[71] Aftermath

The days after the attack were a blur of grief and exhaustion. The horde had been cleaned up, but not without a terrible cost. Two-thirds of the population was dead. The streets were quieter now, not because the danger had passed, but because the life had been sucked out of the town. The stench of death hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as we spent day after day hauling bodies to the pit.

For a month, we worked tirelessly. We buried the dead in a mass grave on the outskirts of Banff, the only place large enough to hold the sheer number of bodies. The pit was a gruesome sight, a testament to how far we'd fallen. Once the last body was tossed in, they lit it on fire, the flames reaching high into the sky, burning away what was left of the people we had lost.

It was hard to look at. The smell of burning flesh was impossible to forget, and no amount of time would make it easier. But we had to keep going. There was no other choice.

After the bodies were burned, the mayor announced a mass mourning event—a way to honor the dead and remind everyone that we still had to keep fighting for the living. We gathered in the town square, a place that had once been filled with laughter and life but now felt like a ghost town. The square was packed, but it was the quietest I'd ever seen it. Faces were hollow, eyes red and puffy from too much crying or too little sleep.

The new monument stood in the center of the square, a stark, simple stone structure engraved with the names of the fallen. It was nothing grand, but it was all we could afford. In front of the monument, the mayor stood on a makeshift podium, looking tired and much older than he had a month ago.

He cleared his throat, stepping up to the mic as the crowd fell into a tense silence. "We stand here today," he began, his voice shaking a little, "in memory of those we've lost. Friends, family, loved ones. They're gone now, but we will never forget them. Their sacrifices were not in vain."

The mayor paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. "We've lost so much," he continued, his voice growing steadier. "We've lost homes, we've lost lives, and we've lost hope at times. But we are still here. And we must remember that—above all else—we are survivors. We owe it to the people who are no longer with us to keep fighting. To keep pushing forward. We owe them that much."

He looked down for a moment, wiping a tear from his eye before glancing back up at us. "This monument is not just a reminder of those we've lost. It's a symbol of our strength, of our resilience. We have been beaten, but we are not broken."

I glanced around, seeing the way people were holding onto each other, their hands clenched, their faces pale and drawn. Even in this moment of shared mourning, there was an unspoken determination in the air. As if we all knew this fight wasn't over.

The mayor took a step back, letting out a shaky breath before gesturing to Chang, who was standing off to the side, chainsaw still strapped to his back. The mayor gave him a nod, and Chang stepped up to the mic.

Chang didn't say much. He wasn't the type to give speeches, and it showed. But when he spoke, his words cut through the silence like a knife.

"We're all hurting," Chang said, his voice low and gravelly. "We've lost a lot of people. A lot of good people. And it fucking sucks. But this isn't the end. We keep moving forward, because that's what they'd want. We can't let their deaths be for nothing."

He paused, glancing down at the ground for a second before looking back up at the crowd. "I don't have any grand words for you. I'm not good at this shit. But I'll tell you one thing—if you're still here, if you're still breathing, then you've got a reason to keep going. So keep fucking going."

The crowd was silent, but I could feel the weight of his words settling over everyone. There was something powerful in his simplicity, something raw and honest. It wasn't a speech filled with flowery language or empty promises. It was real. And that's what we needed.

After Chang stepped back, the mayor took the mic again. "Today, we honor the dead," he said, his voice softer now. "But tomorrow, we keep fighting for the living. Let's take a moment of silence for those who are no longer with us."

The crowd bowed their heads, and for a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. I stared at the monument, my heart heavy as I thought of Ethan, his goofy grin, his stupid jokes. The bite mark on his side.

I hadn't spoken about what happened with anyone. I couldn't. Every time I tried, the words got stuck in my throat, and the image of Ethan's lifeless body would flash before my eyes. I couldn't bear to relive it. Not yet.

But as I stood there, surrounded by the people of Banff, I knew I wasn't alone in my grief. Everyone here had lost someone. Everyone was carrying that same unbearable weight.

After the silence, the mayor stepped down from the podium, and the crowd began to disperse. People moved slowly, some staying behind to lay flowers at the base of the monument, others walking away in quiet groups, heads down.

I stayed for a while, just staring at the monument. My chest felt tight, my throat constricted with emotions I couldn't put into words. I wanted to say something, to scream, to cry, but I couldn't. The pain was too deep, too raw.

Chang walked up beside me, his hands in his pockets as he stared at the monument too. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he broke the silence. "It never gets easier," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "You just learn to carry it."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Take your time," Chang said, glancing over at me. "But don't let it consume you. Ethan wouldn't want that."

I swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. "I know," I whispered, my voice shaky.

Chang gave me a small nod before turning to leave, his footsteps quiet as he disappeared into the crowd.

I stayed there a little longer, my eyes fixed on the monument, the flames from the pit still flickering in the distance.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself cry.

Q: Have you ever lost a loved one?