8. Shotgun Day
The Cough Is Loose
The morning after the scrap felt almost normal — if you ignored the distant moans and the constant wet heat pressing in from every side like a living thing.
I had everyone behind the trucks where the ground was drier. Old empty cans I’d scavenged from an abandoned tree stand were lined up on a fallen log like tin soldiers waiting for judgment. The Remington 870 tactical rested easy in my hands, its synthetic stock still cool in the early light. Sunlight filtered through the cypress trees and hanging Spanish moss, throwing dappled patterns across the damp earth. The air already smelled of green rot and distant water.
“Again,” I said quietly. “Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.”
Sarah worked the pump with growing confidence. Solid. Deliberate. The big 12-gauge bucked against her shoulder and a can exploded off the log with a sharp metallic ping. I watched her stance, her eyes, the way she kept her finger straight until the moment of truth. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Mikey went next with the little .410 I’d rigged up. The kid was nervous but trying hard — as he should. As he shouldered it, something flickered in my chest: a quick flash of being ten years old in 1986, learning on that odd little Mossberg .410 bolt-action my dad had given me. Single shot, heavy bolt, the quiet click as I worked it. That strange gun had taught me patience long before I ever touched anything faster. Mikey would learn shotgun on the Mossberg 500 pump my dad bought me in 1988.
Tom stood close behind the boy, weathered mechanic’s hands ready to steady him if needed, offering quiet encouragement between shots.
Raych leaned against the 4Runner, sipping coffee from a metal cup, watching me watch them. That small proud smile of hers said she already knew exactly what I was thinking — and approved.
By the time the sun climbed high and the sweat was running freely down our backs, I had a clear picture. Tom was rock-steady with a shotgun — old hunting habits ran deep. Sarah had good instincts and even better focus. Mikey was green but calm under pressure. None of them were liabilities.
I kept the Remington 870 close — that one was mine, almost as dear as Raych. Instead I handed Sarah the Mossberg 590A1. I liked that gun a lot — tough, reliable, well-designed — but it wasn’t the Remington. “This one’s yours for night watch from now on. Simple. Reliable. One pump, one problem. You earned it.”
She took it like it was something sacred, running her hands over the stock. “Thank you, Jack.”
Raych topped off my cup from the percolator still hissing on the Coleman. “Civilization waits for no one,” she said softly, “but it sure as hell waits for proper training and proper beans.”
I chuckled low, spooned out ham and beans for everyone, and passed the hot sauce. The strangers were turning into the core group faster than I’d expected. It felt… right.
Night settled in thick and humid, the kind of dark that made every shadow feel alive and every splash carry weight.
The percolator hissed. Ham and beans bubbled low on the stove, filling the camp with that deep, comforting aroma. Firelight danced against the cypress trunks and hanging moss. I sat on my usual stump, Wilson Combat 1911 holstered tight, Ruger AR across my lap, Remington 870 resting nearby like an old friend. Raych leaned against a tree, her AR at low ready. Sarah cradled the new Mossberg 590A1 like she meant it. Tom and Mikey stayed close to the fire.
The splashing came slower this time, almost hesitant.
“Company,” Raych murmured.
Four Walkers drifted out of the mist, water dripping from their ruined clothes, eyes catching the firelight with that dead, hungry shine.
Sarah stepped forward without being told. The 590A1 came up smooth.
BOOM.
The first one’s head snapped back. She pumped, stepped, BOOM. The second dropped clean. Raych and I took the last two with quick, controlled shots. The Remington did its job nicely.
“Clear,” Sarah said, voice steady despite the adrenaline.
I swept the treeline once more. Nothing.
“Check yourselves.”
No bites. No scratches. Just the heavy echo of the 590A1 still hanging in the wet air and the faint smell of gunpowder mixing with coffee and beans.
Sarah’s hands trembled slightly when she lowered the shotgun, but her eyes were bright with quiet triumph. Mikey stared at her like she’d grown ten feet tall. Tom gave a slow nod of approval.
Raych and I dragged the bodies while the others kept watch. When we got back, the beans were still warm and the percolator was bubbling again like nothing had happened.
I accepted the steaming cup Raych handed me and looked around at the little group gathered by the fire.
“Evaluation,” I said calmly. “Sarah, that 590A1 ran like it was made for you tonight. Good stance, good eyes, good follow-through. Tom, you’re solid backup. Mikey, you stayed calm and out of the way — that matters more than you know. We’re turning into a team.”
Right then I decided it was time.
“Tomorrow we start handgun work. Glock 19s. Grip, sight picture, trigger press. The rifles are loud and they run out of ammo. Pistols work even when the rifle runs dry.”
Raych gave me that small fierce smile — the one reserved for dead Walkers and proud moments. “Told you civilization waits for the shotgun too.”
I spooned out fresh bowls of ham and beans and passed the hot sauce.
“Damn right it does. Eat up. World’s still ending tomorrow… but we’re ending it slower.”
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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