20. Campfire Confessions
The Cough Is Loose
The fire burned low and steady that night, casting a warm orange glow against the cypress trunks and hanging moss. The percolator had already done its work once, and I was grinding a fresh batch by hand with the little manual burr mill I had packed. The steady click-click-click filled the quiet between stories. The rich, earthy aroma of fresh coffee grounds mixed with woodsmoke and the ever-present damp rot of the swamp.
Raych watched me with an amused smile. “You know, of all the things you brought, that little mill might be the most Jack thing possible.”
Tom chuckled. “Absolutely like Jack to make sure he can have fresh-ground coffee in the apocalypse.”
I kept turning the handle, a small grin tugging at my beard. “If I have to pre-grind enough for a day or two, I will. But fresh is better. Civilization will not be rushed.”
Sarah laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Proudly,” I replied, tapping the grounds into the percolator. “Though I do miss my French Press. The percolator is okay, but it’s not the same. Magic boxes only have so much room.”
Sarah gasped in mock horror. “You don’t mean that Jack Harlan, do you? Especially about your magic boxes!”
We settled in around the fire, each of us holding a warm cup. It was one of those rare nights where the swamp felt almost peaceful instead of threatening. Frogs croaked steadily in the background and the occasional heavy splash sounded from the nearby water. One by one, we shared pieces of the old world.
Tom talked about teaching his boys to fish on weekends. Sarah told a funny story about her husband’s terrible attempts at barbecue. Mikey shyly admitted he missed video games and riding his bike with friends after school. Raych spoke about our little homestead garden and how she used to can tomatoes every summer.
When it was my turn, I told them about the Bicentennial Train in 1976. “I was only four years old. I can barely remember what I saw, but I remember the red, white, and blue, the crowds of people, and that big old steam engine. My dad lifted me onto his shoulders so I could see it better.”
The stories flowed easily, warm and human. For a little while the Cough, the Walkers, and the dwindling supplies felt far away.
As the fresh coffee finished brewing, I looked around the circle at my crew, my wife, our chosen family, and felt something solid settle in my chest.
We were still here. Still telling stories. Still making coffee the right way.
The swamp might be our home for now, but the world outside was changing. Walkers were getting faster. Supplies were getting tighter. That faint military signal we had picked up on the last run was still nagging at the back of my mind.
Tomorrow we would keep fighting to stay human.
But tonight, with hot coffee and good company, we remembered what we were fighting for.
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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