11. First Camp
Staying Human
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.
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