13. The Photo
The Cough Is Loose
The sky had cleared by late afternoon, but the air still felt heavy and damp. I was sitting on the tailgate cleaning my Wilson Combat 1911 when Sarah found the photo.
She’d been digging through her pack for a clean shirt and it slipped out, an old printed picture with edges worn soft. She froze, staring at it like it might bite her. The rich smell of coffee still lingered from the percolator, mixing with the ever-present wet earth and cypress of the swamp.
Raych noticed first. She set her coffee down and moved over without a word, sitting beside Sarah on the log. A few moments later Sarah’s shoulders started to shake.
I stayed back at first, giving them space, but eventually walked over. The photo was of Sarah and a man, her husband, both smiling on a sunny beach somewhere that no longer existed.
“I keep forgetting,” Sarah whispered. “That it’s all just gone. The pictures. The videos. The stupid texts he used to send me at work. All of it.”
Raych put an arm around her. “I know, honey. It’s okay to miss it.”
I crouched down in front of them, elbows on my knees, still holding the disassembled 1911. “Power’s been out long enough now that even the cell towers are dead. No more Netflix. No more blogs. Starlink is still running, thank you Elon Musk. But no more way to know if Glenn’s still alive out there.”
Sarah looked up at me, eyes red but curious. She didn’t laugh, but there was a flicker of surprise at how casually I mentioned it.
Raych glanced at me, her voice quiet but pointed. “You’ve got a lot of ghosts, Jack. You just pretend they don’t exist until something makes you look at them.”
I met her eyes for a second, then gave a small nod. No argument there.
Raych raised an eyebrow. “You and your long-distance internet buddy. You two have been arguing about the Constitution for twenty years. You had burgers and beers with the man in Nashville back in 2016.”
I gave a low, dark chuckle. “Yeah. If the world ended and Glenn Reynolds is still out there somewhere writing blog posts by lantern light, the man would want to know the power’s out. He’d appreciate the update.”
Raych snorted. “Glenn is dead will get his attention.”
Sarah blinked, then let out a small, surprised huff, not quite a laugh, but close enough for someone still figuring me and Raych out.
Raych reached over and squeezed my arm. “It’s okay for you to worry about the people you know and care for, Jack. Soldiers and civilians both. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
I nodded slowly, grateful for the words.
Later that night, after everyone had turned in, Tom and I sat by the low fire. I’d waved everyone else off of watch, figured Tom and I would sit there with our ghosts and keep the watch.
The percolator hissed between us like it always did, its familiar rhythm cutting through the constant drip of water from the trees and the low chorus of frogs.
Tom stared into the flames for a long time before speaking.
“I had two boys,” he said quietly. “Ryan’s a Marine Staff Sergeant. Matt’s a teacher… was a teacher. Both called home the first day of the Cough. Both worried. Ryan tried to sound steady. Matt sounded scared for his wife and little girl.” He shook his head slowly. “Haven’t heard from them since.”
I nodded, saying nothing. There wasn’t much I could say.
Tom took a slow sip of coffee. “First time I’ve stood watch with a kid since I was running night patrols with young Marines back during Desert Storm and Somalia. Some of those boys were barely out of Boot, scared, sure, and also working hard to be tough and ready. Mikey is growing up fast, starting to act just like those boys did. Makes an old man worry.”
The words hung in the damp air. No one pushed.
I looked around the little circle: Sarah curled up near the fire, Mikey already asleep with his head on his pack, Raych leaning against my shoulder. The swamp continued its endless soundtrack around us, soft splashes and distant bird calls echoing in the darkness.
The old world was gone.
But under the stars, with hot coffee and people I trusted at my back, a new one was starting to take shape.
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 #TheCough #StayHuman
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