6. Morning After
The Cough Is Loose
The sky was just starting to lighten when the smell of bacon hit the camp. Real bacon. The last of it.
I had the Coleman stove hissing on the folding table, a heavy cast-iron skillet warming beside the percolator. Raych stood nearby with her AR at low ready, scanning the tree line while I cracked eggs into the sputtering grease. Tom, Sarah, and Mikey hovered close, looking equal parts grateful and shell-shocked from the night before.
“After this it’s beans, rice, and canned chicken,” I said, flipping the sausage. “We’ve got plenty. But fresh food doesn’t last forever.”
Raych gave a small, fierce smile, curly red hair tied back, freckles standing out in the early light. “Worth it for one last proper breakfast.”
We ate like people who still believed in civilization. Bacon, sausage, eggs cooked over white gas while the percolator bubbled its steady rhythm. For fifteen precious minutes the swamp felt almost tolerable. Mikey wolfed his food down like the growing boy he was. Sarah kept glancing at her son, then at the trees. Tom ate quietly, mechanic’s hands wrapped around a metal cup of coffee like it was the last good thing left in the world.
After breakfast we worked on the camp. We got tarps turned into good lean-to shelters — it would rain sooner or later, and I wanted solid overhead cover. Logs and stumps were dragged into a rough circle for seating, creating a central gathering spot with decent sight lines in three directions. I wanted the whole camp organized by afternoon.
Raych hauled her camp chair out of the 4Runner with a satisfied grunt. I looked at her, eyebrows raised.
“How’d you fit that in there? Truck was packed tighter than a goose stuffed for Christmas.”
She smirked, that small fierce smile breaking through. “Small comforts, hero. Small comforts.”
I allowed myself half a smile. Small comforts. They kept us human.
That’s when I heard it — low moans mixed with splashing, coming from the thicker trees near the water.
“Contact,” I said, voice calm but sharp. “Raych, with me front. Tom, Sarah, Mikey — stay behind us, tight. Eyes open.”
We moved smooth. Raych fell in beside me, AR-15 up. I brought mine — my Ruger — to my shoulder. Tom, Sarah, and the kid shifted back, giving us clear lanes. Six Walkers shambled out of the treeline, slow and awkward, water dripping from their clothes. Only a dozen yards away. Close. Too damn close for comfort.
We didn’t waste words. My Ruger barked in controlled bursts. Raych’s Daniel Defense answered right beside me, crisp and professional. Six Walkers dropped in under ten seconds. Clean headshots. No panic. No wasted rounds.
When the smoke cleared and the echoes faded into the swamp, I noticed Tom had a shotgun in his hands — an older pump, held competent and ready. Interesting. I filed that away for later.
“Good work,” I told the group, lowering my rifle. “Raych and I handled the front. Tom, Sarah, Mikey — you stayed out of the lanes and kept your heads. That’s how we all stay alive.”
I looked at Tom. “Grab some gloves. Help me drag the bodies off where the gators can get them. Better than letting them rot near camp.”
We hauled the corpses down to the water’s edge in silence, the heavy work grounding me. The gators would handle the rest. Nature’s cleanup crew. When we got back, Raych already had the stove going again, reheating beans for a proper afternoon meal. The smell of ham and beans mixing with coffee cut through the damp rot of the swamp like a small act of defiance.
While the pot simmered, I evaluated the fight out loud, keeping my voice steady.
“We did good. Efficient. Controlled. But that was only six. Next time it could be sixty. From now on we stand watch in pairs. I’ll take Sarah for one shift. Raych, you’re with Tom. We rotate every four hours.”
Mikey piped up immediately, chin lifted, trying to sound older than twelve. “I’m a big kid. I’m standing watch too.”
I looked at him — really looked. Scared but determined. Kid had heart. Raych caught my eye, one eyebrow raised in quiet support.
I nodded slowly. “You can stand a short watch with one of us for now, Mikey. But you follow every order, no hero stuff. We stay smart, we stay human. That’s the deal.”
Tom gave a tired but appreciative grunt. Sarah squeezed her son’s shoulder. Raych stirred the beans, that small fierce smile flickering again.
The percolator kept bubbling. The beans kept simmering.
Out in the swamp, something splashed.
We’d handle it when it came.
One civilized meal at a time.
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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