The Corporate Apocalypse: Jakarta's Survival Guide to Cosmic

Chapter 3: Fried Snack Diplomacy and the Background Dancers

The bass thump of "Uptown Funk" finally faded as the speaker’s battery gave a weak beep and died. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music ever did. In the middle of the wrecked electronics store, Rendy stayed in his freeze—one hand on the floor, legs crossed in the air—while in front of him, the Alpha Zombie stood frozen, one hand still on his crotch, mimicking a Michael Jackson pose that was physically impossible for his bloated, undead anatomy.

Alana held her breath. Her hand, still gripping the bow, felt stiff from clapping for the last three minutes. She glanced at the exit, gauging the distance. If that monster realizes he just got played, we’re toast, she thought.

But the Alpha didn’t attack. The giant let out a heavy sigh, sounding like a diesel engine about to stall. He looked at Rendy with watery red eyes. Slowly, the Alpha reached behind his shredded cargo belt, pulled out a slightly dented plastic container, and tossed it toward Rendy.

Thud.

The box landed right in front of Rendy’s upside-down face. Rendy flipped back onto his feet and picked it up.

"Thanks, man. Respect," Rendy nodded, throwing up a metal horns sign.

The Alpha Zombie responded with a low growl—which sounded strangely like a grunt of approval—then turned, grabbed his utility pole, and stomped off into the darkness of the warehouse, his feet still carrying the faint traces of a moonwalk.

Alana rushed over to Rendy, nearly tripping over a TV shelf. "You... you actually survived. And that... what is that?"

Rendy opened the container. Inside were three corn fritters. They were cold, but surprisingly well-wrapped in plastic. "Corn fritters, Al. I think the big guy used to be a street food vendor. Coach Udin nailed it again in Chapter 5, Section B: 'The gift from a defeated Alpha is usually the most precious treasure they held onto before they turned'."

Alana stared at the fritters, then at Rendy, then at the ceiling as if looking for an explanation from the universe. "I can’t... I can’t wrap my brain around this. A giant zombie... gave you street food... because you breakdanced?"

"The world’s changed, Al. Maybe the virus mutated into a Vibe Virus," Rendy said, casually taking a bite. "Hm, needs a little salt. But the texture is still there."

"Don’t eat that, you idiot! It’s probably contaminated!" Alana snatched the box away and tossed it back in the container. "We need to get out of here. Now. Before his 'dance crew' shows up for a rematch."

They scrambled out of the store, weaving through the husks of burned-out cars. The Jakarta sky was turning a hazy orange, casting eerie silhouettes over the skyscrapers that were now just giant concrete tombstones.

As they walked, Rendy cracked open his book again. The fading sunlight hit the greasy pages.

"Okay, we need a place to crash," Rendy muttered. "Chapter 6 says: 'High-end residential areas are death traps because those zombies are usually stuck-up and travel in packs. Instead, look for a bankrupt office building or a shop with a ton of discount banners. Zombies hate places with a broke aura'."

Alana just sighed. She’d given up on arguing. For the last ten kilometers, every time she tried to use the military survival tactics she’d learned from YouTube—like checking sightlines or sticking to hard surfaces to hide their tracks—Rendy did the exact opposite and they stayed alive.

"Why do they hate broke places?" Alana finally asked, just curious to see how deep the rabbit hole went.

"Because in a broke place, there’s nothing to eat," Rendy said with total conviction. "Coach Udin says zombies have leftover consumerist instincts. They’d rather hang out in front of designer stores or expensive cafes because it makes them feel... relevant."

They stopped in front of a three-story shop covered in graffiti and banners that read "CLEARANCE SALE: EVERYTHING UNDER FIVE BUCKS". The entrance was a rusty rolling metal door.

"In here?" Alana asked skeptically.

"Perfect. Look, not a single zombie for fifty yards. They’re all probably lining up at that green-logo coffee shop down the street," Rendy pointed into the distance, where a crowd of undead was indeed standing silently in front of a popular cafe.

They slipped inside, pulling the rolling door shut and locking it with a padlock Rendy had brought. Inside, the air was cold and smelled like dusty paper. Rendy switched on his headlamp, lighting up piles of cheap clothes and plastic keychains.

Alana slumped against the wall, dropping her heavy pack. Her tense muscles started to ache. "Rendy," she called out into the darkness, broken only by the beam of his light.

"Yeah?" Rendy was busy lining up plastic mannequins by the door, following Chapter 7’s instructions on 'Fake Background Dancers'.

"Do you actually believe in that book? I mean..."

"Where’d you get that? The author, Coach Udin... who even is he?"

Rendy stopped organizing the dolls. He sat down across from Alana, cradling the guidebook like it was a sacred relic. "I picked this up at a used bookstore in Senen, a week before the outbreak started. Only cost me ten bucks. The clerk told me it was written by a guy who survived a mass rabies outbreak in some remote village."

"Mass rabies isn't exactly a zombie apocalypse, Ren," Alana replied quietly.

"I know. But think about it, Al," Rendy’s voice turned serious, dropping an octave. "Everyone who played it by the book—the army, the cops, the doctors—they all died on day one. They tried to fight this thing with bullets and science. But this virus... it’s like it has an ego. It doesn't want to be fought. It wants to be invited to 'play'."

Alana stared at Rendy. The beam from his headlamp cast shadows that made his face look much older. "You’re saying this apocalypse... it’s just a game to them?"

"Maybe. Coach Udin says in the intro: 'If the world goes crazy, the only way to stay alive is to be crazier than the world itself'. I just... I just don't want to be scared, Al. And this book makes me feel like I don't have to be."

Alana went silent. She looked at the callouses on her palms from months of drawing her bowstring. She had lived in a state of constant terror, always on edge, always suspicious. And here was Rendy, a college kid who’d probably flunk calculus, walking through monsters with a nursery rhyme.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the second floor. It wasn't the heavy, shuffling drag of a zombie, but the deliberate, muffled steps of a human.

Alana was instantly on high alert. She drew her bow, aiming an arrow toward the dark staircase in the corner of the shop. Rendy reflexively raised his book as if it were the strongest shield in the world.

"Who’s there?" Alana barked.

Three men emerged from the darkness of the stairs. They wore leather jackets, carried machetes, and their faces were a map of old scars. The leader, a guy with long hair and a snake tattoo coiling up his neck, looked at Rendy and Alana with a predatory grin.

"Well, well... look what we have here," the leader sneered. "Two kids playing house. And you..." his eyes locked onto Rendy. "I saw you at the electronics store earlier. You’re the one who made that Giant dance, aren't you?"

Alana didn't lower her bow. "Back off, or I’ll put an arrow right through your throat."

"Take it easy, sweetheart," the leader laughed, though the sound was cold. "We aren't looking for trouble. We just want... the secret. How did you tame that thing? We lost ten guys just trying to step foot in that store, and you just waltzed in with a dance routine?"

Rendy stood up slowly. "That’s a trade secret, man. But if you’re interested, it’s all in Chapter 8: 'Dealing with Bandits through the Power of Advertising'."

The leader's brow furrowed. "What? Advertising?"

Rendy suddenly stood up straight, spreading his arms like a 90s infomercial host. "Hello, sir! Are you tired of the same old boring life? Do you feel like your machete isn't sharp enough and your skin isn't glowing in the middle of the apocalypse?"

"What the hell are you on about?" one of the lackeys stepped forward, looking offended.

"Wait!" Rendy shouted with high-octane enthusiasm, bordering on hysterical. "Today only! If you gentlemen put down your weapons and have a seat, I’ll give you free tips on how to make strawberry-scented deodorant from stuff right here in this shop! Guaranteed to keep the zombies away, or your money back!"

Alana froze. Was he actually trying to pitch a sale to robbers? In the middle of a hostage situation?

But then, something bizarre happened again. The bandits, who were full of rage and murderous intent a moment ago, looked... mesmerized by Rendy’s confident, ridiculous tone. They glanced at each other, confused.

"Strawberry... deodorant?" the leader muttered. He caught a whiff of his own armpit, which definitely smelled like a dumpster. "It keeps them away?"

"Absolutely!" Rendy approached them without a hint of fear, as if he were leading an MLM seminar. "But first, we have to perform an opening ritual to clear the negative energy from this building. Everyone, follow my lead! Hands in the air, and wiggle those thumbs!"

Alana watched in disbelief as the three hardened criminals, after a few seconds of hesitation, slowly raised their hands and began wiggling their thumbs with utterly bewildered expressions.

"This is insane," Alana whispered to herself. "I’m literally living in a glitched simulation."

Outside the shop, in the dead of night, the eyes of the zombie horde that had been fixed on the green cafe slowly turned toward the "CLEARANCE SALE" storefront. They didn't snarl. Instead, they began to sway gently, following the rhythm of the thumb-wiggling whose energy, somehow, radiated through the walls.

The world had truly lost its mind, and Rendy was the king of the crazies.