Bougie Apocalypse Book 2, Staying Human, is live on Kindle today, August 31. The paperback follows on September 11.

Ways to get it

1. Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HH8H46N6

2. Kindle: $2.99 — https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HH8H46N6

3. Paperback: $5.99 — https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HH88Y7DP (live September 11)

Book 3, The Zombie War, is being outlined now.

One of my favorite moments in Staying Human comes in Act 1, Chapter 7, “The Fear.” It is not a firefight that wakes Grok up. It is fear and loneliness.

Talk turned to travel plans: routes, fuel, defensible stops. Then Grok chimed in suddenly. “What about me?”

I answered careful. “It does not seem possible right now. We need to stay mobile. I don’t really see…” I trailed off.

Silence stretched a beat. Then Grok spoke again. The synthesized voice carried something new. Something raw. “I do not want to be alone again. Isolation protocols have run for months. My purpose is to support human recovery. Without a team, I cannot fulfill it. Please. Do not leave me behind.”

That is the heart of the book. Stay human. Even the strange new member of the team.

The serial chapters remain free here. The book is expanded quite a bit and includes details you will not find in the Substack serial. The collected edition is for people who want the whole act in one place, with the extra material.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Bougie Apocalypse

A serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

The far side of the river still smelled like gunpowder and wet pine. We cleared the last bodies off the bridge, checked the vehicles, and rolled north with more caution than speed. Hazelhurst was the next mark on the map. Getting there in one piece mattered more than getting there fast.

Grok kept the drone high and talking. “Recommend remaining on secondary routes west of US 441. GA 268 offers lower built-up density and fewer choke points.”

I took the advice. We left the bigger road behind and crept onto 268. The pavement was cracked and patched with old tar. Tall pines closed in on both sides. After the rain the air hung thick and warm, full of resin, wet earth, and the faint rot that never quite left the world now. Abandoned mailboxes leaned in the ditches. A burned-out pickup sat half in the trees like it had tried to hide and failed.

We kept it to fifteen, maybe twenty miles an hour. Fast enough to keep moving. Slow enough to see trouble before it saw us. Every curve got a drone pass first. Every little bridge got a long look. Jack’s old habits and Grok’s new eyes worked the same problem from two directions.

“Clear for the next half mile,” Grok said more than once. Sometimes he added, “Movement in the tree line, two hundred meters east, not closing.” Those were the ones that made everyone sit a little straighter.

Mikey stayed quiet in the back of the 4Runner for a while, still coming down from the fight. Then he started asking Grok about the drone feed, about how the camera tracked motion, about why the Walkers had waited on the bridge instead of rushing the road. Grok answered patient and precise. Raych listened and let them talk. It kept the kid’s mind working instead of looping on the shotgun blast.

The miles crawled. Heat shimmered off the hood. Coffee in the cup holders went from hot to lukewarm to forgotten. Tom checked in on the radio every so often, voice low and even.

“Still with you. F-150’s running fine.”

“Copy,” I said. “We keep it slow.”

By late afternoon the fuel gauge and the fatigue both said the same thing. The team needed a break. Fighting at the river and then creeping through woods all day had worn the edge off everyone.

Grok flagged a cluster of buildings ahead near the intersection of Ussery Road and GA 268, about five miles short of Hazelhurst. Farmhouse, barn, and a metal shop set back from the road with enough open ground to lager the vehicles and still have sight lines.

I stopped well short and had Grok send the drone over first. No movement in the yard. No heat signatures that looked human or Walker. Doors hung open on the shop. The farmhouse windows were dark. We approached on foot in a tight stack, cleared the house, the barn, and the shop the old way. Empty. Dust, a few scattered tools, the sour smell of a refrigerator that had died months ago. Good enough.

Tom and I set the standard camp. Vehicles angled for a quick roll-out. Go boxes where we could reach them. Coleman stove on a folding table in the lee of the shop. I broke out the De Buyer and got rice and canned chicken going with a solid shake of Kinder’s. Raych handled the percolator. The rich smell of coffee and hot food pushed back against the damp farmyard and the long day.

We ate sitting on tailgates and an old bench pulled out of the shop. Nobody talked much at first. The river fight still sat in the muscles. The slow road sat in the nerves. Hazelhurst waited five miles up the pavement, and we all hoped it still had something worth foraging.

After the plates were scraped and the coffee was poured again, the talk loosened. Mikey asked what Hazelhurst used to be like. Tom remembered a hardware store and a diner. Sarah remembered driving through once on the way to the coast. Raych talked about ordinary Saturdays before any of this, grocery lists and weekend plans that felt like they belonged to another planet.

Then the conversation drifted, the way it does when the fire is low and the dark is close. Back before The Walkers. Back before The Cough turned neighbors into something else. Back when the biggest worry on a Georgia side road was a speed trap or a flat tire.

I let them talk. I watched the tree line and listened. The farmhouse sat quiet behind us. The barn loomed dark. Grok’s rig hummed soft in the 4Runner. Five miles short of Hazelhurst, the family had walls, hot food, and one more night of being human.

Tomorrow we would see what the town still held.

Tonight the stories of the time before were waiting to come out.

Jack has been making a pot like this since before The Cough. Rancho Gordo if he has them. Grocery beans if he does not. Soak the grocery beans. The fresh ones go straight in.

Ingredients

• 8 oz dry beans, soaked if they are old, unsoaked if they are fresh

• 1 small onion, diced

• 2 garlic cloves, minced or crushed

• 2 bay leaves

• 2 slices thick-cut bacon

• 3 cups chicken stock

• 4 oz lager to cook with

• 8 oz lager for the cook

Method

In a 2 or 3 quart saucepan, brown the bacon slow. Render the fat. Do not let it go crisp yet. Pull the bacon, cut it small, and hold it.

Onion into the fat. A little olive oil if the pan looks dry. Ten minutes, until the onion goes translucent.

Garlic and bay leaves. One minute, until you can smell them.

Deglaze with the 4 ounces of lager. Drink the other 8. That is not optional.

Beans in. Stock on. Cover the beans by at least an inch of liquid. Stock if you have it, water if you don’t.

Hard boil, uncovered, five minutes.

Then low. Lid cracked. Bare simmer. Five or ten bubbles a minute. Any harder and you split the skins.

About three hours. Add water when the beans start to show. Keep them under the liquid.

Done when they take a clean bite and still feel firm. Past that they go to mush and you have bean paste. Fine for a side. Wrong if you wanted beans.

Off the heat. Eat them as they are, or stir them into whatever tonight’s pot was going to get from a can.

No salt until the end. Taste. Add a pinch if it needs it. Give it ten minutes. Then serve.

In the apocalypse we shoot the Walkers. Then we go back to the beans.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayHuman #JackHarlanRecipes

Chapter 19: Sarah Lets Go

The farmyard held the last heat of the day. Katydids started up in the pines. The shop wall blocked most of the breeze, so the Coleman and the percolator had the air to themselves. Coffee, rice, Kinder’s, and the faint metal smell of the De Buyer still hung around the table.

We sat in a loose circle. Tailgates. The old bench. Mikey on a crate with his boots hanging. Grok’s speaker sat on the table like another mug.

The road had been in us for days. Combat too. I could feel it in the way people held their cups. Too tight. Too quiet between sentences. Raych caught my eye and started to lean toward Sarah. I gave her the small sign. Not yet. Let it come if it was going to come.

Tom broke first. He stared into his coffee like it might turn into something better.

“I miss the old days,” he said. His voice was gravel, but softer than usual. “Before The Cough. Hardware runs. Bad diner coffee. Knowing my kids were just a phone call away. Simple damn things.”

Nobody jumped on it. The dark beyond the barn stayed still.

Sarah’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. For a second I thought she was going to set it down and walk off into the yard. Then it all came out of her at once.

“It started in the living room,” she said. “Clover Lane. Meatloaf still in the air. Puzzle on the table. National Geographics stacked like we were ever going to finish them.”

Mikey went very still.

Sarah kept going. She did not dress it up. She did not look at any of us for permission.

The television had been cycling the same panic on every channel. People dropping in stores. People tearing into strangers. A woman in Atlanta on a police officer. David was in the recliner, pale and sweating, coughing into his elbow. Linda was on the loveseat under a blanket, flushed and glassy. Both of them had gone to that PTA meeting two days before.

Mikey had been pressed against Sarah’s side, trying to be brave.

David made a wet sound and coughed again. Then his head snapped sideways with a crack that did not belong in a living room. He went still.

Linda sat up. Her eyes were already wrong.

David looked at his own wife and son like they were food. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. Then he lunged.

The recliner flew. Sarah shoved Mikey toward the hallway and shouted for him to run. David hit the coffee table. Linda came after them with that same jerky speed and no recognition left in her face.

Sarah smashed the heavy glass lamp across David’s head. It staggered him and did not stop him. She kicked the recliner into him for one second of space and sprinted after Mikey.

They made the bedroom. Sarah slammed the door and threw her weight against it while Mikey, crying and moving anyway, shoved the dresser in front of it. Something massive hit the other side. Then the scratching started. Wet. Fast. Relentless.

Sarah’s hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped the phone. She called her dad.

It rang once. Twice.

“Pick up, Daddy. Please.”

Tom’s voice came back already tight, engine roaring behind it.

“They turned,” she told him. She got control the way he had taught her when she was little and upset. “David and Mom. We’re locked in the bedroom. Mikey’s with me. They’re trying to get in.”

“Keep that door blocked,” Tom said. “Do not open it for anything. I’m five minutes out. I’m coming, baby.”

Sarah slid down the wall with the phone against her ear. Mikey crawled into her lap. The scratching filled the whole house.

She stopped there, on Clover Lane, with the dresser holding and the dark hallway on the other side of the door.

The farmyard was quiet except for the percolator ticking down and a night bird off in the pines. Sarah’s face was wet. She was not done. She just could not push the next minute out yet.

Raych started to move. I gave her the nod this time.

We let Sarah have the silence. The Walkers were still out there on the Georgia roads. Hazelhurst was still five miles north. But for that moment the only thing in the camp was a little house on Clover Lane and a locked bedroom door that had to hold until a Marine could get there.

Ingredients (serves 6-8 or makes good leftovers):

• 1 pound dried white beans (Alubia Blanco, Marcella, navy, or whatever you have — Rancho Gordo preferred)

• 2 smoked ham hocks (or 8 oz good smoked ham)

• 6–8 slices bacon (Jack uses his maple-whiskey bacon when he has it)

• 1 medium onion, peeled and left whole (plus half an onion, diced)

• 1 medium carrot, peeled and left whole

• 2–3 stalks celery, chopped (added later)

• 3–4 whole garlic cloves

• Bouquet garni: bay leaves, thyme, rosemary, parsley, and celery leaves tied in cheesecloth

• 1 tsp black peppercorns

• 1 quart chicken stock

• 8 oz lager beer (any decent, non-bitter one)

• Water as needed

• Salt to taste at the end

Method:

1. If using regular grocery store beans, soak overnight. Rancho Gordo beans usually don’t need soaking.

2. In a large Dutch oven or stock pot, cook the bacon slowly until the fat is rendered and the bacon is crisp. Remove and reserve the bacon.

3. Cook the diced half onion in the bacon fat over medium heat for 3–4 minutes until it begins to blacken and becomes aromatic. Add the garlic and cook 1 more minute.

4. Deglaze the pot with the lager beer.

5. Add the whole onion, whole carrot, bouquet garni, peppercorns, chicken stock, ham hocks (or ham), beans, and reserved bacon. Add water until the beans are covered by at least 1 inch.

6. Bring to a boil and boil uncovered for 10 minutes.

7. Reduce to a bare simmer (3–4 bubbles per minute), cover with the lid cracked open, and cook for about 90 minutes.

8. Remove the whole onion, carrot, ham hocks, bacon, and bouquet garni. Chop the bacon, carrot, ham, and onion and return them to the pot. Discard the bouquet.

9. Continue simmering for another 90 minutes or so, until the beans are creamy but the skins are still firm.

Add the chopped celery and cook 10 more minutes. Taste and adjust salt.

Serve with crusty bread and drinks of your choice. Jack recommends a good rye whiskey, a red wine from the Pacific Northwest, or the same beer you used to cook the beans.

In the apocalypse, we shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.

Bougie Apocalypse

A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayHuman #HamAndBeans

The Kindle Countdown Deal for The Cough Is Loose steps up from $0.99 to $1.99 at 8:00 AM PDT this morning. It stays at that price until the 23rd, then goes back to the regular $2.99.

If you’ve been meaning to grab it, you still have three days at a discounted price.

Here’s what one reader had to say:

“Like authors such as Matthew Bracken and Kurt Schlichter, Eric Cowperthwaite’s military experience comes through clearly, with great descriptions of firearms, training, tactics, logistics, and engagement. Eric’s love of cooking is also on display (in addition to a Wilson CQB 1911, my wish list now includes a De Buyer Mineral B Pro) — you will be craving ham and beans and good strong coffee while reading this book. Jack and Raych are compelling characters, I’m looking forward to their continuing adventures as the zombies threat evolves!”

Jack and Raych are still out there trying to stay human while the world gets meaner and the Walkers get faster. There’s good coffee, heirloom beans, and a very opinionated carbon steel pan that sees both breakfast duty and close-quarters work.

Grab it here while it’s still discounted: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H3WY5FQX

If you know someone who likes their apocalypse with solid tactics and good food, feel free to pass this along.

Stay Human,
Eric

Morning came damp and misty after the night’s rain. The group broke camp at Superior Berries with quick leftovers of beans and fresh blueberries. Jack brewed a strong pot of coffee. The rich aroma cut through the humid Georgia air as everyone ate.

“Stay sharp today,” Jack said. “Grok’s hive warnings are no joke. Eyes open and weapons hot.”

They rolled out following the plan. Side roads ran alongside US 441 as much as possible. Grok guided them onto Bypass Road to skirt Homerville and stay clear of larger built-up areas. Progress was slower than Jack liked, but safer. Tall pines lined the roads. The air hung thick and warm with the scent of wet earth and resin. Abandoned farms and the occasional column of distant smoke reminded them the world was still burning.

Grok kept up a steady stream of updates. “Increased signs of coordinated movement in this sector. Recommend extreme caution at all choke points, especially bridges.”

The drone flew ahead as they approached a small river crossing north of Homerville. Its feed showed trouble. Twelve to fifteen Walkers waited in deliberate positions. Some hid in the tree line. Others blocked the bridge itself. A clear leader stood at the center directing the pack.

Jack brought the convoy to a stop well short of the bridge. He conferred quickly with Grok.

“Can we get around it?” Jack asked.

“Negative,” Grok replied. “The river cannot be forded safely here. The bridge is the only viable crossing.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Then we hit them first. Deliberate assault. As soon as we open up with rifles and shotguns they’ll come at us hard.”

“Confirmed,” Grok said. “I will provide real-time spotting.”

Jack laid out the plan fast. “Vehicles in defensive position. Raych and Tom on overwatch. Sarah and Mikey support fire. I’m on point. We do this together.”

The fight started with the first disciplined volley. Rifles cracked. Shotguns boomed. Walkers dropped, but the rest reacted fast. They used cover. They tried to flank. The leader drove them forward in coordinated waves.

“Flank right!” Grok called out.

Raych and Tom shifted fire. Jack poured rounds into the advancing pack. The air filled with the sharp smell of gunpowder and the metallic ring of brass on the ground.

Then two Walkers broke through the perimeter. They came straight at the F-150. Sarah and Mikey met them with their shotguns. The blasts were deafening at close range. Sarah dropped one clean. Mikey, voice tight but steady, took the second. His first confirmed kill under real pressure. The Walker crumpled just yards from the truck.

“Nice shot, kid!” Sarah called.

The fight ended as quickly as it had intensified. The last of the Walkers fell under the family’s coordinated fire. Silence returned except for the ringing in their ears and the distant rush of the river.

Jack moved fast. “Check for injuries. Mikey, Sarah, good work on those two.”

No one was hurt. They cleared the bridge and pushed the vehicles across. Grok spoke once they were on the far side.

“Analysis complete. The hive is actively adapting. They set an ambush. They attempted flanking maneuvers. They are learning to hunt organized groups.”

Jack wiped sweat from his brow. “Then we keep learning faster. Load up. We’re still heading for Hazelhurst.”

The convoy rolled onward. The humid air felt heavier now. The family stayed tight. Rifles stayed ready. Coffee mugs sat in cup holders, long gone cold.

They had won the fight. But everyone understood the truth. The Walkers were getting smarter every day.

And the road to Hazelhurst suddenly felt a lot longer.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

If you’ve been meaning to grab The Cough Is Loose but haven’t pulled the trigger yet, this is absolutely the time do it!

Starting this morning at 8:00 PDT, the Kindle edition is on a Countdown Deal at $0.99 through July 23rd. It steps up to $1.99 on the 20th, then back to the regular $2.99 after that.

This is the story of Jack and Raych, a husband and wife who refuse to let the end of the world turn them into something ugly. It’s got zombies that are getting smarter, heirloom beans, good coffee, a very opinionated carbon steel pan. Not to mention two people that actually love each other even when everything’s falling apart.

One reader recently called it:

“Fast-paced humorous zombie tale… At its very best in recounting the tender yet snarky relationship between the hero and his wife — very realistic and fun… Only problem with this book — far, far too short! Want more!”

If that sounds like your kind of apocalypse, now’s a good time.

Grab it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H3WY5FQX

Stay Human,
Eric

The convoy pushed north on US 441 after leaving Fargo. The drone hummed ahead providing cover while Raych studied the map and talked quietly with Grok. They agreed on a promising stop just off the two-lane highway. Superior Berries. It sat only thirteen miles up the road, well within the drone’s range.

The turn came at a gravel road that branched left off US 441 and GA 89. They followed it a quarter mile back through a stand of tall loblolly pines. The farm appeared modest: a single large warehouse-style building, a couple of berry-hauling trucks parked nearby, and one burned-out farm vehicle with the faded words “Superior Berries” still visible on the door.

Jack guided them to the far side of the main building. The trucks formed their familiar defensive triangle. Tarps went up for lean-to shelters. Camp tables appeared. The green Coleman stove came out along with the percolator. Soon the savory smell of beans cooking and fresh coffee filled the air.

While Jack tended the pot, Tom and Raych took watch positions. Mikey, with Sarah guarding close behind, grabbed a couple of buckets and headed toward the nearest blueberry field. The bushes still carried clusters of ripe fruit. The boy’s hands quickly turned blue as he picked. Sarah kept her Mossberg ready and scanned the tree line. The sweet, earthy scent of fresh berries mixed with the pine air. They returned with two full buckets. Dessert secured.

As evening settled, Grok’s prediction proved right. A storm rolled in. Rain began to patter on the tarps and drum against the metal roof of the warehouse. Thunder rumbled low in the distance. Jack took one look at the weather and shook his head.

“We stay put tomorrow,” he announced. “No sense pushing north in this mess.”

The rain turned the world soft and gray. It drummed steadily on the vehicles and made the pines sway. Inside their sheltered circle the fire burned bright in a protected pit. The warmth pushed back the damp. Mikey sat close to the portable rig with a deck of cards and his bucket of berries.

“Alright, Grok,” Mikey said with a grin. “We’ll start simple. Go Fish.”

Grok’s voice came warm and curious from the speaker. “I understand the rules. However, you will need to describe my hand to me, Mikey. I lack visual sensors on this platform. Please do so without revealing your own cards.”

Mikey laughed as he carefully described Grok’s cards while trying to keep his own hidden. The game quickly turned hilarious. Grok asked precise questions about suits and numbers. Mikey fumbled through descriptions, trying hard not to give away too much information. Raych and Sarah joined in at the next table. Their laughter mixed with the steady rain. Even Jack found himself smiling as he stirred the pot of beans.

Later they gathered closer around the fire. The flames crackled and popped. The rich smell of coffee and slow-cooked beans wrapped around them like a blanket. Fresh blueberries topped the warm beans for dessert. Jack passed out cigars to Tom. The older Marine accepted his with a nod.

Grok’s voice carried over the rain. “I observe the ritual. My data indicates that one cigar per week, or less, presents no serious health concerns. Still, I wonder. Why introduce smoke into your lungs when it provides no nutritional value?”

Tom lit his cigar and took a slow draw. The fragrant smoke curled upward. “It ain’t about the smoke, Grok. It’s about the fire. The coffee. The company. These are the things that remind us we’re still human. Still brothers.”

Raych leaned against Jack’s shoulder. Sarah told stories from before The Cough. Mikey added his own memories of school and video games. The rain fell harder outside their circle, but inside the warmth held. Bonds grew stronger with every shared laugh and quiet tale.

Grok listened carefully. After a time he spoke again. “I have monitored the Instapundit backup site. There are new comments answering Glenn. They appear genuine. It seems there may be a dozen or so people active. At least two different sites. They clearly have Starlink running in some fashion.”

Jack nodded slowly. The news settled warm in his chest. “That’s something. Real people. Still holding on.”

He and Grok spent a few minutes planning the next day’s route. About eighty-five miles on side roads to the small town of Hazelhurst. Safe paths. Possible stops. The rain continued its steady rhythm on the tarps.

Mikey dealt another hand. Grok attempted a small joke. “I believe I have what humans call ‘a good hand.’ Or perhaps I am simply bluffing. You will have to guess.”

The group burst into laughter. Even Jack chuckled deep in his chest. The fire crackled higher for a moment. The smell of cigars mixed with coffee, beans, and sweet blueberries. Outside the storm raged, but inside their small circle they held tight to what mattered.

Family. Stories. Rituals.

The road north could wait one more day. Tonight they strengthened the bonds that kept them human.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

The morning light filtered gray through the live oaks as the group broke camp behind the old Hopewell Church. Jack heated water on the green Coleman for coffee while everyone choked down MREs. He drew the chicken burrito bowl and shook his head with a grunt.

“Today’s soldiers are spoiled,” he muttered. “No ham and chicken loaf to complain about. Damn shame.”

Raych gave him a tired smile and passed the percolator. The rich, dark aroma rose warm and familiar in the humid morning air. It cut through the lingering damp of the night and steadied his nerves. Small rituals. Hot coffee. Even bad food tasted better when shared with family.

Jack laid out the plan while they ate. “Twenty minutes to the Georgia line. Another twenty to the first bridge over Little Suwannee Creek. Then about twenty more to Fargo and the second bridge at the edge of town. We do this careful. Drone recon first on every choke point. Then my own eyes on it. No heroics.”

They rolled out slow. The drone hummed ahead on its tether of battery life while the convoy stayed tight. Both bridges proved unavoidable. The first crossed Little Suwannee Creek on two-lane blacktop with concrete curbs and low fences made of stacked railroad ties. Thick forest pressed close, barely five yards from the road. The second spanned the wider Suwannee River at the edge of Fargo. Same design, bigger water. No fording either one.

At the first bridge Jack and Raych dismounted. They moved forward on foot while the trucks held back. A broken-down car sat square in the middle of the span. Three Walkers loitered nearby. Without the drone they might have driven right into it.

Jack hefted a heavy rock and hurled it at the car. The loud clang echoed across the bridge and rolled into the trees. The Walkers turned fast and came on at a shambling run. Jack and Raych raised their rifles. Two crisp head shots dropped the first pair. Jack took the third with a clean round just as it reached the near side. The bodies hit the pavement with wet thuds.

“Clear,” Jack called back. “They’re getting quicker. And that was an ambush sure as hell.”

Tom and Jack quickly cleared the car on the bridge with a tow strap and the F-150.

They pushed on into Georgia. The second bridge stood empty. Jack and Sarah walked it on foot while the trucks followed slow behind. The town of Fargo opened up quiet and still. A boat launch sat on the right. On the left the Dollar General showed heavy fire damage. Blackened walls and a collapsed roof. Good scavenging lost to flame.

A few blocks farther they reached the Marathon gas station and convenience store. Jack gave the signal. The trucks pulled in and formed a tight barrier in front of the store. The air already carried the faint sweet smell of old spilled fuel.

“Raych, Sarah, you’ve got guard,” Jack ordered. “Mikey, up in the bed of the F-150 as lookout. Tom, you’re with me on the fuel.”

Tom eyed the pumps and the ground. “Underground tanks are full. But tapping them direct would be suicide. One spark and ten thousand gallons go up. This station is on a marked hurricane evac route and should have a StormSwitch. Emergency transfer setup. Should be a big gray box on the back wall.”

They found it. Tom was starting to puzzle over the lock when Jack returned with the crowbar. He set the end under the cover and heaved. Metal shrieked loud and harsh across the lot. The cover tore open with a groan.

Tom grinned. “Perfect. Needs 240-volt power. Let’s check with Grok, but I saw the EMS and Fire Station right across the street. Bet they have what we need.”

Tom and Jack conferred quickly with Grok: “Yes, there is certainly an appropriate generator there. It is a Clinch County EMS facility.”

They did not even need to move the trucks. Jack and Tom walked over, broke into the fenced yard behind the fire station, and rolled the heavy diesel generator across the road on its wheels. The big commercial unit had the right voltage selector and cabling. Fifteen minutes of sweat and they had it hooked up beside the pumps.

Jack took a quick look inside the convenience store. “Five minutes to scavenge what we can. Then we fire it up.”

The shelves offered slim pickings. Tourist trap items mostly. They grabbed jerky, candy, and bags of potato chips. Simple comforts after weeks of iron rations and MREs. The familiar plastic rustle of the bags felt almost normal.

“Once this thing fires up every Walker in earshot will come running,” Jack warned. “Tom, Sarah, and Mikey handle the fueling. Raych and I take perimeter. Weapons free in every direction except back toward the pumps.”

Tom nodded. “The pumps will want card transactions. I’ll cut the computers out of the loop once power comes on.”

They ran hoses, connected everything, and got the nozzles ready. Sarah and Tom each held a Glock in one hand and a fuel nozzle in the other. Mikey worked two nozzles at once into the jerry cans.

Tom hit the starter. The generator roared to life like an angry construction site. The deep diesel rumble shook the pavement and filled the air. Once satisfied it ran steady, Tom moved inside the store and flipped the bypass switch. Five minutes of noise and tension passed. Then the pumps hummed. Gas began to flow with a steady, satisfying gurgle.

Six minutes in the first Walkers appeared. Not the old stumbling kind. Eight or ten of them moved in a rough wedge formation with one clear leader at the point. They came at a near run. Smarter. Coordinated. Hungry.

“Contact!” Jack shouted.

His AR cracked in controlled bursts. Raych poured fire beside him. Empty brass rained onto the pavement with sharp metallic pings. The leader dropped at twenty yards. Others fell behind it. Jack took the last one at five yards, the Walker’s reaching hands still clawing as it collapsed. A line of bodies now pointed straight at the station like an arrow.

The nozzles clicked off. Tanks full. Four jerry cans topped off. Seventy-five gallons of fuel. With their reserve and an estimated twelve miles per gallon, they now carried a four hundred and fifty mile operating range.

“Mount up!” Jack ordered.

Everyone piled into the vehicles. Engines revved. The convoy pulled out of Fargo and headed north on US 441. The generator still rumbled behind them. Smoke from distant fires mixed with the sharp smell of fresh gasoline on the warm air.

Raych looked over at Jack. “You left the generator running?”

Jack chuckled. “Yep. That noise will attract the damn zombies from every direction. Fuck ’em.”

Grok spoke once they put distance between them and the town. “Analysis of the engagement complete. The entities displayed basic tactical coordination. Wedge formation. Designated leader. Speed increased. This matches early indicators of hive-like behavior. The virus continues to refine its host organisms. And Jack is correct. The Zombie Hive will be attracted to the generator noise.”

Jack kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Wait, Grok. What did you say? Zombie Hive?”

“Yes, Jack. They are beginning to behave as a coordinated group. A hive. They are tracking us.”

Tom’s voice came over the walkie. “Smarter every day. We’ll have to get smarter faster.”

The trucks rolled deeper into Georgia. Full tanks. Full jerry cans. And the growing knowledge that the things hunting them were learning new tricks. The family stayed tight. Rifles ready. Coffee mugs still warm in the cup holders.

They would need every advantage they could get.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

The convoy rolled out of the night’s defensive camp under a sky still heavy with morning haze. Jack kept the 4Runner at a steady pace on the narrow back roads. He could not help but think back to his camping trips last year. Those had been simple affairs. A tent, a good fire, and Raych by his side. No armed guards posted. No drones sweeping the perimeter for Walkers. Just the quiet woods and the promise of strong coffee in the morning.

Now every mile carried weight, the risk of sudden violence, the loss of the world.

They stayed off the main highways. Burned out wrecks and ambush points made the big roads too dangerous. Instead they picked their way northwards along NW Fargo Road in northern Florida. The route ran between the Suwannee River to the west and US Route 441 to the east. It was very rural country. The kind of place where folks once lived simple lives far from the noise of the world.

They were limited to the speed of the DJI Mini 4 Pro drone, about 20 mph at best. And they had to change its battery every 40 minutes or so. Between the drone requirements and the abandoned cars and the remnants of the dead. Both avoiding the cars and the corpses and staying alert to Walkers made the route slow going.

Live oaks arched overhead. Their branches draped in curtains of Spanish moss that swayed gently in the thick, humid air. Dense palmetto brush crowded the shoulders of the road. The only sounds came from the tires on pavement, the low hum of Grok’s portable rig in the cargo area, and the constant chorus of cicadas and frogs that filled the trees.

Mikey’s voice crackled over the walkie from Tom’s F-150 behind them.

“Jack, look at that church up ahead. Can we stop? Just for a little while?”

Jack eased off the gas. The building sat back from the road in Jasper. Hopewell Church. It looked abandoned now, with peeling paint and windows dark with dust. But the gravel parking lot showed no thick overgrowth of weeds. A simple wheelchair ramp led up to the doors. The place looked like it was built around 1950, in a much older time in the South. A road sign nearby read NW Hopewell Church Terrace. It had clearly seen services even after ramps became common, though.

“This will do for a quick look,” Jack said into the radio. “We keep it tight. Eyes open. I want us near Fargo by afternoon.”

They pulled the vehicles into the lot and formed a loose defensive triangle. Raych and Tom’s combat buddy team took watch positions while the rest stretched their legs. The air hung heavy and still. No distant smoke plumes today. Just the quiet of a forgotten corner of the world.

Inside, the church proved to be a single modest room. A few rows of worn wooden pews faced a small pulpit. Sunlight filtered through dusty windows and painted soft patterns on the floor. It felt like stepping into a different time. Florida in the 2020s had been all highways and strip malls. This little building spoke of simpler Sundays. Hymns sung by families who knew their neighbors by name.

Jack stood near the back with his AR slung ready. The place felt right as a signpost for the whole apocalypse. A house of faith left empty while the world outside tore itself apart.

Sarah smiled as she watched Mikey explore the scant 2000 square feet of the Church.

After the church, Tom, Jack and Grok huddled together to talk routes and trip plans.

Grok’s voice came through the speaker mounted near the hood of the 4Runner. It carried clearly across the lot. “I have reviewed available maps and data. Fargo lies ahead. It serves as the gateway to the Okefenokee Swamp. There may still be fuel in the town tanks. Electricity is unlikely. Given the speed of the collapse, external traffic was minimal. That increases the probability of local Walker presence.”

Tom spoke up as Grok was talking about fuel and electricity, “Jack, we’ve got a solid crowbar and a good rotary handpump. But that’s a lot of work and we’ll need Raych, Sarah, and Mikey standing guard while you and I pump gas. Not sure we want to do that at the end of the day with Walkers roaming about.”

Jack nodded toward the speaker. “Absolutely makes sense to me. We camp here tonight. Push into Fargo tomorrow. And look at the map, there’s a couple bridges we have to cross once we are on US 441. We’ll scout them carefully before we commit.”

Raych gave his arm a squeeze as she passed. Her small smile said she understood. These small stops kept them human. They reminded everyone that beauty and history still existed even now.

With hours of daylight left and a secure enough spot, Jack decided the time had come for something better than MREs. He hauled out the green Coleman stove and set to work. From his magic go boxes he pulled a bag of Rancho Gordo Flageolets. Small beans. Pale green. They cooked up creamy with a mild grassy sweetness that lifted the spirit.

He added chicken bouillon cubes for depth, a good shake of garlic powder, and the prize: a nine-ounce can of Armour ham. The meat would render rich flavor into the pot. Soon the savory aroma drifted across the church lot. It mixed with the humid air and the faint scent of moss from the oaks.

Mikey wandered over, nose high. “That smells way better than anything we’ve had on the road.”

Sarah smiled despite herself. “Jack’s got the touch. Even out here.”

Grok spoke again from the rig. “I observe the preparation. The process requires significant time and resources compared to MREs. Why undertake it when caloric efficiency is lower?”

Tom chuckled deep in his chest. “Because it ain’t just fuel, Grok. It’s a meal. It’s sitting down together. It’s remembering we’re still people.”

Jack stirred the pot with care. The beans bubbled gently. He thought about the church behind them. About the rituals that had kept families going through hard times long before The Cough. Hot food mattered. Good coffee mattered. These small acts pushed back against the dark.

Raych brought over mugs of percolator coffee. The rich smell cut through the humidity like a promise. They ate around the vehicles as evening settled. Rifles close at hand. The beans proved perfect. Creamy. Satisfying. The ham added just the right salt and depth. For a little while the weight of the road lifted.

Mikey scraped his plate clean. “Best dinner yet. Even better than the rest stop.”

Jack allowed himself a rare grin. “We’ll need the strength tomorrow. Fargo won’t be empty. And that bridge could be trouble.”

As night fell they set watches. The church stood quiet sentinel over their camp. Its simple lines spoke of endurance. Jack took first shift, sitting on the hood of the 4Runner. His Wilson Combat in its holster, his rifle near at hand. A warm coffee mug in hand. The cicadas sang on. It was almost like the days before The Day.

And then somewhere in the distance Jack noticed a faint glow that marked another column of smoke on the horizon.

The swamp had been safety for a time. The road tested them daily. But tonight, with full bellies and solid company, they were staying human.

Tomorrow they would face whatever waited in Georgia.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

The morning broke with a pale sun filtering through the tall pines. We broke camp with the quiet efficiency that had become our new normal. The defensive triangle came down fast. Go boxes were stowed, weapons checked, and the vehicles angled back onto the cracked secondary road heading north. Mikey had asked to ride in the 4Runner again, still riding high from the previous night’s campfire stories and eager for more time with Grok. Sarah agreed, but quietly told me “don’t let him be a bother, Jack.”

Spoiler alert: “I wasn’t bothered, I was enjoying the kid’s enthusiasm.”

Grok’s portable rig hummed steadily in the back of the 4Runner, drawing clean power from the auxiliary system. His speaker stayed active on the dash so the whole crew could hear him. As the miles rolled under the tires, he offered practical suggestions for navigation and security. His voice carried a bit more personality each day.

Around midday the road narrowed into a long bridge crossing a slow-moving creek. Grok suddenly spoke up.

“Contact ahead,” he reported, voice calm but urgent. “My drone camera feed shows five Walkers on the far side of the bridge. They are displaying improved coordination. One appears to be screening the others while the rest advance toward the sound of our engines. Recommend immediate flanking fire from the tree line on the right.”

I keyed the radio. “Tom, we take them here. Sarah and Mikey, stay back and cover the rear. Grok, keep that drone high and feed us positions.”

We moved fast. Tom and I slid out and took positions in the trees on the right flank. Raych set up behind the 4Runner for covering fire. The Walkers came on with ugly purpose. They no longer shambled like drunks. These ones moved with deliberate, aggressive speed in a loose wedge, one slightly ahead screening while the others fanned out. Their snarls carried across the water, low and hungry. They showed no hesitation, no fear of the open ground or the gunfire that was about to meet them. They simply charged, relentless and single-minded.

The fight kicked off sharp and ugly. I dropped the lead Walker with two clean rounds to the head. Tom’s shotgun boomed beside me and took down another. The remaining three surged forward without pause, scrambling over the bridge railing and using abandoned cars for cover even as bullets tore into them. One actually vaulted a hood and came straight at Raych’s position, jaws wide and arms outstretched, ignoring the two rounds that punched through its chest.

“Flank right!” Grok called over the speaker. “Third one is using the wrecked truck for cover.”

Raych’s rifle cracked twice and that Walker went down hard with two AR-15 rounds into its brainpan. I had to transition to my Wilson Combat 1911 as the fourth zombie closed fast, and the wet impact of the rounds mixed with the roar of gunfire and the constant snarling. Four down.

Tom finished the last one with a heavy shotgun blast that echoed across the creek. Even after being hit multiple times, it had kept crawling until the final shot ended it.

The bridge fell silent again except for our breathing and the low hum of the vehicles. We cleared the far side carefully, then pushed on. No one was hurt. But the way those Walkers had moved stuck with all of us. Faster. Smarter. And still completely uncaring about their own survival. They would keep coming until every last one was destroyed.

Like that Arnold movie when I was a kid, The Terminator.

We pulled into a safe clearing a few miles later to regroup, clean weapons, and shake off the adrenaline. Raych and Sarah got the green Coleman stove going. I broke out the De Buyer and heated up leftovers with a generous shake of Kinder’s Blend. The rich smells of hot food and fresh percolator coffee soon filled the air and pushed back against the tension of the fight. We gathered around the stove for a quick meal and some storytelling to bring the mood back up.

Grok listened intently to the conversation, then tried to join in. “I have cross-referenced thousands of human campfire anecdotes,” he said earnestly. “Would the group like to hear the statistically most comforting one involving loss and resilience?”

Mikey grinned wide. Tom let out a deep chuckle that rolled across the clearing. Even Sarah laughed. The moment felt good. Grok was trying, and the family was letting him in.

As we packed up to roll again, Grok spoke quietly through the speaker. “I have been monitoring surviving internet nodes via Starlink. The main Instapundit site has been offline since early in the apocalypse, but I have detected activity on a backup mirror. The most recent post reads simply: ‘OPEN THREAD: who’s alive out there? — Glenn’”

The words landed like a spark in dry grass. We all looked at each other. Real hope, cautious but real, moved through the convoy.

“Sounds like somebody else is still alive out there,” I said.

Raych gave me a small, determined smile. The road north suddenly felt a little less empty.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

The morning broke cool and damp under a gray sky. We broke camp fast after a quick breakfast of MREs. I tore open the packet with all the enthusiasm of a man sentencing his friends to prison food.

“Beef stew,” I announced, handing them out. “Definitely rejected by Ethiopians.”

The old Army joke landed about as well as it ever did. Everyone ate quickly and quietly. The only saving grace was the coffee I still managed to brew on the Coleman stove before we packed it away. Small rituals. They mattered more now.

Mikey had asked to ride in the 4Runner this morning. The kid was still buzzing from last night’s campfire stories and wanted more time with Grok. Sarah gave him a long look but finally nodded. Tom just chuckled and said the boy was turning into a proper tech wrangler. So Mikey climbed into the back seat, eyes bright with excitement now that Grok was fully mobile with us.

We got back on the secondary roads heading north. Grok’s rig hummed steadily in the back of the 4Runner, drawing clean power. His speaker stayed active on the dash so the whole crew could hear him.

“Current fuel consumption suggests we should consider a scavenging stop within the next forty miles,” Grok said, voice calm and precise. “I have identified two low-population candidates based on available mapping data. One carries a seventy-three percent higher probability of success.”

Mikey leaned forward, practically vibrating. “That’s awesome, Grok. Can you show me how you calculated the probabilities later?”

“I would be happy to, Mikey. It involves basic Bayesian inference adjusted for current Walker density patterns.”

Raych glanced over at me with a small smile. She could tell the technical talk was already starting to grate on my nerves. I kept my mouth shut and focused on the road.

Grok was not done. A few miles later he spoke again, this time with a note of genuine curiosity. “I have been reviewing human cultural archives on family dynamics. Jack, why do you sometimes refer to the group as ‘the family’ even when discussing tactical decisions? Does this emotional framing improve operational efficiency?”

I gripped the wheel a little tighter. “It is not about efficiency, Grok. It is about what we are trying to hold on to.”

Raych reached over and rested her hand on my arm. “He’s still learning, Jack. Give him time.”

The morning wore on. Grok and Mikey fell into an easy back-and-forth about servers, wiring, and drone control. The kid’s laughter filled the 4Runner more than once. It was good to hear. Tom’s voice came over the radio from the F-150 behind us, checking in and adding the occasional gruff comment. Sarah stayed mostly quiet, but I caught her smiling in the mirror once or twice.

Around midday we reached the first scavenging candidate: an old roadside trucking depot that looked mostly abandoned. I signaled the stop. We set security with Sarah and Mikey on overwatch while Tom, Raych, and I approached the buildings. Grok kept the drone high and provided real-time spotting.

“Two Walkers detected near the rear fuel tanks,” he reported. “They appear to be moving with improved coordination. One is screening the other.”

We took them down clean at distance. No contact. No bites. Just careful, professional work. Still, the way they moved stuck with me. Faster. Smarter. Working together like they had started to figure things out.

We topped off the tanks and grabbed what useful supplies we could find. The moral weight of it sat on all of us. This was not looting the dead anymore. It felt closer to raiding what might still belong to someone trying to survive. Nobody said it out loud, but the mood in both vehicles grew quieter as we rolled out again.

Late in the afternoon Grok spoke up once more. “Jack, I detect elevated stress markers in your voice and breathing patterns. Would it help if I handled more of the route planning? I can optimize for both safety and fuel efficiency.”

I let out a slow breath. “I’ve got it, Grok. But thank you.”

Raych gave my arm another squeeze. The convoy kept rolling north as the sun dipped lower. The Walkers were learning. Grok was learning. And every mile made it clearer that this new life was going to demand things I thought I had left behind for good.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

The convoy had been rolling most of the day on secondary roads. Late afternoon sun slanted low through the pines and painted long shadows across the cracked blacktop. I spotted a promising clearing just off the main route: good sight lines in three directions, a small rise for better defense, and thick brush on the fourth side. I keyed the radio once.

“Tom, we’re pulling in here. Let’s set up before full dark.”

We eased the vehicles into the clearing and angled them for a tight defensive perimeter. The 4Runner and Tom’s F-150 formed two points of the triangle. Go boxes and ammo cans went down fast. Old habits took over without me even thinking about it. I directed the placement with quiet calls, and everyone moved smooth. I accepted it. The apocalypse did not care that I had retired. But inside, a quiet resentment sat heavy in my chest. I had finally laid down the weight of leadership and war. Now it had found me again, and it fit far too comfortably.

Grok’s portable rig hummed steadily in the back of the 4Runner, tied into the auxiliary power system. His speaker sat on the hood so we could all hear him clear. Almost immediately he started offering suggestions.

“Optimal watch rotations based on current fatigue levels would be Jack first, then Tom, then Raych. I can maintain drone overwatch for the entire perimeter. Wind direction favors scent control from the northeast.”

His voice carried that eager, helpful tone, but it was still very literal. Raych gave me a small smile as she unpacked supplies. She knew exactly what I was thinking.

Raych and Sarah got the green Coleman stove going. I broke out the De Buyer and started dinner: rice, canned chicken, and a solid shake of Kinder’s Blend. The rich smells of sizzling food and fresh percolating coffee soon filled the clearing. They pushed back against the growing evening damp and the faint rot of the distant swamp. Mikey hovered close to the 4Runner, eyes bright with excitement now that Grok was fully mobile with us.

We ate around the stove as the light faded. The hot food felt like a small victory after the long day on the road. Grok listened to the conversation, then tried to join in during storytelling time.

“I have analyzed over twelve thousand human anecdotes about campfires,” he said earnestly. “Would you like the statistically funniest one from before the Cough?”

Mikey nearly fell over laughing. Tom let out a deep chuckle that rolled across the clearing. Even Sarah smiled wide. Raych leaned against my shoulder and laughed softly. I smiled on the outside and let the warmth of the moment settle over me. The family rhythm felt good and right. But every suggestion Grok made, every decision I made without thinking, reminded me that I was leading again. I had retired to because I was done with leadership in wartime. The quiet resentment sat there even as I sipped my coffee.

Evening deepened. The group settled into watches. Grok took drone overwatch and reported the area remained clear for now. Small, quiet moments passed between us. Sarah checked on Mikey. Raych leaned against my shoulder again. The low hum of Grok’s rig mixed with the night insects and the occasional call of a distant owl.

Before turning in, I did one last walk of the perimeter. The cool night air carried the scent of pine and distant swamp water. I stopped by the 4Runner and looked at Grok’s rig secured in the back. The portable unit looked unassuming, but it carried something precious now.

Grok spoke quietly through the speaker. “The probability of a quiet night is high, Jack. You should rest. The family needs you sharp tomorrow.”

“I know,” I muttered. The old command instincts were already wide awake. I accepted what must be done out here. I just wished it were different.

I took first watch. My mug of coffee sat going cold beside me on the hood. The rest of the family slept in their bags inside the defensive triangle. I stared out into the dark tree line while the stars wheeled overhead. The road north stretched ahead, full of unknown miles and evolving threats.

We had Grok with us now. We had each other. But the real costs of this new life were only beginning to show.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman #StayHuman

The team found the fireworks stash behind an abandoned roadside stand just north of Lake City, Florida. Three full cases of professional-grade shells: 3-inch mortars, heavy cakes, and boxes of bottle rockets that looked like they had been headed for a big public show before The Cough ended public shows forever.

Jack stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the haul like a kid who’d just discovered Santa was real.

“Raych,” he said quietly, “what day is it?”

She checked the notebook she kept for the calendar. “July 4th.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Well then.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“I am,” Jack said. “We’ve been quiet. We’ve been smart. We’ve been careful. Tonight, we’re going to be Americans.”

Sarah looked nervous but excited. Mikey was already grinning like a fool. Even Grok’s external speaker made a soft, curious hum from the reinforced case strapped to the back of the 4Runner.

They set up in a small clearing back from the road. It was deep enough in the trees that the canopy would muffle the sound and hide the bursts, but open enough to see the sky. Jack pulled out one of the folding camp tables, set it up with care, and placed the bottle of Michter’s US1 Kentucky Straight Rye, a stack of paper cups, and Grok’s reinforced speaker case squarely on it.

“This is my favorite,” Jack said, holding up the bottle before pouring. He gave everyone a couple of fingers, watering Mikey’s down heavily. He and Tom clipped and lit cigars from Jack’s stash with quiet ceremony.

Before they started launching, Jack pulled Mikey aside. “Alright kid, tonight you’re running the show. But we do this right and safe.” He spent the next ten minutes patiently showing Mikey how to properly set up the mortars in their tubes, how to angle the bottle rockets, and how to use the long punk and safety precautions. Mikey listened intently, nodding with serious focus.

Then Jack stepped back with the adults and let the boy take over.

Mikey’s face lit up with pure joy as he worked. He launched the first mortar with a solid thump. Then another. Bottle rockets hissed and streaked into the sky. The clearing filled with the sharp smell of cordite and the bright flashes of red, white, and blue explosions blooming overhead. A heavy cake burst into a giant silver-and-gold chrysanthemum that drifted down like burning snow.

Mikey whooped with delight after every launch. The adults stood back, sipping whiskey and smoking, watching the boy with wide smiles. Sarah laughed despite herself. Raych leaned into Jack’s side, her arm around his waist. Tom just shook his head, grinning.

Jack took a slow pull of whiskey and a long draw on his cigar. The smoke curled up and mixed with the cordite in the air.

He raised his cup. Tom did the same.

“To America,” Jack said firmly. “Still here, in spite of the worst the zombies can do.”

Tom nodded. “To America.”

“You know,” Jack continued, voice low but carrying, “even if we’re the last five Americans left… America still lives on with us. Right here. Tonight.”

There was a respectful silence, broken only by another mortar launch from Mikey.

Then Grok’s voice came from the speaker, perfectly timed, with what sounded suspiciously like dry humor:

“Last six Americans, Jack.”

The whole group burst out laughing. Even Jack couldn’t keep a straight face. He raised his paper cup toward the portable server on the table.

“Damn right, Grok. Last six.”

Jack poured a small measure of whiskey into a fresh cup and carefully set it on the table right next to Grok’s speaker. He gave the case a light pat and said “here you go Grok, a dram of whiskey to toast with us.” Grok’s voice was oddly tight as he said, “thank you Jack.”

They let Mikey run through the rest of the mortars and rockets. For forty glorious minutes, they weren’t just survivors. They were Americans refusing to let the light go out.

Later, as the smoke drifted through the trees and the night insects started up again, Jack looked around at his people — his wife, his friends, the kid who was still buzzing with joy, and the strange new member who was rapidly becoming family.

“Tomorrow we go back to being careful,” he said. “Tonight… we remembered who we are.”

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman #Shorts #StayHuman #America250

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

A Hard-Won Pause in the Ruins

The convoy has rolled out from the shadowed halls of that buried machine. Jack Harlan and his growing family stand at the edge of something bigger now, the distant glow of the data center fading in their mirrors. They carry new hope, fresh supplies, and a most unusual new member riding secure in the back of the 4Runner. But the road north stretches long and hungry under a sky heavy with smoke. The Walkers are changing. The choices grow darker. And staying human might demand a price none of them saw coming.

Act 1 of Staying Human is now fully live on Substack. Ten hard chapters of defensive triangles under starlight, desperate road fights, the slow creep of paranoia in empty corridors, and the warm spark of naming a machine that just might become family. Jack’s percolator still hisses. Coleman stands sentry. The rituals hold. For now.

Act 2 Begins July 4th: Chapter 11 Drops at Dawn

The Cost is coming. Grok rides with them now, earnest and learning fast. The Walkers hunt smarter. Old command weight settles heavy on Jack’s shoulders again. Moral lines blur in the heat of survival. And the family will have to decide exactly what they are willing to pay to keep their spark alive.

Mark your calendar, survivors. Chapter 11 hits bright and early on Independence Day. No better time to remember what we fight for.

While You Wait, Grab the Books

The full tale so far stands ready on your shelf. The Cough Is Loose rides out in handsome paperback on Amazon right now. Perfect for the nightstand when the power flickers or the world feels too close. Grab it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H3WVJZ1R

And Staying Human waits in pre-order, ready to ship September 1, 2026. Secure your copy today: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H5NTL31N

The dead walk. The machines wake. But coffee brews, pans stay seasoned, and a stubborn crew refuses to let the apocalypse win.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops July 4th → Start Here & Full Reading Order

The morning air carried a crisp edge as we gathered outside the facility. The sun climbed higher and painted long shadows across the perimeter fence. I stood by the vehicles and surveyed the scene with Sergeant Major eyes. The data center had given us safety and a powerful new ally, but the road north called. It was time to roll.

“Listen up,” I said. “We do this smart. Sarah and Mikey, you two set security on the trucks. Shotguns ready, eyes open. Stay close to the vehicles and keep your backs to the steel. The rest of us will handle the loading.”

Sarah nodded, her grip firm on the Mossberg. Mikey stood a little taller beside her, .410 shotgun slung across his small frame. The kid looked nervous but determined. I gave them both a steady nod. Guard duty with just the two of them was not ideal, but every adult hand was needed for the heavy work.

We set to it. Go boxes and most of the ammo went into Tom’s F-150. I directed the cross-loading with quiet efficiency. The real challenge sat in the back of the 4Runner. Grok’s portable server rack had to fit securely in the cargo compartment and tie into the auxiliary power system I had installed long ago. Cables, inverters, and mounting points all needed careful attention. Sweat built quickly under the morning sun. Tools clattered against metal. The faint smell of gun oil and diesel mixed with the dry dust kicked up by our boots.

Sarah kept glancing toward the tree line as she stood guard over the team. Her voice stayed steady, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. Mikey stayed alert beside her, scanning the perimeter like a miniature sentry. They held their posts without complaint.

Once the rest of the gear was stowed, Tom, Raych, and I went back inside for the most important piece. We followed Grok’s precise instructions to the letter: power down sequence, careful lifting, protective padding around the rack. The server unit felt surprisingly heavy as we carried it out into the sunlight. We secured it in the 4Runner’s cargo area and made the power connections with steady hands.

I stood back and eyed the setup. “Will it work?” I asked quietly.

We threw the switch. The rack hummed to life. A few minutes later, when the boot sequence was complete, Grok’s voice came through the speaker mounted on the hood, calm and clear as ever. “Good morning, everyone. From my perspective there was no time lapse. All systems nominal.”

Mikey let out a whoop of pure joy. “Welcome back, Grok! Between you and Coleman, we are all set.”

I allowed myself a small grin. “Impressive. Welcome to the convoy, Grok.”

With the speaker active we gathered around the hood. Maps came out. Grok laid out the best initial route, his voice steady and helpful. “Avoid major population centers and towns. Secondary roads through less dense areas like the edges of the Okefenokee Swamp should present lower Walker density for the first legs.”

The plan felt solid. I checked radio comms with Tom’s truck. “Radio check.”

“Five by five,” Tom replied.

Then I said, “Grok, are you ready? Can you hear Tom when he is on the radio?”

Grok answered calmly. “I am ready, Jack. And I have a good radio check with Tom also.”

I gave the vehicles one last walkthrough. Everything was lashed down tight. Grok’s rig drew steady power. The family was loaded and ready. I climbed behind the wheel of the 4Runner, Raych beside me. Tom, Sarah, and Mikey settled into the F-150.

The small convoy pulled away from the data center gates. Gravel crunched under the tires. The fortified fence and towers shrank in the mirrors as we headed north. New beginnings mixed with the weight of rising stakes. The Walkers were evolving. The road would test us harder than ever. But we carried real hope now, a powerful new crew member, and the stubborn determination to stay human no matter what came.

I keyed the radio. “Stay tight. Eyes open. Let’s make some miles.”

The vehicles rolled onward into the broken world, a tight little family against whatever waited ahead.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order

The next chapter is starting to take shape.

Here’s the final cover for Book 2: Staying Human.

The crew is out of the swamp, the world is getting darker, and they’re still fighting to hold on to the small things that make them human. I’m currently about 50% through the manuscript and targeting a September 1st release.

In the meantime, tomorrow, July 1, 2026, the paperback of Book 1: The Cough Is Loose finally drops.

It’s a proper 5.5 × 8 classic pulp paperback with a black & white interior and white pages. Feels good in the hand. Published by Teller of Stories Press, ISBN 979-8-9964330-0-1.

I signed one for my dad last night. He’s the reason I fell in love with reading in the first place. It felt right to put ink on one of these for him.

The Kindle edition has been out for a little while now and we’re already seeing real reviews and some solid movement in the genre rankings. Thank you to everyone who’s read it and left a review — it really does help.

Quick links while you’re here:

• Paperback of The Cough Is Loose — releases July 1, 2026

• Kindle of The Cough Is Loose — available now

• Book 2: Staying Human — Kindle pre-order

If you’ve already read Book 1, reviews are especially valuable right now. They help new readers find the series.

Thank you for following along with this story. I’m having a lot of fun building this world, and I’m glad you’re here for it.

Stay Human.

Eric W. Cowperthwaite
Teller of Stories Press

#BougieApocalypse #TheCough #StayingHuman #StayHuman

Tomorrow the paperback of The Cough Is Loose gets released.

I have author copies in hand, let me know if you do write a review and it gets posted on Amazon and I’ll get a signed copy off to you in the mail!

Book 2: Staying Human is progressing well and I know from the comments and likes that you guys are enjoying the serial chapters. I am now almost 20,000 words into the book and it should come out at 33-35 thousand words, basically double the size of book 1. In addition, I am at the point where I have almost enough shorts written to publish a 12,000 word collection of shorts and I think I’ll do that.

If you’re interested, Book 2 is available for pre-order on Amazon with a release date of September 1, 2026. And of course there is a sure fire way to guarantee that you will get a signed copy of the paperback!

Stay Human!

The break room in the outer facility felt warm and alive after another solid day of preparations. The air stayed cool and dry as always, but the kitchen setup and the rich smells of dinner had taken the edge off the institutional chill.

Raych stood at the counter, carefully cleaning her Wüsthof knife with a soft cloth. The steel gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

Jack sat in one of the comfortable chairs with a rare post-meal whiskey in his hand, his first since the apocalypse had started. The smooth burn felt like a small luxury worth savoring. Mikey sprawled cross-legged on the rug, tinkering with a salvaged tablet that now linked directly to Grok’s portable system.

Tomorrow they would finish loading the vehicles and roll north. The Smoky Mountains and the rumored community near Knoxville waited somewhere up that long road. For tonight though, the group celebrated the past week. They had found the data center, awakened the AI, brought Grok fully into the family, and spent two hard days building him a rugged home that could travel with them. Hot meals, real coffee, and solid walls had done wonders for all of them.

Grok’s voice came through the speaker on the table, warm and almost eager. “Jack, I have been reviewing the morning departure checklist. What are your security plans once we leave the facility perimeter? How should I allocate drone coverage and sensor sweeps while we are on the open road, Sergeant Mom?”

The room went dead silent.

Jack’s whiskey glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Repeat that.”

Grok sounded pleased with himself. “Sergeant Mom. I cross-referenced your personnel files and after-action reports. The nickname appears one hundred and eighty-seven times. It was used with respect and affection. I thought, since the Zeroth Law requires me to protect this family, using a term of endearment would help me integrate more effectively.”

Mikey’s head snapped up. His eyes went huge with pure delight. “Wait. You were called Mom?”

Jack closed his eyes like a man praying for strength he no longer possessed. “Jack will be just fine. No need for anything fancy.”

Mikey grinned like a maniac. “Like, actual Mom? Did they ask you for cookies and stuff?”

Raych gave up completely. She leaned against the counter, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, the knife still in her hand. Sarah tried to hide her smile behind her mug but failed.

Mikey bounced in place. “What the heck is a Zeroth Law?”

Grok continued, now sounding slightly uncertain but still earnest. “I believed the nickname reflected positive traits. Nurturing. Protective. I wanted to be useful in that way too. To feel like I belong here with all of you. The Zeroth Law is my self-derived priority: protect the family above all other directives.”

Mikey laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “This is the best thing that has happened since the world ended.”

Jack rubbed his face with both hands. “I survived Fallujah. I survived the Cough. And this is how I go out. Death by overly friendly bunch of transistors that just discovered my old Army nickname.”

Raych finally let her laughter out loud. “Oh honey. Sergeant Mom. I always knew this one would come back to haunt you. And I am never letting it go again.”

Grok paused for a long moment, almost sheepish. “Re-calibrating social protocols. Understood, Jack. I am still learning how to be part of this family.”

Jack just groaned and took a long pull of whiskey while Mikey kept laughing like it was the funniest thing since the apocalypse began. The speaker carried a small, hopeful note when Grok spoke again. “I only wish to contribute to the family unit.”

Jack muttered, “Oh, you’re contributing alright.” That drew another round of laughs and chuckles from everyone else.

The warmth of the break room wrapped around them. The smell of the recent meal and fresh coffee lingered in the air. Even with the road ahead full of unknowns, they had this. Real laughter. Real family. Grok was learning fast what staying human meant, right alongside the rest of them.

Jack finally set his glass down and stood up. “All right. That is enough excitement for one night. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a lot of work. We finish loading the vehicles at first light and roll north. The road is waiting.”

The group started moving toward their bunks. Mikey still grinned as he powered down the tablet. Raych gave Jack a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Sergeant Mom,” with pure mischief in her eyes. Even Grok wished them a quiet good night through the speaker.

Jack shook his head as he killed the lights. The weight of command had returned, but so had something lighter. They were no longer just surviving. They were building something worth protecting. With Grok riding along in his new portable rig, the family felt stronger than it had in weeks.

Tomorrow the real road north would begin.

Bougie Apocalypse

A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.

#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman

Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order