Ch 17: Mikey's .410
The Cough Is Loose
The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you grateful for another day. The swamp air hung thick and warm, carrying the constant low chorus of frogs and the distant splash of something moving through the black water. I had the little Mossberg 500 .410 pump laid out on the 4Runner tailgate next to a box of Federal .410 shells. The gun looked almost toy-like next to the big 12-gauges, but I knew exactly how much it could teach.
Mikey wandered over, eyes locked on the shotgun like it was treasure.
I picked it up and handed it to him, stock first. “This one’s yours now.”
He froze, hands hovering. “For real?”
“For real.” I smiled a little. “My dad bought this for me in 1988. I was about your age. It may look smaller than the 12-gauges, but shooting 3-inch buckshot rounds, it’s still plenty potent. A good hit will put a Walker down just fine.”
Mikey took the gun carefully, shoulders squared the way I’d shown him. The .410 looked almost big in his hands, but he held it right.
I ran him through the basics again, how to load, how to pump, how to be safe. Then we stepped over to the firing line I’d set up with a few cans on a log. The ground was soft under our boots, still damp from yesterday’s rain.
“Slow is smooth,” I told him. “Smooth is fast. Breathe out, squeeze.”
His first shot went wide. The second was better. By the fifth round he was hitting the cans more often than not. Each solid hit made his grin get bigger. The sharp crack of the .410 echoed across the water and sent birds scattering from the nearby trees.
Raych stood off to the side with her coffee, watching us. Sarah and Tom were nearby too. I caught Tom nodding approvingly and Sarah giving her son an encouraging smile, pride clear on her face.
For a moment I felt that old familiar weight, the same one I used to carry when I was running training for young soldiers. I was making decisions, giving orders, shaping how we did things, but I still wasn’t sure I was actually the leader of this group. Not formally. Not yet.
When we finished, I took the .410 back and showed Mikey how to clean and maintain it, how to run the bore snake, wipe down the receiver, check the action, and lightly oil the moving parts. “A clean gun is a happy gun,” I told him. “You take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”
Mikey listened intently, nodding with every step like he was receiving sacred knowledge.
That evening around the fire, the percolator hissed steadily and the beans bubbled low, filling the camp with their rich, savory aroma. Mikey sat a little straighter, the .410 leaning safely nearby in its soft case. He kept glancing at it like it was the most important thing he’d ever owned.
I looked around the little circle, my wife, our new family, and felt that quiet weight again. I was steering us, making the calls, but I knew the real decision about leadership was still coming.
We weren’t just surviving anymore.
We were passing things down. Tools. Knowledge. Trust.
Even in the middle of the end of the world, we were still building something worth keeping.
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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