Torres, with a shadow of doubt hanging over our misfortune and no news from the garrison team at María Wall, requested González's assistance to examine the putrid body of the unfortunate man.
Binet and Yeremi Santos, in private, discussed with González the situation regarding the use of the suit and the severe consequences of its misuse. With the warnings clearly laid out and the need to dispel the fog of uncertainty, González was the first to wear the anti-rot suit created by Binet and his former partner, R.O.
Near the outskirts of Pontos, the rest of us—doctors, scientists, and medics—had no idea what was happening. López and Polanco were scouting the perimeter, while Torres focused on protecting our lives. The transport teams were checking the vehicles, and all we could do was observe, exchanging light theories among ourselves.
"This doesn't bode well," predicted Juan Vásquez, beginning to panic.
"Don't worry, Vásquez," urged Almánzar firmly. "We thought it was impossible to return to the country, and yet here we are. Now let's trust that everything will work out and we'll make it to the capital."
"You're right, boss."
"Something big must have happened for them to request González's intervention," Duarte interjected.
"Is that good news or bad news?" asked Vásquez.
"González is the best forensic expert on the continent. It's to be expected something significant happened in there."
González had warned Torres that there wasn't much to be done—it was difficult to examine and search for answers in a mass of decaying flesh. But the captain wanted to know if it was some kind of bioterrorism by the revolutionaries.
Time was against us, and one man working alone wouldn't hasten the answers.
"Alright!" exclaimed González after examining the corpse. "It's hard to give a detailed analysis without losing several hours, but I've compared it with the reports sent to Blodcaf, and we're looking at the putrid immolation mentioned in the documents. Give me a couple of hours to examine the body more thoroughly."
"Time!? That's exactly what we don't have, González. We must reach the capital by the second day after our report, or else…" Torres fell silent, unable to explain the situation.
"I'm sorry, Captain," replied González, as he stepped away.
The thread Torres wanted to pull had vanished, leaving us once again without answers and unsure of how to proceed. With no other alternatives and the situation worsening, Torres opted for the second plan: to head toward Ramón Gate, northeast of our location. Nearby was the Redonda Lagoon and several settlements and villages that had once been prosperous, teeming with hunters and farmers.
"Alright!" Torres addressed us, his voice resonating with authority and urgency. "The situation has changed; we don't know what happened to the garrison team. We've sent multiple messages, but since entering the country, we've received no response. Therefore, I've decided to proceed with the second plan."
"We should go back, Captain. We'll reorganize, plan other routes… other strategies," Duarte intervened, aware of Torres's plan.
"Let me remind you there's no turning back," shouted López. "We're aware of the danger in heading northeast, but there is no alternative."
"Calm down, López. We still have to wait for confirmation from Blodcaf and Liongard. While we try to connect with Orion, those who wish to pray may do so, and those who don't—I recommend you prepare mentally and physically."
Tension rose with the dance of the sun making its early descent into dusk. We waited for confirmation from Blodcaf and Liongard. The minutes stretched endlessly, and every second without a response increased our anxiety.
Torres, with his usual resolve, approached the improvised command center where the communication equipment was. His face showed the burden of responsibility, but his eyes revealed unyielding determination.
"Any news?" Torres asked a guard, his voice firm, though a trace of anxiety seeped through.
"Nothing yet, Captain. The signal is weak, but we're still trying."
Meanwhile, González continued working tirelessly on his analysis. His makeshift lab was filled with instruments and jars, and the flickering light of a camp lantern illuminated his concentrated face. He knew every minute was more valuable than Larimar, and that even this first glimpse could provide deeper understanding of the disease.
Binet and Santos remained close, watching every move and taking meticulous notes. Their collaboration in unraveling the mystery of the decomposing body was undeniable. Taveras, skilled in mycology, and Vidal, an expert in microbiology, joined their exceptional abilities to uncover the root cause of the illness.
"What have you found?" asked Binet, eyes full of concern.
"It's still too early to draw definitive conclusions, but there are signs this may be more than a simple disease," replied Vidal, not lifting his gaze from the microscope.
Outside, the group maintained vigilance. The lengthening shadows of dusk cast an unsettling atmosphere across the landscape.
"I don't like this, López," murmured Polanco, scanning the horizon with his binoculars. "Something's not right."
"Since the trains were looted, we've been at a disadvantage," López confessed. "Few know that two trains actually vanished without a trace, and that truth is a clear sign of how dire things are in the country."
"Why would they want trains? It's not like they can leave the country… right?"
"Let's hope not, Polanco. Let's hope not."
Polanco nodded silently, sharing his companion's unease.
Finally, the expected sound of static on the radio gave way to intelligible words. Blodcaf's voice broke the silence with urgency.
"This is Blodcaf. We have confirmation from Liongard. Proceed with the second plan at dawn. I repeat, proceed with the second…" The signal cut off abruptly, but the order was clear and precise amid the pressing need for directives.
Torres nodded, knowing time was of the essence.
"You heard him! I want everyone ready for tomorrow's operation," he ordered with resolve. "We're heading to Ramón Gate. Everyone, take your positions and prepare everything necessary. We can't afford any more delays."
The group sprang into action quickly, each member fulfilling their assigned task with precision. Backpacks were secured, vehicles readied, and the medical team meticulously reorganized. Medications were produced at an accelerated rate, optimizing every effort to maximize our chances of survival.
After the whirlwind of preparations, calm settled over the night. Jesús Sánchez took over the kitchen, nourishing our exhausted bodies. Meanwhile, the rest of us gathered around the fire, which had become our symbol of comfort and serenity.
"Doubt still nags at me," said Polanco, approaching González. "Where the hell did you learn to hit like that?"
"I regret that incident, truly," he replied, pausing to sip hot tea in camaraderie with those of us gathered around the flames. "I didn't just study at university—in my more rebellious years, I took up boxing to relieve the stress of so many classes. Maybe I just wanted to experience what others lived day to day."
"Bastard! Don't get all sentimental on me, eh? You still owe me a rematch."
"Didn't know you were a masochist," González replied.
Laughter filled the air, and soon, words of affection and rivalry followed. González and Polanco had forged a bond, while Binet and I had done the same—but for entirely different reasons. We felt we were the only ones capable of solving the mysteries, and that need formed an intellectual brotherhood. One only interrupted by the ridiculous argument between Santos and Taveras, who were betting on who among us was the smartest.
Of course, as civilized men, we clarified who was more intelligent. The problem came when, with so many wagers and the excitement to prove who was brighter, it turned into a contest between two factions. We looked like children playing to see who was the best student, and our comrades did nothing but encourage the rivalry.
"Never thought I'd see such neat men behaving like children," commented Almánzar to Vásquez.
"I suppose deep down, we're all just kids, huh?"
"I suppose… I suppose so."
"Boss!" Vásquez's expression turned serious. "Can these people really help us?"
"I've placed my faith and soul in them, Vásquez. And look how far we've come thanks to them."
"I'll soon be able to see my family again."
"I promise you, Vásquez, we'll find them—not just your family, but those of every one of my men."
The calm in the camp was only surface-deep, for each of us was lost in our own concerns. Night crept on, and the firelight illuminated our tired faces. The cold air reminded us of the frigid days in Constanza, but in Catha, it was gentle—so gentle it felt like it could soothe the soul.
In the distance, the hoot of an owl reminded us we weren't alone in the darkness. We knew this calm was only a truce before the coming storm at dawn.
González, eyes lost in the flames, broke the silence.
"When I was a child, I used to imagine I'd be a hero—someone who would save lives and solve mysteries," he said in a low voice, almost as if talking to himself. "But I never imagined we'd face something like this."
"We all have childhood dreams, González," responded Taveras, who had been quietly lost in his thoughts. "And even if reality is darker, we can still do something meaningful here."
"Sometimes I wonder if we're truly making a difference," said Almánzar. "Everything seems so… insurmountable."
Torres, with his usual expression of determination, approached the group.
"What we're doing here is vital. Every small breakthrough, every answer we find, brings us closer to saving many lives. We cannot afford to doubt now."
Torres's words sparked renewed vigor in the group. Hope, however faint, once again glowed in our hearts.
Dawn approached, and with it, the uncertainty of what was to come. But we were together, and that unity gave us the strength to face whatever was necessary. We were preparing for the next chapter of our mission, knowing that every step we took was steeped in the shadow and brilliance of our shared destiny.