Author’s Note - One Whiskey Too Many
After grinding out a really dark short in the Bougie Apocalypse, I had one more whiskey. And then this came flowing out of my pen. Enjoy.
The cursor blinked on the screen like it was mocking him.
Eric sat at his desk late at night, finishing the brutal final lines of “Brothers.” Tom’s boys. The ones Tom would spend the rest of the series wondering about. He saved the file, then opened the main manuscript for The Cough Is Loose. The proof copy looked beautiful. Dad was going to love holding the real paperback on July 1.
His phone buzzed with news alerts. He almost ignored them.
Then the TV in the living room changed tone.
“…widespread violence… patients attacking medical staff… authorities urging people to stay indoors…”
Stacy’s voice came down the hall, calm but edged. “Eric. You need to see this.”
He stood up. The 5.11 Tactical Rush 48 ruck was already staged by the door: Kirkland protein bars, two one-liter water bottles, first aid, extra clothes, the good coffee beans, the manual grinder, and a fresh box of cigars. Because some standards had to be kept.
Stacy met him in the hallway, curly red hair tied back, that quiet Viking-raider steadiness already settling over her. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”
They moved like they had talked about a hundred times. Not quite Jack-level Rancho Gordo obsession, but close enough.
Eric went straight to the gun safe at the edge of the garage. Out came the AR-15s, his Sig P320 with optic and weapon light, Stacy’s Sig P365XL with optic, and both battle belts. A case of 5.56 and a case of 9mm went in next. Everything got tossed into the back of the 4Runner with smooth, practiced efficiency. The Rush 48 followed.
Stacy slid into the passenger seat, pistol already on her lap. She gave him a little smile.
“Panhandle swamp?” she asked.
“Back roads only,” he replied, firing up the engine. “We stay human.”
Eric paused. “What the hell, those are Jack and Raych’s lines!”
He paused for another half a second, looking at the house they had built. The chickens. The garden. The life. Then he looked at Stacy. “We can’t leave your boy.”
Stacy ran back inside, grabbed what was needed, and came back out with their big, adorable chocolate Labrador, Dozer. He bounced up into the truck the way he always did, sat down in the back, and looked at them with that “let’s roll, humans” expression.
There were moans and shambling figures in the distance now, along with a scream or two. Eric ignored all of it.
He slammed the tailgate, hopped in the truck, and pulled out.
As the 4Runner rolled out of the cul-de-sac, Eric glanced in the rearview mirror at the house disappearing behind them. He let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“I wrote this damn story,” he muttered. “And now I’m living it. At least I grabbed the cigars.”
Stacy reached over and squeezed his hand once.
“Finish the books later, author. Right now we survive.”
The 4Runner rumbled into the night. The protein bars and cigar box rattled gently next to the ammo cans like a quiet promise.
And yeah… come on.
Even the guy who wrote the bougie apocalypse had to bug out eventually.
Stay Human.
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 #StayingHuman
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