7. Beans And Bullets
The Cough Is Loose
The fire was low and steady, just the way I liked it — a controlled bed of coals that wouldn’t throw too much light or smoke. The percolator hissed softly on the Coleman stove, pushing dark, strong coffee through its familiar rhythm. Beside it, the big pot of ham and beans simmered, the rich, savory smell cutting clean through the thick, humid swamp night like a small banner of defiance.
I sat on a stump near the edge of the firelight, Wilson Combat 1911 holstered tight on my hip, eyes scanning the treeline. My hair was still damp from the day’s sweat and the heavy air. The scene felt hauntingly familiar — the wet heat, the constant buzz of insects, the low croak of frogs. It reminded me of those long nights at Fort Stewart years ago, waiting for something that never quite came. Tonight, though, it would.
Raych moved quietly behind me, arranging bedding under the lean-to shelters we’d built that afternoon. Tom poked at the fire with a stick, sending up a brief shower of sparks. Sarah kept one eye on Mikey, who was trying very hard to look like he wasn’t scared. The twelve-year-old was learning fast, but the swamp at night tested everyone.
“Beans almost ready?” Mikey asked, his voice small but hopeful.
“Five minutes,” Raych answered, never taking her eyes off the darkness. “Civilization waits for no one, but it sure as hell waits for proper beans.”
I chuckled softly. Old habits died hard. Even out here in the Panhandle swamp, with the world coughing itself to death, I still guarded the pot and the percolator like they mattered. Because they did. They were proof we hadn’t given up.
We ate in relative quiet, the warm food grounding us after another long day. The beans had that deep, smoky flavor from the last of the ham, and the coffee was bitter perfection. Small comforts. They kept us human.
After dinner, everyone bedded down except for me and Sarah on first watch. She sat nearby on a log, trying not to pace or fidget. Her hands kept flexing around the grip of her borrowed pistol.
“Jack,” she said quietly, “I don’t really know what I’m doing out here, but I’m tense as all get out.”
I nodded, understanding completely. “First time in combat feels like that for everyone. Stay alert, stay calm. We watch together.”
The swamp was alive with its usual night sounds — frogs, distant splashes, the occasional rustle of leaves. Then a branch snapped. Too heavy for a gator. Too deliberate for wind. A second later the low, wet moans drifted through the mist. A lot of them.
“Bad guys inbound,” I whispered, already bringing my Ruger AR-556 to my shoulder. “Wake the others. Quietly.”
Sarah moved fast and smart. Seconds later Raych, Tom, and Mikey were up, weapons in hand. Tom gripped his well-worn shotgun with steady confidence. I made another mental note to inventory his truck and gear tomorrow — there was more to this mechanic than I’d first thought.
Ten or so Walkers shuffled out of the mist like something from a nightmare. More than we’d seen at once since the Cough started. Even more than this morning. For a split second I wondered why they were clustering way out here in the swamp, but there wasn’t time to dwell.
“Steady,” I said, voice low and calm. “Controlled pairs. Make every round count. We work as a team.”
Raych took the left flank with her Daniel Defense, calm and professional. Tom anchored my right with the shotgun. Sarah and Mikey stayed tight behind us, ready to support but out of the lines of fire.
The first volley cracked the night. My Ruger barked twice, shifted, barked again — each round deliberate. Raych’s rifle joined in perfect rhythm beside me. Tom’s old shotgun boomed like thunder, dropping two Walkers that had gotten dangerously close. The recoil, the muzzle flashes, the metallic tang of gunpowder mixing with the swamp rot — it was ugly, loud, and terrifying. But we stayed calm. We stayed together.
When the last Walker dropped, the swamp fell eerily silent except for the ringing in our ears and the heavy breathing of five people who had just survived their first real fight as a group.
I lowered my rifle and did a quick After Action Review out loud. “Good spacing. Good fire discipline. Nobody panicked. Sarah and Mikey, you stayed clear of the shooters. That’s exactly how we all stay alive.”
Raych gave me that small fierce smile, sweat glistening on her freckled face in the firelight. “That was pretty good.”
Tom wiped down the shotgun with a rag, hands steady despite the adrenaline. “First time I’ve pulled the trigger in anger since Desert Storm.” His eyes told the rest of the story — older, quieter battles still lived in him.
Sarah checked on Mikey, who looked pale but determined. The kid had stayed calm and followed every command.
I looked around our little circle — all of us still breathing, still human, still refusing to become savages in the face of the end of the world.
“Coffee,” I said. “Then we police the brass and drag the bodies. Gloves on. Civilization will not be rushed.”
The percolator went back on the Coleman stove. The ham and beans got reheated. Combat had a way of making you hungry again. We sat together in the firelight, spoons scraping metal bowls, the warm food and strong coffee slowly pushing back the adrenaline shakes.
We had just survived our first real fight together.
And for the first time, it felt like we might actually have a chance.
Raych gave that small fierce smile again, freckles dancing in the firelight. “World didn’t end tonight.”
I took a long sip of coffee, then spooned out another bite of ham and beans.
“Damn right it didn’t,” I said. “Pass the hot sauce.”
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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