Chapter 6: The Collapse

The hospitals could no longer hold them.

By the end of the week, every ward in Cipto Mangunkusumo Hospital overflowed with patients thrashing in fever, foaming at the mouth, their bodies contorting as the infection rewired them. Nurses locked doors with furniture. Doctors fled through back staircases. Those who stayed became patients themselves, their screams echoing down fluorescent hallways.

It spread faster than fire.

The first reanimated corpse was captured on a phone in Kalideres. A man who had died in the waiting room suddenly sat up, eyes pale and glassy, his jaw hanging loose. He lunged at the nearest person with animal force, biting into the woman’s neck before staff could pull him off. The video was online in minutes, and before authorities could censor it, thousands had shared it across Jakarta.

What had been fever patients yesterday were zombies today.

Markets turned into feeding grounds. Mangga Dua Mall collapsed into chaos when the infected ripped through the food court, leaving escalators slick with blood. In Tanah Abang, shoppers stampeded as dozens of infected clawed through the doors, their mouths snapping, their movements jerky and unnatural. A child’s scream cut through the air, then vanished beneath the roar of panic.

Police lines disintegrated. Officers fired until their pistols clicked empty, then ran. A single bite turned brave men into prey. Barricades meant to hold back the crowds became cages once the infected got inside.

The city’s heartbeat faltered.

Power grids shut down one district at a time. Phones went dark, towers overloaded or destroyed. Radios hissed with static. The internet, once a lifeline, flickered out completely by nightfall. Families who had hidden in their apartments found themselves cut off from the world, staring at blank screens while the sound of claws scratched against their doors.

From above, Jakarta looked like a battlefield. Fires burned unchecked. Entire blocks glowed red. Helicopters circled but never landed. Those onboard knew there was no one left to rescue.

On the ground, survival meant running.

Crowds surged toward the water. At Sunda Kelapa port, fishermen pushed their boats into the sea as mobs screamed behind them. Mothers tossed children onto decks. Men hacked at ropes with machetes, desperate to escape. The infected poured in from every alley, spilling across the docks in waves. Gunfire echoed, but it was not enough. Dozens were pulled into the swarm before their boats could drift free.

The survivors on the water thought they had made it. They did not realize the infected had already come aboard.

In one fishing boat headed for the Thousand Islands, a coughing teenager slumped against the railing. His friends thought he was seasick until his skin paled and his eyes clouded over. By dawn, screams ripped across the deck, and the boat drifted, blood running down its planks into the sea.

In Jakarta, the cats watched from the shadows. Their virus had leapt from alley to hospital, from corpse to soldier, from man to sea. What began with a scratch and a fever had become a city collapsing into the jaws of the dead.

The government’s broadcasts fell silent. The army retreated into bases. The people were left alone, in the dark, surrounded by howls.

Jakarta was no longer a capital. It was a graveyard that still moved.