Chapter Four

In the first twenty-four hours of the apocalypse, I was in a Pentagon bunker, watching the world collapse through a monitor screen.

This is not a metaphor. It's a real collapse.

The streets of New York City have become slaughterhouses. Los Angeles highways are littered with wrecked vehicles. Downtown Chicago is shrouded in thick smoke, looking like it's been bombed. The infected—the official term is still used, but everyone knows what it is—are not as slow-moving as in the movies; they charge and bite like rabid dogs.

But unlike in the previous life, this time, the army did not run away.

The National Guard set up checkpoints in various cities, using firepower to suppress the spread of the infected. The most shocking scene for me was this: in the suburbs of Denver, a soldier was tackled by an infected person. His comrade didn't run away; instead, he rushed forward and smashed the infected person's skull with the butt of his rifle. The two men, covered in blood, got up and continued firing.

I don't know if they later awakened any special abilities. The spiritual spring has been distributed, but it will take time for it to take effect.

I hope they survived.

I stared at the screen, my fingers unconsciously tracing the pendant on my chest. Seven days had passed, and I'd lost count of how many times I'd entered and exited the space. With each gallon of spiritual spring water I extracted, I felt my body being drained a little more. The researchers called it "energy depletion" and advised me to rest. I said I didn't have time to rest.

Thousands of people die every day. All I can do is draw water from the space, bucket by bucket.

But I know that in my old home , someone is experiencing the lessons I learned at the cost of my life in my past life.

Liam.

I opened my phone and went to the group chat.

The messages had accumulated to over a thousand. I scrolled up and saw the timeline looked like this—

On the day the apocalypse broke out, Liam posted a message in the old community group: "I have supplies at home, but I won't share them. This is the apocalypse, where the strong prey on the weak."

When I saw this, I almost burst out laughing. Survival of the fittest? Him?

Then came the neighbors' reaction. First came shock, then anger, then pleading. Someone stood up and yelled at him, "Are you fucking human? There are children here!"

Liam replied, "The child is not my problem."

He also posted a photo: a small mountain of supply boxes, buckets, and ammunition piled up in the living room. The caption read: "My brother hoarded this. Go find him if you dare."

I frowned.

I stockpiled them?

Those supplies were clearly bought with money Liam had swindled from his relatives. I remember him doing the same thing in my past life—calling every relative he could reach, making up all sorts of excuses to borrow money. Things like "car accident hospitalization," "business needs," "friend in urgent need." His parents had just passed away then, and the relatives gave him money out of respect for his deceased father.

In this life, he became even worse and tried to shift the blame onto me.

I continued scrolling down. My neighbors' anger began to turn towards me.

"Who is Ethan Cole?" "His brother?" "A soldier?" "He must know the inside story! Otherwise, why would he hoard so many supplies?"

A few minutes later, someone posted my photo online with the caption: "This person hoarded a lot of supplies before the apocalypse and refused to share them. He's a soldier, so he must have inside information."

The first comment below reads: "Traitor to the nation."

Article Two: "Execution by firing squad."

Article 3: "Where does he live? I'll go find him."

My finger paused for a moment at the top of the screen. Then I scrolled down and came across a message that made my blood pressure rise.

Liam sent a voice message.

I clicked on it.

His voice trembled with tears: "Don't blame my brother, he was just trying to survive... I just never expected him to abandon me too. He said he was a soldier, that he had to serve his country, and then he disappeared. I... I'm now raising a disabled person all by myself, I really..."

He choked up.

His acting was so realistic that I wanted to give him an Oscar.

The comments section immediately shifted. "His brother abandoned him?" "Is this how soldiers are?" "Trash, scum."

I looked at those words, but felt nothing. Really. In my past life, I was subjected to even worse cyberbullying—in the second year of the apocalypse, I refused to provide supplies to an armed group, and they spread rumors that I had raped women and abused children. In that world without law, rumors were a death sentence.

In comparison, Liam's little tricks are not even an appetizer.

But I noticed another account. The ID was anonymous, but the way it spoke was very familiar: "Ethan Cole has connections in the military, so he must have known the apocalypse was coming. He didn't warn people, didn't save lives, and even hoarded supplies. What is he if not a traitor?"

Every comment is inciting.

Every comment is pushing me to the brink.

I recognized this rhetoric. In my past life, Liam used the same tactic to incite those in the base who opposed me—first spreading rumors, then exaggerating them, and finally binding everyone to the cause.

This is his old profession.

I placed my phone face down on the table and closed my eyes.

Miller walked in with a cup of coffee, saw my expression, and raised an eyebrow: "What's wrong?"

"My brother is digging a hole for me."

"Should we handle this?"

“No need.” I picked up my coffee and took a sip; it was terribly bitter. “Let him dig. The deeper he digs, the more miserable his own death will be.”

Miller didn't ask any more questions. She was a smart woman and knew when to shut up.

The fourth day of the apocalypse.

The situation stabilized slightly. The number of infected was still increasing, but the rate of increase had slowed. A military spokesperson appeared on television, announcing that the first batch of "superhumans" had been deployed. On screen, a soldier, his body wreathed in flames, charged into a horde of infected, burning them to ashes like paper.

The entire internet is in an uproar.

"Do they really have superpowers?" "What did the military know in advance?" "Never mind, this is so cool!"

Excitement posts drowned out panic posts. People started cheering on their balconies and singing to the sky. I understand the reaction—when you think the world is doomed, and then suddenly discover your country has a trump card, that feeling of surviving a catastrophe is more intoxicating than any drug.

But I know this is just the beginning.

The real test is yet to come.

That same afternoon, I received a text message from Liam.

"Brother, did you see the news? There are people with superpowers in the military. Are you one of them?"

I did not reply.

" Come back, brother . When you come back, I'll share half of the supplies with you. We're brothers, there's no need to make a scene like this."

brother.

I laughed when I saw that word.

He said the same thing in my past life. Five minutes before he attracted the mutated infected, he hugged me and cried, saying, "Brother, I was wrong, we're brothers." I believed him. Then he splattered an infected person's blood on my face.

If I hadn't drunk the spiritual spring water beforehand, I would have turned into a zombie long ago.

This time, I will not believe it again.

The sixth day of the apocalypse.

The messages in the community group started to go crazy.

Someone posted a video. In the video, more than a dozen people are standing in front of Liam's house, banging on the door. The door opens, and Liam peeks out. Seeing so many people, her face turns pale.

"Open the door! Take out the supplies!"

"We're not stealing, we're borrowing! We'll return it to you when the apocalypse ends!"

Liam tried to close the door, but someone blocked it. He screamed, "You can't come in! I have a gun!"

"If you have a gun, then shoot!" a woman's voice cried. "My child hasn't eaten for three days! Come on! Kill me! Kill my daughter!"

silence.

Then Liam stepped aside.

The crowd surged in.

The video ends here.

The comments section was unanimously filled with: "Serves him right." "This is what happens when you hoard goods and speculate." "His brother is no better."

I turned off my phone and leaned back in my chair.

I don't know what Liam's expression is right now. Angry? Fearful? Devastated? Or is he plotting his next scheme?

It doesn't matter anymore.

He stole Sophia, and I thought he stole my future.

But he didn't know that I never needed to rely on anyone.

The seventh day of the apocalypse.

I stood atop the Pentagon, looking at the Washington sky. Thick smoke hung in the distance, but people were already appearing on the streets nearby. The military was distributing food, and temporary shelters were beginning to operate. Everything was still chaotic, but order was returning.

Miller walked up to me and handed me a tablet.

"Your brother is trending on social media."

I took the tablet.

The headline is sensational: "Community panic buying of supplies reveals hoarders are relatives of military personnel."

The article details how Liam hoarded supplies, refused to share, and lied that his brother had stockpiled them. The reporter also interviewed residents, one of whom said, "We didn't want to loot, but we had no other choice. That young man was extremely selfish."

One comment was pushed to the top: "What about his brother, Ethan Cole? A soldier? The country should investigate him."

Below that, there was a comment I hadn't expected.

“I’m Ethan Cole’s neighbor. He moved to his new house before the apocalypse . And he helped me before he left—he told me the apocalypse was coming and told me to stock up on supplies. I thought he was crazy, but now it seems he was the only one who told the truth.”

The ID is Megan.

That real estate agent girl.

She is alive.

I stared at that line of text for a long time, a slight smile playing on my lips.

Miller noticed my expression: "You know each other?"

"I owe her a glass of juice." I handed the tablet back to her. "Let's go, it's time to get to work."

On my way back to the underground bunker, my phone vibrated.

Liam's text message.

There was only one sentence: "Brother, I won't let you get away with this."

I deleted it.

No, I didn't delete it.

I took a screenshot and saved it to a folder.

Keep it.

It will be useful later.