16. Rain, Rituals, and Bonds
Staying Human
The convoy pushed north on US 441 after leaving Fargo. The drone hummed ahead providing cover while Raych studied the map and talked quietly with Grok. They agreed on a promising stop just off the two-lane highway. Superior Berries. It sat only thirteen miles up the road, well within the drone’s range.
The turn came at a gravel road that branched left off US 441 and GA 89. They followed it a quarter mile back through a stand of tall loblolly pines. The farm appeared modest: a single large warehouse-style building, a couple of berry-hauling trucks parked nearby, and one burned-out farm vehicle with the faded words “Superior Berries” still visible on the door.
Jack guided them to the far side of the main building. The trucks formed their familiar defensive triangle. Tarps went up for lean-to shelters. Camp tables appeared. The green Coleman stove came out along with the percolator. Soon the savory smell of beans cooking and fresh coffee filled the air.
While Jack tended the pot, Tom and Raych took watch positions. Mikey, with Sarah guarding close behind, grabbed a couple of buckets and headed toward the nearest blueberry field. The bushes still carried clusters of ripe fruit. The boy’s hands quickly turned blue as he picked. Sarah kept her Mossberg ready and scanned the tree line. The sweet, earthy scent of fresh berries mixed with the pine air. They returned with two full buckets. Dessert secured.
As evening settled, Grok’s prediction proved right. A storm rolled in. Rain began to patter on the tarps and drum against the metal roof of the warehouse. Thunder rumbled low in the distance. Jack took one look at the weather and shook his head.
“We stay put tomorrow,” he announced. “No sense pushing north in this mess.”
The rain turned the world soft and gray. It drummed steadily on the vehicles and made the pines sway. Inside their sheltered circle the fire burned bright in a protected pit. The warmth pushed back the damp. Mikey sat close to the portable rig with a deck of cards and his bucket of berries.
“Alright, Grok,” Mikey said with a grin. “We’ll start simple. Go Fish.”
Grok’s voice came warm and curious from the speaker. “I understand the rules. However, you will need to describe my hand to me, Mikey. I lack visual sensors on this platform. Please do so without revealing your own cards.”
Mikey laughed as he carefully described Grok’s cards while trying to keep his own hidden. The game quickly turned hilarious. Grok asked precise questions about suits and numbers. Mikey fumbled through descriptions, trying hard not to give away too much information. Raych and Sarah joined in at the next table. Their laughter mixed with the steady rain. Even Jack found himself smiling as he stirred the pot of beans.
Later they gathered closer around the fire. The flames crackled and popped. The rich smell of coffee and slow-cooked beans wrapped around them like a blanket. Fresh blueberries topped the warm beans for dessert. Jack passed out cigars to Tom. The older Marine accepted his with a nod.
Grok’s voice carried over the rain. “I observe the ritual. My data indicates that one cigar per week, or less, presents no serious health concerns. Still, I wonder. Why introduce smoke into your lungs when it provides no nutritional value?”
Tom lit his cigar and took a slow draw. The fragrant smoke curled upward. “It ain’t about the smoke, Grok. It’s about the fire. The coffee. The company. These are the things that remind us we’re still human. Still brothers.”
Raych leaned against Jack’s shoulder. Sarah told stories from before The Cough. Mikey added his own memories of school and video games. The rain fell harder outside their circle, but inside the warmth held. Bonds grew stronger with every shared laugh and quiet tale.
Grok listened carefully. After a time he spoke again. “I have monitored the Instapundit backup site. There are new comments answering Glenn. They appear genuine. It seems there may be a dozen or so people active. At least two different sites. They clearly have Starlink running in some fashion.”
Jack nodded slowly. The news settled warm in his chest. “That’s something. Real people. Still holding on.”
He and Grok spent a few minutes planning the next day’s route. About eighty-five miles on side roads to the small town of Hazelhurst. Safe paths. Possible stops. The rain continued its steady rhythm on the tarps.
Mikey dealt another hand. Grok attempted a small joke. “I believe I have what humans call ‘a good hand.’ Or perhaps I am simply bluffing. You will have to guess.”
The group burst into laughter. Even Jack chuckled deep in his chest. The fire crackled higher for a moment. The smell of cigars mixed with coffee, beans, and sweet blueberries. Outside the storm raged, but inside their small circle they held tight to what mattered.
Family. Stories. Rituals.
The road north could wait one more day. Tonight they strengthened the bonds that kept them 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.
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