Harem in a zombie apocalypse

[113] Monument to the dead

Over the following weeks, the survivors of Banff threw themselves into a new project, one aimed at remembering the lost. The idea started as a whisper, an idea passed from person to person. It was a way to remember, to grieve, to find some semblance of closure. As the idea took root, it seemed to inspire a sense of collective purpose among the survivors. They wanted to pay tribute to those who had fallen. The plan was to build a monument – a testament to the courage, sacrifice, and resilience of Banff's lost souls.

At the heart of town, on the scorched ground that was once the center of the battle, the builders began their work. They worked tirelessly, using the same shovels that had dug the mass grave just weeks earlier. Every brick laid, every stone set in place, was a tribute to the lost.

The monument was not meant to be a work of art, nor a display of architectural prowess. It was something more profound, more personal – it was a physical manifestation of grief and remembrance. It was designed to be stark and simple, yet imposing in its raw, almost brutal, simplicity.

Constructed from the charred bricks and stones of buildings razed in the battle, the monument was a towering obelisk reaching towards the sky. Each block was marked with the scratches and scars of the conflict, their rough, uneven textures bearing silent testimony to the fury of the battle that had swept over Banff.

Despite its simplicity, the monument stood tall and proud, casting a long, solemn shadow over the town. It was a stark, silent sentinel, a daily reminder of the price we had paid for our survival. It wasn't adorned with names or epitaphs - the sheer number of the lost made such personal tributes impossible. Instead, it stood unnamed, representing everyone and no one at the same time. It was a memorial to the anonymous heroes who had stood their ground, to the unnamed victims who had perished.

I then stood tall and saluted to the monument.

Rest in peace brothers and sisters...

***

The next week, the town square had been swept clean and rows of chairs had been set up. A stage was erected at one end of the square. Thousands of people from all walks of life had gathered, their faces etched with a mix of anticipation and solemn remembrance.

As the sun began to set, casting a soft, golden glow over the square, the mayor, a robust man with graying hair named Harold, ascended the stage. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, survivors of Banff, it is a bittersweet honor to stand before you today," he started, his voice echoing in the silent square. "In the wake of the cataclysm we've witnessed, we are gathered to honor those who have displayed valor, courage, and selflessness in the face of unthinkable adversity."

There was a pause as Harold cast his gaze over the crowd. "We're here to honor a hero among us," he continued. "A man whose actions on that fateful day made the difference between survival and annihilation."

A murmur swept through the crowd as everyone turned to look at me. I felt my cheeks burn under the intensity of their gaze.

"We honor Chang, our unknown hero," Harold said, as he beckoned me onto the stage. There was a chorus of applause as I ascended the steps and stood next to the mayor.

He held out a small box to me, inside it was a shiny medal with an engraving of the Banff mountains and a single word - 'Valor'. "Chang," he said, as he pinned the medal to my shirt, "Your extraordinary bravery and selflessness saved countless lives. You stood firm when many would have faltered. You took action when many would have fled."

Harold then turned to the crowd, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. "Chang's actions are a testament to the spirit of humanity - our courage, our resilience, our ability to stand together in the face of adversity. His courage serves as a beacon, reminding us that even in our darkest hour, there is hope."

The crowd burst into applause. There were cheers, some were clapping, others were crying, all were looking at me. I was not used to the attention, the heroics, the adoration. All I did was what I thought was right, what needed to be done.

I looked at Harold and then at the crowd. I swallowed, my throat dry. "I am no hero," I started. The crowd quietened, their attention focused on me. "I did what any of you would have done. I did what I had to do to survive, and to ensure the survival of those around me."

"I accept this medal not as a recognition of my own valor, but as a tribute to all of us, the survivors of Banff. It is a reminder of what we've been through, of the friends and loved ones we've lost, and of the strength we found within ourselves when our backs were against the wall."

"This medal is for all of us. For our resilience, our courage, our determination to survive, and our hope for a better future. We survived, and we will continue to survive. Together."

There was a moment of silence, then the applause started again, louder, prouder. People were on their feet, clapping, cheering, some even weeping. In that moment, I felt a sense of community, of shared experience and shared pain, but also shared hope and determination.

It was a day of remembrance, of honor, of pride. But most of all, it was a day of unity, a reminder that even in the bleakest of times, we could find strength in each other, in our shared humanity.

And I, the unknown hero of Banff, stood as a symbol of that unity, a reminder of our shared resilience and hope. And as the sun set, casting a warm, golden light over the town square, I felt a sense of peace, a sense that despite everything we've been through, we will survive, and we will thrive. Together.

Q: Can we get an RIP in the chat?