Executive Protection
A Bougie Apocalypse Short
The White House Situation Room had gone from tense to something far worse in under twenty minutes. The air grew thick with the sharp bite of gunpowder and the copper stink of fresh blood. Overhead lights flickered as staffers coughed, collapsed, and then rose again with eyes gone wrong. Screams echoed down the marble hallways like something torn straight out of hell.
Agent Mike Callahan, lead of the Presidential detail, put three rounds into the first infected aide who lunged at the President. The shots cracked loud in the confined space. Hot brass clattered across the polished floor. Then another infected came, and another. Callahan kept firing.
“Evac plan Bravo,” he barked, voice steady over the chaos. “Marine One on the lawn. Move!”
They fought their way down the long corridor, the President in the middle, calm but pale under the emergency lighting. This President had spent a little time in bad places with the Marine Corps years ago. It showed.
Secret Service agents dropped one by one, torn apart by what used to be White House staff, press secretaries, even a few interns in business suits. The wet sounds of teeth tearing into flesh mixed with the roar of gunfire and desperate shouts.
Callahan took a bite to the forearm during the melee. Pain burned hot up his arm, but he kept firing, his suit jacket already soaked with blood that wasn’t all his own. The bite throbbed with ugly heat.
As they burst out onto the South Lawn, the cool night air hit them like a slap. Marine One’s rotors were already spinning, whipping up grass and the faint smell of jet fuel. The President looked back at the building that had been his home and office for years, lights blazing from broken windows.
Callahan shoved him toward the helicopter. “Go, sir!”
The last thing Callahan saw before the helo lifted off was a wave of infected pouring out of the West Wing doors, still wearing suits and press badges, moving with hideous speed across the lawn. Their snarls carried on the wind.
He looked down at the bite on his forearm, already swelling and angry. Then he looked up at the climbing helicopter one last time.
“Stay human, sir,” he muttered. “At least for as long as you can.”
Callahan turned, raised his pistol, and walked back toward the wave of infected with steady steps. The night air felt cold against his sweating skin. The rotors faded into the distance as the first snarls grew louder.
The capital was already burning.
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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