Fried Rice for the End of Days

Chapter 2

The silence following the man’s collapse was worse than the screaming. It was a thick, suffocating quiet that made Jaka’s ears ring. He looked down at the empty plastic bowl, then at his hands, which were stained with soy sauce and what he prayed was just regular motor oil.

"Okay, Jaka. Deep breaths," he muttered, grabbing the handles of his cart. "The man just wanted extra chili. He wasn't a monster. He was a critic with really low blood sugar. That’s it. That’s the logical explanation."

He hauled the cart, the squeaky wheel protesting loudly against the asphalt. He needed to get to the main road, or at least somewhere that didn't smell like a rotting dumpster fire.

"Move, you piece of junk," Jaka grunted, his feet skidding on loose gravel. "If we get out of this, I’m getting you new wheels. Maybe some fancy rims. You’ve earned it, old girl."

From the shadows of a nearby convenience store, Kanya watched. Her hand hovered over the holster of her service pistol, her knuckles white. She had been tracking this sector for three hours, watching soldiers and civilians alike get torn to ribbons by the "Afflicted." But this guy? The guy in the stained apron pushing a food cart? He was walking through a kill zone like he was browsing a weekend night market.

She stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, her boots clicking sharply. "Hey! You! Stop right there!"

Jaka nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around and accidentally swinging his spatula toward Kanya. "Whoa! Don’t shout! You’ll wake them up! Or worse, you’ll startle my onions!"

Kanya raised her weapon, narrowing her eyes. "Who the hell are you? And how are you still breathing? Those things—look at them! They're ten feet away from you, and they’re acting like you’re invisible!"

Jaka looked behind him. Sure enough, two pale, vein-throbbing creatures were shambling past his cart, completely uninterested in the aroma of garlic and soy sauce drifting from his stove.

"Oh, them?" Jaka wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "They’re just hangry, Miss. I fixed the last one, but I think he had a bit of a crash. Low tolerance for spice, I guess."

Kanya walked closer, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "You 'fixed' them? Are you insane? Do you have some kind of pheromone trap in that cart? What is that scent?"

"It’s nasi goreng, Miss. My grandmother’s secret recipe," Jaka said, sounding genuinely offended. "And it’s not a trap. It’s a balanced meal. Everyone loves a good stir-fry. Even the ones with the gray skin and the bad attitude."

Kanya circled the cart, eyeing the stainless steel surfaces with suspicion. She poked a bag of shallots with the muzzle of her gun. "This is impossible. My tactical unit has been using sonic pulses, heavy lead, and fire. You’re telling me your strategy for the apocalypse is… carbohydrates?"

"Hey, don't knock the carbs until you've tried them," Jaka retorted, adjusting his apron. "Look, I’m just a humble chef. I sell food. If the world wants to go crazy, that’s on the world. I still have rent to pay, and the landlord doesn't accept 'the apocalypse happened' as a valid reason for missing a payment."

"You’re a real piece of work, aren't you?" Kanya let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. "You’re in the middle of a biological collapse, and you’re worried about rent?"

"I’m worried about my overhead, Miss! Do you know how much a decent bag of rice costs these days? It’s highway robbery!"

Kanya was about to retort, but her radio crackled, followed by a low, guttural growl that sounded far too close for comfort. She spun around, leveling her weapon toward the alleyway.

"Down," she hissed, grabbing Jaka by the shoulder and shoving him behind his cart.

"Hey! Watch the seasoning!" Jaka complained, peering over the edge.

Out of the darkness, a pack of dogs—or what used to be dogs—trotted into the light. They were massive, their fur falling out in patches, their eyes glowing with a faint, sickly bioluminescence. They were hungry, and they were hunting.

"Those aren't just Afflicted," Kanya whispered, her voice tight. "They’ve been exposed to the runoff. They’re fast, and they’re vicious. Forget the rice, Jaka. We need to run."

Jaka looked at his stove, then at the pack of snarling, mutated beasts. He had a failed batch of pancakes sitting in a bowl on the counter—a disaster he’d burned earlier that morning. They were dense, rubbery, and looked more like frisbees than breakfast.

"Actually," Jaka muttered, reaching for the bowl.

"What are you doing?" Kanya hissed. "Put that down! You’re going to get us killed!"

"They look like they need fiber," Jaka said.

Before Kanya could stop him, he stood up and hurled the entire stack of rubbery, burnt pancakes toward the center of the street. They landed with a heavy, wet thwack right in front of the lead dog.

Kanya braced herself for the attack, closing her eyes for a split second. But the scream never came. Instead, she heard... chewing?

She opened her eyes, peering over the cart's edge. The pack had stopped. The lead dog was sniffing the charcoal-black pancakes. It nudged one with its snout, then took a bite. The creature stopped growling. It let out a soft, satisfied whine, wagging its tail—or what was left of it—and started to devour the pile of burnt dough.

"Are you kidding me?" Kanya gasped, her gun lowering an inch. "They’re eating it? That looks like industrial waste."

"It’s the caramelization, Miss," Jaka said, looking immensely satisfied. "You burn the sugar just right, and it acts like a sedative. See? They’re calming right down."

The dogs were indeed settling. The aggressive, hunched posture was gone, replaced by a sort of sluggish, content daze. One of them dropped to its belly, letting out a long, happy yawn.

Kanya stared at the scene, her skepticism crumbling under the weight of the impossible. "You just… you just fed a pack of biological nightmares a pile of trash, and they turned into golden retrievers."

"They're not trash," Jaka corrected, crossing his arms. "They're 'rustic pancakes.' It’s an acquired taste."

Kanya looked at the pack, then back at Jaka. The fear in her eyes was being replaced by something else: a terrifying, desperate curiosity.

"Jaka," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "How much more do you have in there?"

"What, you hungry too? I’ve got some leftover sambal, but be warned, it has a kick that’ll peel the paint off a tank."

Kanya didn't smile. She looked at the dogs, who were now essentially napping in the middle of the road. "If you can make them stop, you can make them follow. Do you have any idea what this means? We could walk through the entire city."

Jaka blinked, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "You want me to walk through a zombie apocalypse with a food cart, leading a pack of mutated poodles?"

"I want you to help me survive," Kanya said, her eyes flashing with a new kind of intensity. "And if you’re as good at cooking as you are at… whatever this is… then we might just get out of this alive."

Jaka looked at his cart, then at the path ahead. He reached down and picked up his spatula, feeling the worn handle settle into his grip.

"Fine," he said, turning the flame on his stove back up to a steady, blue roar. "But if I’m leading a pack of dogs, I’m getting a better contract. And I want a bigger umbrella. This sun is doing terrible things to my complexion."

Kanya let out a reluctant laugh, shaking her head. "Deal. Now, start cooking. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us."

Jaka nodded, reaching for a bag of fresh chilies. "Extra spicy, coming right up."