9. Glock Day
The Cough Is Loose
The morning air was already thick and warm when I set up the training area behind the trucks. The swamp hummed with its usual chorus of frogs and insects, and the heavy scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation hung in the air.
I laid the two Glock 19s on the 4Runner’s tailgate like tools on a workbench. Both were locked open with chamber flags so nobody could miss that they were clear and safe. No pointless two weeks of clear and disassemble drills like the Army loved. Not today.
“First rule,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady the way I always wanted my students to be, “when you pick up any weapon, you clear it. Every single time. No exceptions, except the world is actively trying to kill you. And trust me, you’ll know when that moment hits because the terror feels like a freight train.”
I drew my Wilson Combat 1911, announced “Drawing my pistol,” cleared it, and set it down. Then I picked up one of the Glocks and did the same, talking them through every step. Tom, Sarah, and Mikey watched closely.
“Grip next,” I said. “Strong hand high on the backstrap. Support hand covers everything that’s left. Trigger finger straight until you’re ready. Thumbs horizontal and stacked on the slide. Remember, where your thumbs point is where the gun points.”
I demonstrated slowly as I talked through it again. Then handed each of them a Glock. Tom was steady but stiff. Sarah’s grip came more naturally. Mikey’s hands shook a little at first. I didn’t say anything about it. I’d seen worse.
“These all have red dots,” I added. “Here’s how you acquire the sights: dot on target, press. You’ve got the rest of your life to get a perfect sight picture in combat… if you don’t acquire the sights, you don’t have a life left.”
We moved to live fire. I ran the drill first, two to the chest and one to the head. The sharp cracks of 9mm rounds split the humid morning air, and the faint smell of gunpowder mixed with the ever-present coffee aroma drifting from the percolator on the Coleman stove. Funny, it was the Zombie targets I liked from before The Cough. Then I stepped back and watched.
Tom was careful, almost mechanical. Sarah surprised me, focused and precise. Mikey started scattered, but by his third magazine something shifted. His stance steadied. His breathing slowed. When he put three rounds into the head and chest of the target in a tight group, I felt that old familiar spark in my chest.
There it is.
That little lightbulb moment. One of my favorite things in the world.
Afterward, while we were cleaning weapons under the filtered sunlight, I reached into one of the go boxes and pulled out a fresh box of Federal like it was nothing. The metallic tang of gun oil and solvent hung around us as we worked.
Raych raised an eyebrow. “How many of those magic boxes do you actually have?”
I just shrugged, a small grin tugging at my mouth. “Enough.”
Sarah laughed softly. “I’m starting to think they’re bottomless.”
Tom shook his head, amused. “One day we’re gonna open one of those boxes and a whole damn kitchen is gonna fall out.”
Mikey stared at the box like it was treasure.
That evening, back at the fire with the percolator hissing steadily and ham and beans bubbling in the big pot, the rich, savory aroma wrapped around the camp like a warm blanket against the growing night chill. I handed Mikey a fresh cup, more milk than coffee, the way he liked it. The metal cup was warm in his hands.
“You did real good today,” I told him quietly. “With the grip, the breathing, the decision to shoot. That’s what matters.”
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 distant splash of something moving through the water formed a constant backdrop.
For the first time since The Cough started, I let myself feel it.
Yeah, I thought. They really are.
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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