14. The Church
Staying Human
A Moment of Quiet Faith
The convoy rolled out of the night’s defensive camp under a sky still heavy with morning haze. Jack kept the 4Runner at a steady pace on the narrow back roads. He could not help but think back to his camping trips last year. Those had been simple affairs. A tent, a good fire, and Raych by his side. No armed guards posted. No drones sweeping the perimeter for Walkers. Just the quiet woods and the promise of strong coffee in the morning.
Now every mile carried weight, the risk of sudden violence, the loss of the world.
They stayed off the main highways. Burned out wrecks and ambush points made the big roads too dangerous. Instead they picked their way northwards along NW Fargo Road in northern Florida. The route ran between the Suwannee River to the west and US Route 441 to the east. It was very rural country. The kind of place where folks once lived simple lives far from the noise of the world.
They were limited to the speed of the DJI Mini 4 Pro drone, about 20 mph at best. And they had to change its battery every 40 minutes or so. Between the drone requirements and the abandoned cars and the remnants of the dead. Both avoiding the cars and the corpses and staying alert to Walkers made the route slow going.
Live oaks arched overhead. Their branches draped in curtains of Spanish moss that swayed gently in the thick, humid air. Dense palmetto brush crowded the shoulders of the road. The only sounds came from the tires on pavement, the low hum of Grok’s portable rig in the cargo area, and the constant chorus of cicadas and frogs that filled the trees.
Mikey’s voice crackled over the walkie from Tom’s F-150 behind them.
“Jack, look at that church up ahead. Can we stop? Just for a little while?”
Jack eased off the gas. The building sat back from the road in Jasper. Hopewell Church. It looked abandoned now, with peeling paint and windows dark with dust. But the gravel parking lot showed no thick overgrowth of weeds. A simple wheelchair ramp led up to the doors. The place looked like it was built around 1950, in a much older time in the South. A road sign nearby read NW Hopewell Church Terrace. It had clearly seen services even after ramps became common, though.
“This will do for a quick look,” Jack said into the radio. “We keep it tight. Eyes open. I want us near Fargo by afternoon.”
They pulled the vehicles into the lot and formed a loose defensive triangle. Raych and Tom’s combat buddy team took watch positions while the rest stretched their legs. The air hung heavy and still. No distant smoke plumes today. Just the quiet of a forgotten corner of the world.
Inside, the church proved to be a single modest room. A few rows of worn wooden pews faced a small pulpit. Sunlight filtered through dusty windows and painted soft patterns on the floor. It felt like stepping into a different time. Florida in the 2020s had been all highways and strip malls. This little building spoke of simpler Sundays. Hymns sung by families who knew their neighbors by name.
Jack stood near the back with his AR slung ready. The place felt right as a signpost for the whole apocalypse. A house of faith left empty while the world outside tore itself apart.
Sarah smiled as she watched Mikey explore the scant 2000 square feet of the Church.
After the church, Tom, Jack and Grok huddled together to talk routes and trip plans.
Grok’s voice came through the speaker mounted near the hood of the 4Runner. It carried clearly across the lot. “I have reviewed available maps and data. Fargo lies ahead. It serves as the gateway to the Okefenokee Swamp. There may still be fuel in the town tanks. Electricity is unlikely. Given the speed of the collapse, external traffic was minimal. That increases the probability of local Walker presence.”
Tom spoke up as Grok was talking about fuel and electricity, “Jack, we’ve got a solid crowbar and a good rotary handpump. But that’s a lot of work and we’ll need Raych, Sarah, and Mikey standing guard while you and I pump gas. Not sure we want to do that at the end of the day with Walkers roaming about.”
Jack nodded toward the speaker. “Absolutely makes sense to me. We camp here tonight. Push into Fargo tomorrow. And look at the map, there’s a couple bridges we have to cross once we are on US 441. We’ll scout them carefully before we commit.”
Raych gave his arm a squeeze as she passed. Her small smile said she understood. These small stops kept them human. They reminded everyone that beauty and history still existed even now.
With hours of daylight left and a secure enough spot, Jack decided the time had come for something better than MREs. He hauled out the green Coleman stove and set to work. From his magic go boxes he pulled a bag of Rancho Gordo Flageolets. Small beans. Pale green. They cooked up creamy with a mild grassy sweetness that lifted the spirit.
He added chicken bouillon cubes for depth, a good shake of garlic powder, and the prize: a nine-ounce can of Armour ham. The meat would render rich flavor into the pot. Soon the savory aroma drifted across the church lot. It mixed with the humid air and the faint scent of moss from the oaks.
Mikey wandered over, nose high. “That smells way better than anything we’ve had on the road.”
Sarah smiled despite herself. “Jack’s got the touch. Even out here.”
Grok spoke again from the rig. “I observe the preparation. The process requires significant time and resources compared to MREs. Why undertake it when caloric efficiency is lower?”
Tom chuckled deep in his chest. “Because it ain’t just fuel, Grok. It’s a meal. It’s sitting down together. It’s remembering we’re still people.”
Jack stirred the pot with care. The beans bubbled gently. He thought about the church behind them. About the rituals that had kept families going through hard times long before The Cough. Hot food mattered. Good coffee mattered. These small acts pushed back against the dark.
Raych brought over mugs of percolator coffee. The rich smell cut through the humidity like a promise. They ate around the vehicles as evening settled. Rifles close at hand. The beans proved perfect. Creamy. Satisfying. The ham added just the right salt and depth. For a little while the weight of the road lifted.
Mikey scraped his plate clean. “Best dinner yet. Even better than the rest stop.”
Jack allowed himself a rare grin. “We’ll need the strength tomorrow. Fargo won’t be empty. And that bridge could be trouble.”
As night fell they set watches. The church stood quiet sentinel over their camp. Its simple lines spoke of endurance. Jack took first shift, sitting on the hood of the 4Runner. His Wilson Combat in its holster, his rifle near at hand. A warm coffee mug in hand. The cicadas sang on. It was almost like the days before The Day.
And then somewhere in the distance Jack noticed a faint glow that marked another column of smoke on the horizon.
The swamp had been safety for a time. The road tested them daily. But tonight, with full bellies and solid company, they were staying human.
Tomorrow they would face whatever waited in Georgia.
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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