Sergeant Slamet Gunardi spent most of the evening moving from one cramped apartment to another across the crowded districts of Metharom. Ceiling fans spun lazily above worried families while the smell of clove cigarettes and fried garlic drifted through narrow hallways. Everywhere he went, people spoke about Philip Manik with the same mixture of confusion and grief.
“He was tired when he came back,” Philip’s cousin told him quietly. “Said Denpasa was crowded. Said he felt sick on the flight home.”
Another relative mentioned fever.
Another spoke of strange aggression.
Slamet wrote everything carefully into his worn notebook.
Near midnight, while sitting in his patrol vehicle beneath a flickering streetlamp, he flipped back through earlier pages from the execution incident investigation. His eyes stopped on another name.
Darya.
The woman from the first attack.
He frowned and reread the interview summary.
Recently returned from Denpasa.
Slamet slowly leaned back in his seat.
Both of them had come from the same city.
Whatever sickness had taken hold of them had started there.
Rain tapped softly against the windshield as he stared through the glass at the endless lights of Metharom. Somewhere in the distance came the echo of sirens and barking dogs.
He closed the notebook.
By the time he finally reached his apartment, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The building was old but clean, tucked above a row of small shops near the rail line. He unlocked the door and stepped inside to the comforting stillness of home.
After kicking off his boots, he boiled water for tea while opening the paper-wrapped meal he had picked up from a roadside food stand earlier that evening. Steam rose from the rice and grilled chicken as the rich scent of sambal filled the small apartment.
For a few precious minutes, the world felt normal again.
He ate quietly at the low table near the window while trains rattled somewhere beyond the buildings outside.
When the meal was finished, Slamet cleaned the dishes and sat cross-legged on the floor. From beside the cabinet he carefully lifted his rebab, the polished wood worn smooth from years of use.
He tightened the bow hairs slightly and drew the first soft note across the strings.
The melody that followed was slow and mournful.
Ancient.
The kind of song his grandfather used to play in the village long before Slamet had ever worn a police uniform or carried a gun. The music filled the apartment, drowning out the distant noise of the city.
For a little while, the tension left his shoulders.
For a little while, there were no corpses rising from the dead.
No blood.
No screaming crowds.
Only the trembling voice of the rebab singing into the quiet night.
Eventually fatigue overtook him. He placed the instrument carefully back in its cloth wrapping and lay down to sleep.
Morning came too quickly.
Metharom was already awake when Slamet stepped outside. Humid heat clung to the streets as vendors prepared breakfast stalls beneath faded tarps. Motorcycles buzzed through traffic while commuters crowded the sidewalks.
He stopped at a small roadside stand where an elderly woman handed him a cup of strong black coffee.
“Long night, Sergeant?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
She smiled faintly, unaware of how true it was.
Coffee in hand, Slamet climbed into his police vehicle and started the engine. His next stop was district headquarters. He needed the area security footage from the execution grounds.
As he pulled into traffic, the police radio crackled endlessly with routine calls—domestic disputes, thefts, traffic accidents.
Nothing assigned to him.
For the moment, at least, the city still believed everything was under control.
Slamet guided the patrol car through the congested morning streets of Metharom, sipping bitter coffee while the police radio chattered constantly beside him.
“Unit 14 respond to disturbance—”
“Traffic collision on the east bypass—”
“Possible burglary in progress—”
None of it concerned him directly, so he listened only halfway while weaving past buses and delivery trucks. His mind stayed fixed on two names written in his notebook.
Philip Manik.
Darya.
Both recently returned from Denpasa.
Both violently infected by whatever this thing was.
The sky above the city hung heavy with gray clouds as he pulled into the secured parking area of district headquarters. Officers moved in and out of the concrete building carrying folders and equipment while exhausted dispatchers smoked near the entrance.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Slamet flashed his badge at the security desk and headed for the surveillance analysis room.
A young technician glanced up from a bank of monitors. “Morning, Sergeant.”
“I need all footage from yesterday’s execution grounds,” Slamet said. “Especially crowd angles near the east seating section.”
The technician nodded and began pulling files from the archive servers.
Minutes later the footage rolled across several monitors.
At first the execution grounds looked ordinary enough: rows of spectators packed beneath temporary awnings, security personnel moving through checkpoints, prisoners being escorted toward the gallows under heavy guard.
Then Philip appeared.
Slamet leaned closer to the screen.
Even before the attack, something was clearly wrong with him.
Philip stumbled through the crowd unsteadily, bumping into people and pausing often as if struggling to remain upright. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the afternoon breeze. Several times he clutched at his stomach or temples.
“Pause there,” Slamet said.
The technician froze the frame.
Philip’s eyes looked strange.
Bloodshot.
Unfocused.
Slamet watched the footage continue.
Hour by hour Philip deteriorated. His movements became jerky and erratic. At one point he nearly collapsed against a railing before disappearing briefly into the crowd.
Then came the attack.
The footage showed Philip suddenly turning toward the man seated beside him.
No warning.
No argument.
He lunged like an animal.
People screamed as Philip tore into the victim’s neck. Panic exploded through the audience. Crowds surged in every direction while security officers rushed forward.
Slamet replayed the scene several times.
Then he noticed something.
“Back it up.”
The technician rewound the footage.
“There,” Slamet said, pointing.
During the chaos, one blood-covered victim staggered away from the attack site and disappeared into the fleeing crowd before the cordon teams sealed the area.
Nobody stopped him.
Nobody even noticed.
Slamet felt his stomach tighten.
“If he was bitten…”
The technician looked uneasy. “You think he turned too?”
“I think we missed him.”
Slamet watched the fleeing victim again.
Male. Mid-thirties. Partial profile visible.
“Can you run facial recognition?”
The technician hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Might take a little while.”
“I’ll wait.”
While the system searched government databases, Slamet reviewed more footage from different camera angles. Everywhere he looked he saw signs they had overlooked before: Philip scratching violently at his arms, swaying where he stood, snapping suddenly at nearby spectators moments before the full attack began.
Like an illness progressing in real time.
Finally the technician returned holding a printout.
“Got him.”
Slamet took the paper.
Name: Arif Baswedan.
Address listed in a crowded residential district in southern Metharom.
Slamet stared at the photograph.
One more person connected to the outbreak.
One more person exposed.
Something had happened in Denpasa.
Something bad enough to spread from traveler to traveler before erupting into violence.
This was already beyond a normal police investigation.
The Federal Security Bureau needed to know.
So did the Chief.
Slamet gathered the printouts, photographs, and notes into a folder and tucked it beneath his arm.
As he headed toward the entrance hallway, he noticed several officers suddenly running past him toward the motor pool outside.
Their expressions were tense.
Urgent.
A moment later the distant howl of sirens echoed through the building.
Slamet pushed through the glass doors of district headquarters and stepped into the humid late morning air just as a convoy of black tactical vehicles roared past the entrance.
Their sirens screamed across the crowded avenue.
Officers in heavy body armor clung to the sides of the lead truck while another vehicle carried men from the emergency response unit wearing dark helmets and respirators.
Something serious was happening.
Slamet watched the convoy disappear into traffic before pulling out his radio.
“Gunardi to Central Precinct.”
Static crackled briefly before the desk officer answered.
“Central Precinct, go ahead Sergeant.”
“Status update?”
“For us? Quiet so far,” the dispatcher replied. “But we’ve got two tactical activations elsewhere in the city. One in North Market District, another near the river wards. Details are still messy.”
Slamet frowned.
Two tactical deployments in a single morning was unusual even for Metharom.
He shifted the folder beneath his arm.
“I’ve got identification on the victim who escaped the execution grounds yesterday,” he said. “Name is Arif Baswedan.” He read off the address slowly. “Possible exposure to the same condition as Philip Manik.”
The dispatcher became immediately more serious.
“You think he’s infected?”
“I think we shouldn’t take chances.”
“Understood. We’ll send EMS and a patrol unit to check the residence.”
“Make sure they use protective gear,” Slamet added.
There was a short pause.
“Protective gear?”
Slamet looked back toward the direction the tactical convoy had gone.
“Just do it.”
He ended the transmission and headed for his patrol car.
For a few minutes he tried to push the investigation from his mind. He still needed parts for the old bicycle he had been repairing in the apartment hallway for weeks now. Something ordinary. Something normal.
So instead of driving directly back to the precinct, he stopped at the sprawling Citra Niaga Market.
The market covered nearly an entire city block beneath rusted metal roofing patched with blue tarps. Vendors crowded every aisle selling everything from cheap electronics and engine parts to spices, birds, and secondhand clothing.
The air smelled of oil, grilled satay, wet concrete, and cigarette smoke.
Slamet moved through the packed corridors until he reached a small repair stall cluttered with hanging chains, tires, and bicycle frames.
The elderly shopkeeper recognized him immediately.
“Sergeant!” the man said with a grin. “Finally fixing that old wreck?”
“Trying to.”
The shopkeeper rummaged through boxes while Slamet waited near the counter. Around him customers argued loudly over prices while a small television hanging overhead played morning news coverage about increased police activity across the city.
No details yet.
Just vague warnings asking citizens to avoid emergency scenes.
The shopkeeper handed over a packet containing brake cables and replacement bearings.
“Careful out there today,” the old man said quietly. “Something feels wrong in the city.”
Slamet gave a tired nod.
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
He paid for the parts and stepped back outside.
The sky had darkened further.
Thunder rumbled somewhere over the distant harbor.
As Slamet climbed into his vehicle again, his radio erupted suddenly with overlapping voices.
“…officers down…”
“…request immediate backup…”
“…possible violent assault…”
Then another dispatcher cut through the chaos.
“All units stand by for tactical emergency response at Jalan Marunda Apartments.”
Slamet froze.
The address that followed was the same one he had just passed to the precinct.
Arif Baswedan’s address.
Slamet slammed the patrol car into the narrow gap between two stalled vehicles and flipped on the siren. Blue and red lights flashed across storefront windows as he forced his way through the choking traffic of central Metharom.
The tactical call repeated over the radio.
“Multiple casualties reported… officers requesting immediate assistance…”
Arif Baswedan’s address.
Slamet pressed harder on the accelerator.
Scooters scattered out of his path. Horns blared. Rain began to spit against the windshield as thunder rolled over the city.
Then everything stopped.
A city bus barreled through an intersection ahead and smashed broadside into a compact sedan directly in front of Slamet’s vehicle.
The impact sounded like an explosion.
Metal folded inward violently. Glass erupted across the street. The sedan spun halfway around before crashing into a concrete divider.
Passengers inside the bus screamed.
“Damn it,” Slamet muttered.
He grabbed the radio microphone immediately.
“Central, this is Sergeant Gunardi. Major traffic collision at the intersection of Sudirman and Halim. Bus versus sedan. Multiple injuries. Send EMS and traffic control immediately.”
“Copy, Sergeant. Units en route.”
Slamet killed the siren, stepped out into the humid air, and popped the trunk. He pulled out his emergency medical bag and jogged toward the wreckage.
Chaos filled the intersection.
Several bus passengers were already climbing frantically through broken windows while others shoved toward the doors trying to escape. Blood streaked the side panels of the bus where passengers had slammed against the interior during impact.
People shouted over one another in panic.
The sedan had taken the worst of it.
Its entire driver’s side had been crushed inward.
Slamet approached carefully, scanning quickly for immediate threats.
The driver was still conscious.
Barely.
A middle-aged man hung twisted against the collapsed door frame, blood pouring from deep cuts across his face and chest. Every breath came out wet and ragged.
The passenger beside him—a woman perhaps in her twenties—was unconscious. Blood ran from a head wound down across her neck and soaked into her blouse.
Slamet turned as someone screamed nearby.
The bus driver had been thrown through the windshield during the collision.
His body lay sprawled across the asphalt several meters away.
Slamet hurried over and crouched beside him.
No breathing.
Massive trauma to the skull and neck.
Dead.
Rain began falling harder now, tapping against broken glass and pooling in the blood spreading across the roadway.
Slamet exhaled slowly and stood.
The living came first.
He returned to the sedan and forced the bent passenger door open enough to reach inside. The driver groaned weakly as Slamet checked for major bleeding.
“You stay with me,” Slamet said firmly.
The man tried to speak but only coughed blood.
Slamet grabbed gauze from the medical bag and pressed it against a deep wound near the driver’s shoulder before turning to the unconscious passenger. Her pulse was weak but present.
Around him the commotion from the bus kept growing louder.
Too loud.
Not panic anymore.
Screaming.
Shouting.
Something else mixed into it now.
A wet snarling sound.
Slamet glanced up toward the bus.
Passengers were pouring into the street—but some were attacking others.
One man tackled a woman to the pavement and bit savagely into her neck.
Another passenger staggered down the bus steps covered in blood before lunging at a crowd trying to flee.
For one frozen second nobody understood what they were seeing.
Then the screaming truly began.
Slamet’s stomach dropped.
“No…” he whispered.
Not here too.
Not again.
Slamet ripped his pistol from its holster and stepped away from the wrecked sedan.
“GET BACK!” he shouted at the crowd. “Get inside! Move!”
People stumbled over one another trying to flee the intersection. Some ran toward nearby shops while others froze in shock as the violence erupted around them.
Near the bus, a blood-covered passenger dragged a screaming woman to the pavement and tore into her shoulder with animal fury.
Slamet raised his pistol.
Before he could fire, something seized his arm.
The force nearly spun him off his feet.
He turned and found himself face-to-face with a mayat hidup.
Its eyes were cloudy and bloodshot. Half its face had been shredded in the crash, exposing teeth slick with fresh blood. The thing snarled and lunged for his throat.
Slamet reacted instinctively.
He jammed his forearm hard into its neck, forcing its snapping jaws away from his face. The creature thrashed with terrifying strength, stronger than any living person should have been.
Its breath smelled like rot and blood.
Slamet twisted sideways just as the creature tried to bite again. He shoved hard, throwing it slightly off balance, then slammed the barrel of his pistol against its temple.
He fired.
The gunshot cracked through the intersection.
Bone and gore exploded outward across the rain-slick pavement. The mayat hidup collapsed instantly.
Slamet spun around searching for new threats.
The scene had completely disintegrated.
Four infected sprinted down the street after fleeing civilians.
One tackled an old man near a food cart.
Another yanked a screaming teenager off a motorcycle.
A third crashed through the glass doors of a pharmacy where people were trying to barricade themselves inside.
The fourth moved faster than the others, weaving through abandoned vehicles toward a cluster of trapped pedestrians.
Slamet knew what would happen next.
One bite.
A few minutes at most.
Then the victims would turn too.
The speed depended on health, stress, exertion—but nobody stayed human for long.
He grabbed the radio microphone from his shoulder.
“Central! This is Sergeant Gunardi!” he shouted. “Confirmed mayat hidup outbreak at Sudirman and Halim intersection! Multiple infected attacking civilians!”
Static burst across the line.
Then: “Repeat your transmission—”
“I need tactical response now!” Slamet barked. “Containment teams, armed units, emergency quarantine! Infection spreads through bites—conversion time only minutes!”
Another scream echoed nearby.
Slamet looked up just in time to see the old man who had been dragged down moments earlier begin convulsing violently on the pavement.
Too fast.
Rain poured harder now, washing blood into the gutters.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance.
But the infected were multiplying faster than help could arrive.
