Hiro’s Ramen Palace prided itself on noodles with exactly forty-five seconds of perfect chew. Hiro knew this because he was staring at the timer when the first zombie pressed its face against the window, leaving a greasy forehead print shaped like regret. By the time the zombies arrived, the ramen was already overcooked.

“Closed,” Hiro muttered, even though the sign still said OPEN and the zombie could not read. It groaned anyway, which Hiro took personally.

Within minutes, three more zombies shuffled in, attracted not by brains but by the steam rolling out of the shop. One of them pointed at the menu with a missing finger and made a hopeful sound. Hiro sighed. He had survived rent increases, food critics, and a disastrous soft-boiled egg incident. He was not going to lose his shop to undead freeloaders.

“Sit,” he said, out of habit. "It will be ready in five."

They sat.

The bell over the door jingled as more zombies arrived, forming a polite, wobbling line. A jogger being chased outside slowed down, confused, then joined the queue.

Hiro wiped his hands on his apron. If the apocalypse wanted ramen, fine. He’d serve it. But he was charging extra for substitutions—and absolutely no rotting flesh falling off in the dining area.

The dinner rush was just like many others from the past. Hungry customers and angry customers. Whatever gets Hiro enough to make rent.

More await outside but the tables are already full, the moaning and groaning of the undead customers makes Hiro go mad, yet he manages to keep his temper under control. Bowl after bowl, noodle after noodle, egg after egg. Customers pay customers leave, then more file in.

Even during the apocalypse there is always one difficult customer, not that tending to the rotting isn't difficult enough.

If there is one thing Hiro can understand without needing words, is a broke customer.

"If you can't pay you shouldn't have come." He says, his annoyance getting the best of him.

The worst part about the situation is that this one is living, yet even during the apocalypse would still rather cause issues. The line grows louder, the walking dead now yelling in their own strange zombie tone and even another human in the back yells to hurry up.

"Maybe if you-" The man's voice is raised as he speaks but his words are abruptly cut short. A mangles hand rests on his shoulder and he cannot fully turn around before he is dragged to the ground.

His screams are drowned out by the pile of flesh and bones and quick work is made of him before the line is soon reformed, the next customer dropping it's coins on the counter to pay for its meal.