12. First Watch
The Cough Is Loose
The rain finally eased off sometime after midnight, leaving the swamp dripping and the air thick with the smell of wet earth and cypress. Every leaf and branch still shed heavy drops that plopped onto the muddy ground.
I’d set the first real watch rotation that evening. One strong team member with one still learning, that was the rule. I paired myself with Sarah for the first shift, Raych with Tom for the second, and Tom with Mikey for the last hour before dawn, with me awake and listening from the 4Runner just in case.
Sarah and I took the first watch. The two of us stood back-to-back near the edge of the clearing, listening as the night sounds slowly returned after the storm. Frogs resumed their low chorus and unseen creatures splashed in the black water nearby. The percolator was still warm on the Coleman stove under the tarp, a fresh pot of coffee keeping watch with us. Its rich, dark aroma helped cut through the heavy dampness that clung to our clothes after so many days of only wet washcloths and quick rinses.
Sarah was quiet at first. Then she asked softly, “How do you know when someone’s ready?”
I handed her a warm metal cup. “When they stop thinking about being ready and just do the job. Muscle memory takes over. Until then we train like the world is trying to kill us, because one day it will be.”
She nodded, staring into the darkness. “I keep thinking about Mikey out here. How fast everything changed.”
“You’re doing right by him,” I said. “Keeping him calm, keeping him learning. That’s what matters tonight.”
A little after 0200 we handed off to Raych and Tom. I crawled into the back of the 4Runner and slept lightly, one ear still tuned to the night.
Just before dawn I heard the low murmur of Tom’s voice and Mikey’s softer reply. I stayed lying down but fully awake, 1911 close at hand, listening.
A single shot cracked the quiet.
I was up and moving before the echo faded, Raych right behind me. Sarah was already on her feet.
Tom stood at the edge of the clearing, shotgun still raised. A flock of birds exploded from the trees in a chaotic burst of cawing and flapping wings, startled by the gunshot. Mikey was crouched low beside him, eyes wide but holding his Glock steady.
“One Walker,” Tom said calmly. “Came straight out of the mist. Mikey spotted it first, called it out clear.”
I looked at the boy. He was pale, breathing fast, but his hands were steady.
“Good eyes,” I told him. “Good call. You did exactly what we trained.”
Sarah exhaled, lowering her pistol. “He stayed calm. Just like you showed him.”
I gave a single nod. “That’s how we do it.”
The sky was just starting to lighten when we all gathered back under the main tarp. The percolator was hissing again. I poured fresh cups while Raych stirred a pot of rice and canned chicken left over from the night before. The warm, savory smell rose up and mixed with the wet swamp air.
Tom sat down heavily, shotgun across his knees. “First time I’ve stood watch with a kid since I was running night patrols with young Marines… back during Desert Storm and Somalia.”
The words hung in the damp air. No one pushed, but the weight of them settled over the group.
“Those were hard miles,” I said after a moment. “You’ve seen more than most.”
Tom gave a tired shrug. “Saw enough to know you don’t get complacent. And you damn sure don’t let the young ones get killed on your watch.”
Mikey looked up from his coffee. “Did I do okay?”
“You did better than okay,” I said. “You stayed calm, you followed the drill, and you let Tom take the shot when it counted. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
Sarah reached over and squeezed her son’s shoulder, pride and relief mixing on her face.
As the sun finally broke through the trees, I looked around the little circle: Tom cleaning his shotgun with slow, practiced strokes, Sarah checking the Mossberg 590A1, Mikey carefully wiping down his Glock the way I’d shown him. Raych leaned against my shoulder, her small fierce smile back in place.
The percolator hissed. The rice and chicken warmed on the stove.
For the first time since they’d joined us, it felt like a real crew standing guard together.
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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