Chapter 7: Death Brings Everyone Together

The silence following the gunfire is like a void, thick and oppressive. I can feel the weight of it bearing down on my chest, as if the air itself were heavy with the residue of violence. Milo’s corpse sits still, crumpled on the ground, and for a minute, everything else fades into the background—shattered glass, dust, blood—until all that remains is the stark, horrific truth of his lifeless body.

“Dev,” Reza’s voice slices through the fog in my mind, sharp and cold. “Come on, we got to go. Everyone will flock here soon, wanting their hands on all this equipment.”

She’s already on her feet, wiping her bloodied hands on her pants, as if that could erase what just happened. But I can see it in her eyes—Milo's death is chewing at her, no matter how much she tries to hide it. She is not invincible, nor are any of us, and this mess serves as yet another reminder of that.

“I’m fine,’ I fib and force myself to stand. “What now?”

“We regroup,” she says. “Jax—get the girls. Dev, you’re with me. We need to move Milo. He is blocking the car.”

The way she repeats his name is so clinical, as if she has already compartmentalized the loss. I wish I could accomplish that. But all I can think about is how today was intended to be simply another day of survival, and it has now devolved into something far worse.

There is a bit of selfishness mixed in with the guilt too, because even if he was against me joining them, he still helped me out and did right by me.

Now I do not know who to rely on. Reza, she will continue to help me, but there will be a price. Kana, well, I already know her thoughts on me. Jax and Rina—I have not talked with them but Rina is far too introverted to stand up for me.

I shove my thoughts away for future me to deal with and join Reza around Milo’s body. In the faint light, the blood pooling beneath him appears dark, almost black, and a shudder runs through me. He was just laughing and chatting not long ago. Now… now he’s gone.

“Grab his shoulders,” Reza orders, and I'm startled by how steady her voice is. I'm not sure if it's strength or simply detachment at this point. Possibly both.

I do as instructed, crouching near her. When my hands contact Milo's body, it feels real in a way it hasn't previously. The warmth is quickly fading, replaced by a chill that penetrates into my flesh, and I have to bite down hard to keep it.

We lift him together, and even though it's only a body now, it feels like we're carrying so much more—the weight of everything that has occurred and everything that will happen in the future.

There is no going back anymore. It rings in my head as we go, heavy and unyielding, and I can't shake the feeling that something has irreversibly changed. Not only in my surroundings but also within myself. Something has broken, and I am not sure it will ever be whole again.

I have seen so many people die—my parents, my friends, countless other nameless faces and now Milo’s. Yet until just a few minutes ago, my hands were clean; now they are bloody just like everyone else.

All it took was a fight that barely even lasted 10 minutes. The worst thing is that the trauma of killing that woman is slowly fading and getting suppressed until one day I may not even remember this moment.

Reza interrupts my thoughts by apparently deciding that we are far enough away from the car that Milo's body will not block the car's path and begins slowly lowering his body to the ground. I follow suit and copy Reza.

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The next few minutes are a blur, with everyone gathering supplies, looting ammo and guns, and with me deciding to stick with the pistol. They are sadly low on everything else: medicine, food, water, etc.

Then we are piling into the car and driving away, with Kana driving and Rina and me sitting in the back. The row in front of us is empty; no one wants to sit where Milo sat just some time ago. Then, in the next row, Reza and Jax sit. With Reza showing a rare moment of vulnerability and resting her head on Jax’s shoulder.

I sat in the back of the car, my thoughts racing, trying to digest everything that has happened. The road spreads out before us, clouded by the tiredness that weighs heavily on my eyes. Jax and Reza remain silent at the front, a comforting but distant reminder that not everyone has left. Rina, meanwhile, hasn't moved since we arrived. She's snuggled up against the window, face turned away from me, shoulders trembling as she struggles to hold back her sobbing.

For a long time, I just watch her. I'm not sure what to say or whether saying anything will help. I've never been good with words, and at moments like this, they seem much more inadequate. But I can't sit here doing nothing. We've all lost something today, and I can tell she's carrying a lot of guilt. It is engraved into every line on her body, as if she has been hollowed out and filled with nothing but pain.

I clear my throat, trying to push past the knot of anxiety lodged there. “Rina…” My voice comes out softer than I intended—almost a whisper. She doesn't look around, but I notice her shoulders tensing slightly, signaling that she heard me.

I hesitate, trying for the appropriate words, but they are like sand and slip through my fingers . "I... I know it's tough," I manage to say. "Milo... He was... I mean, none of us expected this."

Her shoulders hunch just slightly more, and I mentally kick myself. Of course, she understands. Why am I stating the obvious? I am about to give up and leave her alone when she suddenly speaks up, her voice so faint that I almost miss it.

“It’s my fault,” she says, still not turning around. “If I’d been faster... if I’d taken out the spotter sooner... Milo would still be alive.”

I blink, caught off guard by the raw guilt in her voice. “No, Rina, it’s not—”

“It is,” she cuts me off, her voice trembling. “I was too slow, Dev. Too scared. And because of that... he’s gone. Milo... he was like a brother to me, you know? Always looking out for me. And now... he’s gone, and it’s my fault.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach. I never considered how close she and Milo were. He always appeared so... crazy, so larger-than-life, that it's difficult to fathom him having such a bond with anyone. But the anguish in Rina's voice is genuine, and it reminds me how little I know about her—about everyone in this car.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, trying to sound reassuring, yet feeling like I'm failing badly. “None of this is. We were outnumbered, and... things just happened so fast. You did the best you could. We all did. Sometimes the dice simply doesn’t roll in your favor.”

She finally turns around, her eyes red and puffy from crying, her face streaked with tears. “But it wasn’t enough,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “He needed me, and I wasn’t there for him.”

There is a long stillness between us, and I can't help but feel the weight of her words. What shall I say? Nothing I could say would bring Milo back or remove the guilt that gnaws at her. Because it is close to the stars-damned truth after all. There were just so many variables in that fight; change one of them and the whole equation changes.

It seems I am left with no choice but to use a cliché line because that’s all my brain can think of. “Rina... Milo wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. You know that, right? He was... he was reckless. But he wouldn’t want you carrying this burden.”

She looks down at her hands, her voice rising an octave above our whispered conversation so far. “So what? So what, Dev? That doesn’t change the facts. He is dead and if I had been faster, he wouldn’t be. And I… I already miss him, Dev. I miss him so much.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I do too. But we’re still here, Rina. We have to keep going. For him. For everyone we’ve lost.”

She nods slowly, but I am not sure she believes me. I'm not sure if I believe myself. But it's the only thing I can offer right now, and I hope it's enough to help her get through this, even if only a little.

We become silent again, but this time it feels different. It feels more like a shared space, heavy with loss but not completely empty, rather than a gap separating us.