"What have we done?" Taveras whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.
"Survived," Torres replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
The faces of the survivors were marked by internal conflict—a battle between gratitude for their own survival and horror at the lives sacrificed. Some wept in silence, others stared into the void, and a few prayed for the fallen.
López, wearing a grave expression, handed Torres a detailed report of the casualties. He also took it upon himself to carry out a solemn ritual for the soldiers, erecting as many funeral pyres as there were lost souls. In a macabre circle, their bodies were symbolized by flammable objects, and once ignited, the flames danced as if they were the souls of the departed, ascending to the beyond in a display of fire and shadow.
"We should have done more…" Vidal insisted, his pale face reflecting the dim light of the setting sun.
"There was nothing to be done. It was them or us," Duarte replied, trying to convince himself as much as the others.
Amid the commotion, I was overwhelmed by dizziness, a pounding headache, and a ringing in my ears so intense that it nearly drowned out the opinions and criticisms of my comrades. I couldn't bear the situation I found myself in—never had I conceived of a hostile world outside the university—and now I saw people… killing people, people… sacrificing other people.
The situation only grew worse. My head spun, my ears disconnected, my hands trembled, a cold sweat ran down my forehead, and when I tried to speak… I fainted.
The convoy's march was slow, almost ceremonial, as if each turn of the wheels was a tribute to those left behind. The atmosphere was heavy with silence, broken only by the occasional sob, the crunch of the limestone road, and the clatter of horses' hooves.
The storm didn't wait, as if it carried hatred in its clouds. The rain pounded mercilessly, a dark omen of what loomed ahead. We entered a settlement that seemed more like a refuge for lost souls, on the edge of the sinister Cayo Oscuro forest. We sought shelter in an old mill, its walls whispering stories of simpler times, when it was just the heart of a small farming village.
With trembling hands, I searched the medical kit of a nearby corpse, desperately hoping to find morphine or some antibiotic to soothe the pain consuming me. Suddenly, I heard his voice in the distance—a guttural, harrowing voice that pierced my eardrums with its tortured call. He was close, very close to finding me…
The rain hammered the mill's roof, a mournful percussion to match the grief and tension thick in the air. Everyone wrestled with the ghosts of sacrifice and loss, but for Binet, the shadows ran deeper, darker.
In a corner of the mill, Binet clutched a small, stained journal. It was the diary he shared with Santos. Silent tears fell on the yellowed pages, creating smudges that blended with the ink. The loss of his friend had left a void no scientific achievement could ever fill.
"Why did it have to be him?" he murmured to himself, as despair threatened to consume him. Every word written in that journal was a reminder of the life they had shared, now fading into the echo of sacrifice.
Vidal, meanwhile, paced back and forth, his gaze intense and his steps marked by restrained fury. Torres, with his decisions, had led the group to a point of no return, and Vidal's hatred grew more palpable by the second.
"This has become a macabre roulette. Who's next?!" Vidal spat, glaring at Torres with disdain.
Torres, aware of the rising animosity, didn't respond. He knew his decisions had dehumanized the group, and it was a burden he would carry for the rest of his days.
In another corner of the mill, Batista leaned over González, removing the makeshift bandage from his companion's wound.
"Come on, González. You can't give us the pleasure of losing you too," Batista said with a forced smile, trying to keep spirits up despite González's growing fever.
"This is nothing, Batista. You won't get rid of me that easily," González replied, smiling through the pain.
Nearby, Duarte and Taveras tended to me. Their voices were soft, full of concern and fear at the thought of losing someone they considered a brother.
"Larel, you have to stay strong. We need your mind—we can't do this without you," Duarte urged, trying to comfort me.
"You need to rest and regain your strength. We're here with you," added Taveras, gently brushing my hair with an affectionate gesture.
Meanwhile, in a secluded corner of the mill, Torres and López had a personal conversation. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on them, and with so many casualties, it was understandable that it weighed more than usual.
"López, we've lost great men today, but we can't let it be in vain. We have to keep moving forward, no matter the cost," Torres said, his voice full of determination.
"I know, Torres, but each loss weighs on our fearful hearts. We must find a way forward without losing more of our humanity," López replied, echoing the inner pressure everyone felt.
At that moment, Sánchez approached, disbelief etched on his face. He had just learned of Torres' plan. Not only had those men been sent to their deaths, but the van had also been loaded with much of their food supplies.
"Torres, what the hell?! The vehicle sent with the guards—Vázquez and Polanco—was carrying most of our food supplies!" he shouted, frustration and anger in his voice.
The news hit the group like a crushing weight. Torres and López exchanged somber glances. Each sacrifice, each lost life, was an open wound that wouldn't stop bleeding—and now, the survivors were about to starve.
"We're alive!!!" López shouted. "If we hadn't sent those supplies… who knows how many more would have died. It was the price we had to pay."
"The price?! So the death of so many was just the appetizer, and the food is the real savior… That's the crap you're feeding us, López?!" Vidal interjected.
"That's not what Binet meant."
"Shut up, Torres. I'm sick of hearing everyone whine… the food, the wounds," Binet burst into tears. "The fallen… We're still alive, damn it!!! Still breathing—and that's all that matters. We're all guilty. And still… still…"
Batista hugged Binet tightly, who collapsed in tears and despair, drained by the realization that he would never see his friend again. They would never speak again, never share another day. His light was gone, and with it, he had taken Binet's.
"Forgive me," López pleaded.
"Forgive me too," Torres begged. "I didn't want losses on this mission, nor the pain we now carry. But I promise—there will be no more victims, no more loss to tear at your hearts. Let me bear this sin until those I denied a proper burial torment me to the end of our mission."
"I'll share your sin, sir," López reaffirmed his loyalty. "We'll carry the dead with us until we find the cure."
"Giving their lives for this cause is not enough to repay the lives we've lost," Vidal declared.
"There are also those who are still alive thanks to the captain," González interjected. "If we're going to be shameless in judging him for all the wrong, let's also be negligent with ourselves and give him a break… He lost guards and friends who followed him into this hell."
"I know you cared for Polanco. I know his death still hurts you, González."
"Torres, spare me your sentimental crap. Polanco died, period. Nothing more to say. Let's keep moving—if we all die here, then yes, their deaths will have been in vain."
It was the first time I'd seen González so broken, yet so full of hope. Though he denied the pain of losing Polanco—a friend made in just a few days—the truth was, he suffered like the rest of us. Only he knew how to hide it, for the sake of the mission and those still being ravaged by decay.
The kitchen, now in the hands of Sánchez and the transporters, became a refuge of normalcy amid chaos. With the remaining supplies, they carefully rationed the food to stretch our survival. Corn was ground into dough and flattened into tortillas on a heated griddle. Vegetables were peeled and a soup prepared.
The meal, humble and earthy, was a reminder of life beyond death and desolation. We doctors and scientists, accustomed to sophistication, received it with disdain. In contrast, for the transporters and guards, it was a feast devoured with fervor, never leaving a crumb, always asking for more. Unlike them, we couldn't imagine what it was like to starve—to feel like every meal could be the last.
With the pot empty and some stomachs nearly bursting, we improvised beds with soft objects. It was the first of many nights in which doubts, fear, and the weight of our actions would haunt us, stealing restful sleep.
Torres and López took the first watch that night. The horror of losing their men still gnawed at their souls. And in the silence of the night, they faced their own demons while standing guard in the darkness.