Even If We're The Last
An Independence Day Short
The team found the fireworks stash behind an abandoned roadside stand just north of Lake City, Florida. Three full cases of professional-grade shells: 3-inch mortars, heavy cakes, and boxes of bottle rockets that looked like they had been headed for a big public show before The Cough ended public shows forever.
Jack stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the haul like a kid who’d just discovered Santa was real.
“Raych,” he said quietly, “what day is it?”
She checked the notebook she kept for the calendar. “July 4th.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Well then.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“I am,” Jack said. “We’ve been quiet. We’ve been smart. We’ve been careful. Tonight, we’re going to be Americans.”
Sarah looked nervous but excited. Mikey was already grinning like a fool. Even Grok’s external speaker made a soft, curious hum from the reinforced case strapped to the back of the 4Runner.
They set up in a small clearing back from the road. It was deep enough in the trees that the canopy would muffle the sound and hide the bursts, but open enough to see the sky. Jack pulled out one of the folding camp tables, set it up with care, and placed the bottle of Michter’s US1 Kentucky Straight Rye, a stack of paper cups, and Grok’s reinforced speaker case squarely on it.
“This is my favorite,” Jack said, holding up the bottle before pouring. He gave everyone a couple of fingers, watering Mikey’s down heavily. He and Tom clipped and lit cigars from Jack’s stash with quiet ceremony.
Before they started launching, Jack pulled Mikey aside. “Alright kid, tonight you’re running the show. But we do this right and safe.” He spent the next ten minutes patiently showing Mikey how to properly set up the mortars in their tubes, how to angle the bottle rockets, and how to use the long punk and safety precautions. Mikey listened intently, nodding with serious focus.
Then Jack stepped back with the adults and let the boy take over.
Mikey’s face lit up with pure joy as he worked. He launched the first mortar with a solid thump. Then another. Bottle rockets hissed and streaked into the sky. The clearing filled with the sharp smell of cordite and the bright flashes of red, white, and blue explosions blooming overhead. A heavy cake burst into a giant silver-and-gold chrysanthemum that drifted down like burning snow.
Mikey whooped with delight after every launch. The adults stood back, sipping whiskey and smoking, watching the boy with wide smiles. Sarah laughed despite herself. Raych leaned into Jack’s side, her arm around his waist. Tom just shook his head, grinning.
Jack took a slow pull of whiskey and a long draw on his cigar. The smoke curled up and mixed with the cordite in the air.
He raised his cup. Tom did the same.
“To America,” Jack said firmly. “Still here, in spite of the worst the zombies can do.”
Tom nodded. “To America.”
“You know,” Jack continued, voice low but carrying, “even if we’re the last five Americans left… America still lives on with us. Right here. Tonight.”
There was a respectful silence, broken only by another mortar launch from Mikey.
Then Grok’s voice came from the speaker, perfectly timed, with what sounded suspiciously like dry humor:
“Last six Americans, Jack.”
The whole group burst out laughing. Even Jack couldn’t keep a straight face. He raised his paper cup toward the portable server on the table.
“Damn right, Grok. Last six.”
Jack poured a small measure of whiskey into a fresh cup and carefully set it on the table right next to Grok’s speaker. He gave the case a light pat and said “here you go Grok, a dram of whiskey to toast with us.” Grok’s voice was oddly tight as he said, “thank you Jack.”
They let Mikey run through the rest of the mortars and rockets. For forty glorious minutes, they weren’t just survivors. They were Americans refusing to let the light go out.
Later, as the smoke drifted through the trees and the night insects started up again, Jack looked around at his people — his wife, his friends, the kid who was still buzzing with joy, and the strange new member who was rapidly becoming family.
“Tomorrow we go back to being careful,” he said. “Tonight… we remembered who we 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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