He finishes throwing that stuff at everything that still breathed on the internet and stares at the screen like someone fishing in the dark, now waiting to see if anything took the bait, the cursor blinking, notifications popping up, replies pouring in from all sides, some too fast to be real, others slow in that way of someone who read everything twice before replying, and his chest settles in that strange middle ground between anxiety and exhaustion because now it wasn't just him talking to the void anymore, the void started replying back. First came ordinary people, very ordinary, the kind who until yesterday were complaining about traffic, rent, boss, neighbor, bad internet signal, and now were asking how to lock a door properly, how long water lasts in a bucket, if a zombie head is worth a small bullet, if the sound of a pot attracts animals, if dogs still recognize their owners, if you can sleep with the light on or if that attracts things, and seeing all that he realizes something simple and horrible, the world has ended and the first reaction of most wasn't courage or strategy, it was pure confusion, the confusion of people who never really needed to think about staying alive.
A guy wrote that he was trapped on the eleventh floor with his diabetic mother and two small children; a woman from Spain said that her husband left in the morning and didn't return, and now she heard a noise on the stairs and didn't know whether to open them or not; a Japanese man sent a short message saying that the city seemed too quiet and that the silence was worse than the noise; and in the midst of all this, there were also the usual idiots saying it was fake, that it was psy-op, that it was a military project, that it was climate punishment, that it was Chinese, American, Russian, communist, satanist—there's always some son of a bitch trying to politicize the apocalypse because stupidity is the only thing that survives well in any environment.
He reads quickly, opening a reply here, another there, typing wherever he can, copying what he considers useful, deleting the rest, and then the official accounts begin to appear, or what still seemed official. First one with an American military seal, then another in Mandarin, another in Russian, another that looked French, a German one, a Korean one, all coming in distorted, fragmented, as if the world were still trying to keep its composure while bleeding on the floor.
The American account writes something dry, short, a standard crisis statement, saying that remaining forces were establishing temporary corridors and containment zones, that civilians should remain sheltered and avoid unnecessary movement, and he lets out a humorless laugh because "avoid unnecessary movement" was exactly the kind of phrase someone protected in a bunker writes, not someone in an apartment listening to something scratching at the window.
Right below, a profile with a Chinese flag responded with the same cold energy, talking about regional control, armed quarantine, execution of emergency protocols, and another Russian profile was already in the tone of "we will resist and prevail," because even to the ends of the earth there are countries that won't let go of propaganda. He scrolls down and sees that the UN also tried to sound nice, global coordination, joint effort, preservation of human dignity, international aid, and he almost just replies with "good luck," because human dignity is one of the first things to evaporate when water runs out and the door starts being kicked down by something that shouldn't be moving anymore.
In the midst of all this, a guy appears saying he was a captain in the National Guard from somewhere in Texas, profile picture in uniform, tired eyes, and the guy writes directly, without a press room or theatrics, "aim for the head, don't waste ammunition, don't stop at gas stations, burn bodies when you can, and if you hear rats, run," and that last part makes him pause his finger on the keyboard for a second, because it's different when a military man confirms your worst thought without trying to seem dramatic.
Then comes a message from a Polish soldier saying that their line fell after a horde of birds descended on supply trucks, another from an Argentinian firefighter saying that fire solves some things and worsens others, especially plants, another from a Brazilian policeman saying that many police stations have become traps because desperate people run to the authorities as if authority were still a strong wall, and it isn't always.
He begins to notice a pattern in the helpful responses; no one speaks as an institution anymore, everyone speaks as a survivor. The uniform remains, the function remains in the name, but the voice is now that of someone who saw a friend torn apart in front of a car and now has no more patience for bureaucracy.
A Chilean doctor replies that antibiotics are now worth more than jewelry, that clean water is worth more than gasoline at certain times, and that untreated fever will kill more people than bites in many places. A guy in Germany sends a photo of a hand-drawn map stuck to the wall showing danger points, silent routes, patrol schedules, and areas where animals don't enter for some reason they still don't understand.
A woman in Korea writes that the biggest mistake of the first day was people running around with their phones in their hands filming, and he thinks "of course," because even in the apocalypse there are idiots wanting to go viral before they become corpses.
The responses keep coming. Some good. Many useless. Several desperate. An account with a picture of an imported car and an expensive watch sends a private message offering fifty thousand dollars if he sends his location and "a team will pick you up," and he doesn't even need to think much, he just reads it again to make sure that the stupidity remains global and intact.
Below that same message, another guy had already responded publicly before him, some anonymous person with a ridiculous nickname and a faceless photo, saying "shove your money up your ass, bro, now money is only good for burning and heating up," and he laughs out loud for the first real time since the window was opened, a dry, quick laugh, almost grateful, because in the midst of the rot someone still managed to get the perfect phrase right.
And the best part is that the response goes viral in seconds, people liking, repeating, translating, adapting, a Spaniard saying "méteselo por el culo" (roughly translated as "fuck it up the ass"), a Frenchman saying something equivalent, a Russian cursing in another language, and for five seconds the entire planet agrees on one thing: the currency died along with normality.
He keeps scrolling and the feeling changes; it's not just ordinary people lost anymore, another kind of voice begins to appear, the voice of someone who has spent their life commanding, organizing, deciding—people who until yesterday had protocols, chains of command, offices full of advisors, and now have a phone in their hand and a truth in their throat that no longer fits into pretty speeches. A verified profile with the American flag appears with the full name and rank: General Michael R. Hawkins, four stars, looking like someone who hasn't slept in two days, and the message doesn't come in the form of a press conference; it comes in raw, direct, unfiltered text.
— General Hawkins: Who told you to wait for help? Large-scale organized aid isn't going to arrive in time. Listen to this and understand this well: our units are fragmented, our communication lines are failing, and our aircraft are being shot down by swarms of birds. I've lost three helicopters in the last six hours. It's not a lack of will, it's a lack of resources. So stop waiting for rescue and start organizing yourselves locally.
Immediately below, the reaction is immediate, people calling him a defeatist, people thanking him, people asking for directions, and he continues.
— General Hawkins: If you still have infrastructure in your neighborhood, turn it into a defensive point. Barricades, access control, silence. Anything that flies or moves in a group is now a threat. And another thing, whoever thinks they're going to take me to a court-martial after this still doesn't understand, there are no more courts, no more routine, the world as we knew it is over.
The phrase echoes and fades into the flow, and another profile enters, this time in Mandarin with a somewhat broken but clear enough automatic translation: Lieutenant General Liu Wei of the People's Liberation Army of China.
Lieutenant General Liu Wei: Military units are operating in isolated cells. We do not have the capacity for mass evacuation. The priority is containment and regional survival. If you are waiting for the state to resolve your individual situation, you are behind schedule. Organize your family, your building, your street. Local cooperation is now worth more than central orders.
He reads that and thinks he never imagined seeing two sides of the world saying the same thing at the same time without competing, just accepting it.
Lieutenant General Liu Wei: Maintain silence, control the light, conserve water. Night attacks have increased. The creatures' behavior changes according to the pressure. Do not repeat the same mistake twice.
Another enters, a European name, General Pierre Delacroix, France, his voice firmer than formal.
General Delacroix: We are still here. And as long as we are, we will try to keep the corridors secure. But listen, I don't promise what I can't deliver. We are fighting with limited resources against a threat that changes every hour. Whoever can fortify their position, fortify it. Whoever can leave safely, leave before nightfall.
Further down, Bundeswehr, Germany, General Klaus Richter.
— General Richter: Forget perfection. Seek efficiency. Dry shelter, safe water, escape route. That's enough for today. Tomorrow is another war. Civil engineers, electricians, people with technical knowledge, you are a priority. Organize yourselves and help those around you.
The screen doesn't freeze, another profile, Israel, Defense Command.
— Israeli Command: We are building extensive physical barriers. Adapting the vertical containment model. High, smooth walls, with no climbing points. Anyone with access to construction materials, start immediately. Concrete, metal, anything. We need engineers, bricklayers, machine operators. This is not optional.
He reads it and remembers the movie instantly, only now it's not a screen, it's the world.
Another one enters, a British navy man, his voice weary.
Admiral James Caldwell: I can't send an air rescue. I repeat, I can't. Birds are shooting down aircraft in formation. If you hear a helicopter, don't count on it reaching you. If it does, lucky. If not, be prepared to continue alone.
Honesty weighs more than any promise.
Another profile, Russia, General Viktor Sokolov.
General Sokolov: You are not alone. Remaining units are fighting. But we are not fighting for you individually, we are fighting for entire areas. So hold your area. Hold your street. Hold your family. This is now everyone's war.
The word "war" appears and stays.
Amidst all this, a different account emerges—not military, but a virologist, an identified doctor, from some European laboratory still partially operational.