16. The First Real Fight
The Cough Is Loose
The sky was just starting to turn gray when I set the De Buyer on the Coleman stove. The beans were already bubbling from last night. I was turning them into refried beans with some of the last canned chicken and a heavy hand of seasoning. The percolator was doing its thing beside it. Morning ritual. Coffee first, always. The rich aroma of strong coffee mixed with the savory smell of beans and the ever-present damp rot of the swamp.
Mikey sat on an overturned bucket nearby, watching me like he always did.
Raych and Sarah had gone down to the water’s edge to rinse some gear. Tom was up on the slight rise on watch.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Then the splashing started.
A lot of splashing. Heavy, erratic, and far too many at once.
Tom’s voice cracked across the camp, sharp with urgency. “Contact! Big group! Front tree line!”
I was already moving. I killed the stove with a quick twist, grabbed my AR, and racked a round. My heart slammed against my ribs as adrenaline flooded my system.
“Mikey, behind the trucks, now!”
The rifles opened up. The sharp cracks of 5.56 rounds split the morning air. We were actually getting a handle on them at first. Controlled pairs, disciplined fire. The wet, rotting smell of the Walkers rolled in on the breeze, thick and sickly sweet like spoiled meat left too long in the sun.
Until two Walkers got past everything and came straight at me.
Time slowed in that familiar fight-or-flight way. My vision narrowed. Sweat stung my eyes. The second one was already too close. No time to transition to my pistol.
My back slammed into the camp table. The thing lunged, its jaw working with a wet, gurgling moan. Its stench hit me like a physical blow, a horrible mix of decay, swamp mud, and something far worse.
My hand flailed across the table and closed around the handle of my De Buyer Mineral B Pro. Six and a half pounds of solid, well-seasoned carbon steel.
I swung it like a battle axe.
The heavy pan connected with the side of the Walker’s head with a wet, ringing crack. The creature staggered. I brought it down again, and again, each impact jarring through my arms. On the final savage swing, its skull caved in completely. It collapsed at my feet in a heap of black gore.
I stood there breathing hard, pan still raised. Thick, dark fluid dripped from the bottom onto the ground. The beautiful, perfectly seasoned surface was now streaked with blood, brains, and God knows what else.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered to the pan, voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Raych lowered her pistol, staring. Tom let out a low whistle from his position. “Jesus, Jack… you just killed a zombie with a frying pan.”
I looked down at the De Buyer. The pan that had traveled with us since the very first day. Twelve years of careful seasoning, of cooking thousands of meals, of building civilization one hot breakfast at a time. It was filthy now, but I knew I could clean it. A good scrub, some heat, and a new layer of oil would bring the seasoning back. It would survive this, just like we would.
Then I looked at the ground around the table.
Our precious refried beans were scattered everywhere across the mud and swamp grass, ruined.
I exhaled slowly.
“…Now I really hate zombies.”
Raych started laughing first. Then Tom. Even Sarah couldn’t hold it in. Mikey seemed puzzled, but he was laughing with them. The tension broke in a wave of exhausted, slightly hysterical laughter.
I just shook my head, still gripping the heavy handle. Sweat cooled on my skin as my heart rate slowly came back down. The swamp sounds returned: frogs, distant birds, and the constant drip of water from the trees.
“Twelve years of seasoning that pan,” I muttered. “And now the beans are decorating the damn swamp.”
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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