Chapter 8: The Exodus to the Sea

By the third week, Jakarta was unrecognizable.

The skyline still stood, but the city beneath it had collapsed into an open grave. Roads were filled with burned-out vehicles, their horns still wailing where drivers had died leaning on the wheel. Smoke curled from neighborhoods where people had set fires to hold back the infected, only to vanish inside the flames themselves. The air reeked of rotting flesh and gasoline.

Those who had hidden in apartments and mosques began to realize the truth. No help was coming. The army had vanished. The government broadcasts had gone silent. The only chance of survival lay not in the heart of Jakarta, but beyond it, across the dark water.

The decision spread like a rumor: go to the sea.

Entire families climbed down from high-rise towers, carrying what they could; rice sacks, jerrycans of water, plastic bags stuffed with clothes. Fishermen from Muara Angke and Sunda Kelapa whispered that boats were still leaving under the cover of night. Word reached the trapped survivors, and like a signal flare, it drew them all.

The exodus began.

Tens of thousands moved toward the coastline, flowing like rivers of shadows through ruined streets. They stayed low, avoiding the main roads, slipping through alleys where cats once prowled but now only the infected roamed. Mothers clutched crying babies to their chests, muffling their mouths with scarves. Fathers carried machetes and sticks, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. Children shuffled barefoot over broken glass, their faces streaked with soot and tears.

The infected were everywhere. They burst from shopfronts, stumbled out of the MRT tunnels, spilled from abandoned buses. Every alley became a gauntlet. Every corner held the chance of death. When someone fell, no one stopped to help. Screams were cut short, and the horde fed as the crowd surged past.

At the Manggarai train station, thousands pressed into the tracks, heading west toward the coast. The rusted rails groaned under their weight. Overhead, cats still howled from rooftops, their eyes glowing in the firelight. Every sound pulled the infected closer. People broke into a desperate sprint, trampling each other just to stay ahead.

By the time survivors reached the northern coast, the air was heavy with the stench of the sea mixed with burning Jakarta. The water stretched out like a promise, black and endless. Boats swayed at the docks, overloaded with passengers who screamed for others to stay back. Gunshots rang out as fishermen tried to hold the mobs at bay.

It was chaos.

Children were thrown over shoulders and shoved onto boats. Families were torn apart as crowds surged forward. Some waded into the water, clinging to fishing nets and ropes as the boats pushed off. Others drowned in the crush before even touching the waves.

On the shore, the infected arrived. They moved in waves, shrieking, tearing into the crowds from behind. Soldiers who had deserted their posts fired wildly into both civilians and the infected, trying only to buy enough time to escape. Blood spilled into the sea, staining the tide red.

For those who managed to climb aboard the boats, survival was not guaranteed. The vessels were crammed with too many bodies. Engines sputtered. And among the passengers, some were already infected.

As the boats drifted away from Jakarta, the city burned behind them, its skyline glowing like the gates of hell. Screams carried across the water. Cats yowled from the piers. The infected poured onto the docks, watching the last of the living escape into the sea.

For those still alive, there was no turning back. The land was lost. The ocean was their only hope.