances. Julien moaned softly, half-conscious. Amal spoke first. "We'll do it. But we need to rest first. Just a few hours."
Rafael nodded. "You've got until dawn."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing — if you see anything moving on that wreck… don't stop to look. Not everything that walks by the coast is alive."
The door closed behind him, leaving them in flickering firelight. For a long while, no one spoke. Only the sound of the wind outside and the steady crash of distant waves.
Cynthia finally broke the silence. "We just got here, and already we're being sent to die."
Soufiane sat down heavily beside her, his voice low but steady. "We've been dying for a long time. At least this way, it means something."
Outside, thunder rolled far out at sea. The next storm was already coming.
And by dawn, they would have to face whatever haunted the wreck of the coast.