Fried Rice for the End of Days

The smell of burnt rubber and cheap gasoline hung heavy in the air, but beneath that, there was the sharp, tantalizing aroma of fried shallots and shrimp paste.

Jaka Adinugraha huddled beneath the stainless-steel counter of his humble food cart, Nasi Goreng Mas Jaka, praying to gods he hadn't spoken to since he dropped out of vocational school. Outside, the world had gone to absolute hell. One minute, he was peddling his bike through the bustling streets of Jakarta, hoping to sell enough plates to pay his rent; the next, a guy in a torn batik shirt was trying to chew through his bicycle tire.

"Keep it together, Jaka," he whispered, pressing a stained apron against his mouth to muffle his heavy breathing. "You’ve survived floods, traffic jams, and health inspectors. You can survive a bunch of shirtless lunatics in the street."

A heavy thud rattled the metal wheels of his cart. Jaka winced, clutching a spatula like a holy relic.

"Hey! Anyone there? Don’t eat the bike, man! It’s on a payment plan!" Jaka hissed through the gap in the cart’s service window.

A guttural, wet growl answered him. A gray, papery hand slapped against the glass, leaving a smear of something dark and viscous.

Jaka scrambled backward, knocking over a container of deep-fried shallots. "Oh, great. My garnish. Do you have any idea how much those cost? You’re ruining my overhead, dude!"

The creature outside—a former office worker by the looks of the tattered tie—banged its head repeatedly against the glass. It sounded like a wet sponge hitting a floor tile.

"Man, you’re really stressed, aren't you?" Jaka muttered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Listen, you’re making my customers nervous. Well, you’d be making them nervous if any of them weren't currently being used as a buffet down the block."

Jaka looked down. His stomach let out a pathetic, echoing rumble. He hadn't eaten since sunrise, and the adrenaline of running for his life had left him feeling hollowed out.

"I’m starving too, buddy," Jaka whispered, his eyes landing on the small propane tank connected to his stove. The flame was still burning low, kept lit by habit. There was a single portion of nasi goreng left in the wok—a glorious, glistening pile of rice, soy sauce, and bits of mystery chicken.

He looked at the creature, then at the rice, then back at the creature.

"Are you hungry?" Jaka asked, feeling the insanity of the moment settle in. "Is that it? You’re not trying to kill me; you’re just hangry? Honestly, I get it. I’m a monster before my first coffee, too."

The creature shrieked, a sound that tore through the quiet, humid air.

"Fine! Jeez, no need to be rude about it!" Jaka scooped the fried rice into a plastic bowl. "Here. Take it. Eat. Just… stop hitting the glass, okay? It’s not safety glass."

Jaka reached out, his hand shaking violently, and pushed the bowl through the service hatch. He expected his hand to be bitten off. He expected to die.

Instead, the creature stopped thrashing.

It tilted its head, sniffing the air. The gray, rotting nostrils flared, sniffing the steam rising from the bowl.

"Yeah, that’s right. That’s the good stuff," Jaka murmured, leaning closer, his fear momentarily eclipsed by an absurd sense of culinary pride. "Fresh chili, a secret mix of soy sauce, and I didn't skimp on the garlic. You’re lucky I’m a decent cook."

The creature snatched the bowl. It didn't chew so much as it inhaled the contents, rice flying everywhere as it shoveled the food into its slack jaw.

Jaka watched, mesmerized. "Slow down! You’ll get indigestion, and I don't have any antacids in the cart. Seriously, man, where were your manners raised? In a sewer?"

The creature finished the last grain. It stood there for a heartbeat, its limbs stiff and unnatural. Then, slowly, the gray tint of its skin began to flush with a dull, sickly pink. Its eyes—milky and dead moments ago—flickered. A vein pulsed in its neck.

Jaka gripped the edge of the counter, his eyes wide. "What the—? Did I just fix you? Is my cooking medicinal or something?"

The creature blinked. It rubbed its face with a trembling hand, then looked at Jaka. The blank, vacant stare was gone, replaced by a look of profound, soul-crushing confusion.

"Where… where am I?" the man rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding against bone.

Jaka’s jaw dropped. He looked at his spatula, then at the man. "You’re in front of my cart, bro. You were trying to eat my tires. Seriously, do you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of black rubber?"

The man looked down at his ruined batik shirt, then up at Jaka. "The last thing I remember… I was in a meeting about quarterly projections. Then everything went dark. Why am I standing in the middle of a warzone?"

"Well, it’s not exactly a warzone, it’s more like a really bad flash mob, but with more biting," Jaka said, feeling a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his chest. "You looked pretty hungry, man. You were acting like a complete animal."

The man leaned against the side of the cart, clutching his stomach. "I don't know what happened. I just… I feel like I woke up from a dream where I was drowning in mud."

"Glad I could help," Jaka said, puffing out his chest. "I’m Jaka. And you, my friend, are the first person to actually compliment my cooking by not tearing my throat out."

The man looked at Jaka, his eyes darting around at the carnage in the street. "Jaka, I... I think I’m losing it again. My head… it’s getting foggy. The noise… the shouting… it’s coming back."

"Hey, hey, stay with me!" Jaka reached for a bottle of water, trying to find a sense of normalcy in the madness. "You just need a nap. Maybe a second serving? My portions are pretty generous."

The man’s body began to slump, his posture losing its structural integrity as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut. His eyelids fluttered, turning back to that haunting, milky white.

"No, no, no! Don't go back! I have more rice! I can whip up a batch of nasi gila—crazy rice! It’s got extra everything!" Jaka panicked, grabbing the man’s shoulder, but the man was already sliding down the side of the cart.

The man looked up at Jaka one last time. His face twisted into a mask of pure, primal hunger, but his mouth moved with the ghost of a refined, regular human voice.

"Extra chili, please," the man whispered, his tone polite, almost apologetic.

Then, he collapsed into a heap on the asphalt, his body twitching once, twice, before going completely still.

Jaka stood frozen, his hand still reaching out. He stared at the bowl on the ground, then at the street, where three more "customers" were starting to turn their heads toward the sound of his ragged breathing.

"Well," Jaka said to the empty street, his voice cracking. "That’s one way to get a review, I guess."

He looked at his stove. The flame was still burning.

"Time to prep more sauce," he whispered to himself, reaching for the bag of chilies. "If

I’m going to die, I’m going to go out as the chef who made the zombies polite."