10. Mama Bear
The Cough Is Loose
The percolator was already hissing on the Coleman stove when the first light filtered through the cypress. I stood nearby with a steaming metal cup in hand, watching the camp wake up. The rich, dark aroma of fresh coffee cut through the heavy, earthy scent of the swamp.
After a quick breakfast of ham and beans, I had everyone out for movement training. Nothing fancy, just the basics.
“Move away from the threat while keeping your weapon on it,” I said, voice calm. “Side step, back step, whatever it takes. Muzzle stays on the target. You lose sight picture, you lose the fight.”
I had them practice with pistols first, then rifles and shotguns. The ground was soft and uneven underfoot, thick with roots and standing water that splashed with every step. Tom was steady. Sarah was sharp. Mikey was trying hard, but I pushed him a little more than the others, not mean, just enough to build real confidence under pressure.
“Again,” I told him. “Keep that muzzle on the bad guy. You moved the gun off target again.”
Sarah’s head snapped up. Her maternal side flared instantly. “He’s twelve, Jack. Ease up.”
The words came out sharper than she probably meant. The air got thick for a moment. Nearby, something large slipped into the water with a heavy splash. An alligator, most likely, disturbed by the sudden tension.
I didn’t snap back. I just took a slow sip of coffee and met her eyes.
Raych stepped in smoothly before it could escalate, her voice warm but firm. “He’s not being hard on the boy, Sarah. He’s trying to keep him alive.” She gave Sarah a small, understanding smile. “We all want the same thing.”
Sarah exhaled, the tension easing a bit. “I know… I just…”
“I get it,” I said quietly. “But if a Walker gets close, hesitation gets people killed. Better to learn it here than out there.”
The rest of the morning passed with more movement drills. Side steps, back steps, keeping the weapon on the threat while the swamp sounds continued around us: constant frog calls, the buzz of insects, and the occasional distant splash. By the time the sun was high and sweat soaked through our shirts, everyone was improving.
Later, as we cleaned weapons and stowed gear, Sarah walked over. “How did you get so good at training people on this stuff anyway?”
I wiped down the Glock 19 and set it aside. “After I from the Army, I transitioned into private security contracting. Spent years protecting high-risk sites and people who couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Eventually I became a full-time firearms instructor. Turns out teaching civilians and contractors how to stay alive under pressure is a skill that pays off in the real world. Especially now.”
Raych inserted herself like I knew she would. “Jack’s downplaying himself Sarah, just like he always does. He retired as a Sergeant Major from the Army, 21 years of service, 5 wars, a couple purple hearts and god knows what else. Then he just kept on going with that same stuff after he retired. He’s the most dangerous man I know.”
Sarah nodded slowly, processing it all. The conversation seemed to settle something in her.
That evening, back at the fire, the percolator hissed steadily and the pot of ham and beans bubbled away. The savory aroma mixed with woodsmoke and the ever-present damp swamp air. I handed Mikey a fresh cup, mostly milk, the way he liked it. The metal cup felt warm against my palm.
“You did good today,” I told him. “Not just the shooting. The movement. That’s what matters. Constantly improving is what keeps us alive out here.”
Raych leaned against my shoulder. Her small fierce smile softened into something warmer as the firelight played across her freckled face.
“They’re coming along,” she said.
I looked around the little circle: Tom poking the fire and sending sparks drifting upward, Sarah carefully cleaning the Mossberg 590A1, Mikey holding his coffee like it was precious. The low croaking of frogs and the gentle lap of water against the bank formed a constant backdrop.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “They are.”
Zombies still suck.
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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