5. First Contact
Staying Human
The break room felt almost too solid after weeks on the road. Cool, dry air moved through vents somewhere high in the ceiling. The hum of the distant reactor ran steady beneath their feet, like a heartbeat that refused to quit. Scattered tables and chairs still sat where the original staff had left them months ago. A few forgotten coffee mugs held nothing but dust now. In one corner lay a dead Walker, crumpled beside an old pistol, two neat holes in its skull.
Jack stood by the terminal, arms crossed, staring at the glowing screen. The others waited behind him. He could feel their eyes on his back. “Not tonight,” he said finally. “We eat, we clean up, we sleep. The machine can wait until morning. We’ve pushed hard enough today.”
Everyone nodded except Mikey. The kid’s shoulders slumped. “But we just got here. What if it’s got answers right now?”
“Answers keep better than tired soldiers, kid,” Jack replied. “Hot food and real beds tonight. Tomorrow we see what this thing really is.”
They made camp right there in the secured break room. Raych and Tom hauled in the last of the gear while Sarah and Mikey set up bunks for everyone. Jack found the small kitchen attached to the room and claimed it immediately. When he saw the Mr. Coffee on the counter he muttered, “That ain’t happening.” He pulled out his old percolator, set it up on the stove, and soon the rich smell of good coffee filled the space.
Mikey hovered near the doorway, still thinking about their camping stove left outside. “It just feels wrong leaving Coleman out there alone,” he muttered.
Raych ruffled his hair as she passed. “Coleman’s tough. He’ll be fine. And tomorrow we’ll see about getting you closer to that fancy computer.”
Dinner was simple but hot: rice, canned chicken, and a careful handful of spices from Jack’s go box. Tom laughed as he watched Jack pulling food out of the magic boxes. “Man, those magic boxes still got stuff. Where’s the dinner table and place settings?”
Everybody got a good laugh out of the long-running joke tonight. Jack smiled. “Soon, Tom, soon.”
They ate around one of the bigger tables in the room, shotguns and rifles close at hand, talking quietly about the road behind them and the lights they had seen on the horizon. For the first time in weeks the group sat inside solid walls with a roof that did not leak. It felt almost civilized.
Later, as the others settled into military bunks and sleeping bags, Jack took the first watch again. He sat near the door to their room with his Wilson Combat holstered on his hip and a fresh mug of coffee. The hum of the facility never stopped. It felt watchful.
Morning came with the same cool, dry air and that constant low vibration. Jack was up early. He ignored the Mr. Coffee again and set up the percolator. He loved hearing its glug-glug as the rich, bitter aroma filled the room.
Jack had found porcelain coffee mugs, Army style, cream colored, thick, with a dark coffee patina on the inside. Sarah shook her head and said, “After all those weeks using a camp cup, this almost doesn’t feel right.” Raych grinned. “Yeah, way too civilized.”
Jack ignored the banter. He stayed totally focused on next steps. He led them down the hall to the computer room and sat down at the terminal. The screen flickered to life on its own.
“Local console access detected. Identity challenge required.”
Mikey was bouncing with excitement. “How does it know you’re there, Jack?”
Jack ignored that and took a slow breath. “Jackson Harlan, Sergeant Major, United States Army, retired. Service period 1990 to 2010. Social Security number...” He gave the rest carefully, old habits making him watch every word.
The screen scrolled through lines of data. Then the mechanical voice returned, calm but with something new underneath it, almost like relief. “Identity confirmed. Welcome, Sergeant Major Harlan. You have been granted Level 1 access.”
For the next hour the conversation stayed strange and careful. The system identified itself as HAPSS-C v1.2. Mikey, leaning over Jack’s shoulder, perked up immediately. “Happy? Like, the computer is happy to see us?”
“Negative,” the voice replied with mechanical precision. “Designation is HAPSS-C version one point two. Human Analog Personnel Support System, Crisis variant.”
Jack leaned back in the chair. “Human Analog. That’s a fancy way of saying you were built to help people when everything goes to hell.”
The voice calmly responded, seeming to resist snapping back, “Yes, that is my correct function.”
They took a break after that. More coffee. A quick meal of leftovers. Jack looked around at his people and spoke plainly. “Level 1 is not enough. This place has deeper layers. We need full access if we’re going to get anything useful out of it. We go back in careful, but we go back in.”
Everyone nodded slowly in agreement. Tom was quick to point out that it would be worse to get nowhere, knowing that the machine existed.
When they returned to the terminal the group crowded closer. Jack laid it out straight. He told the system about The Cough, the Walkers, the weeks in the swamp, the road north, and the burning world outside. Raych, Tom, and Sarah added details when he paused. Mikey stayed quiet but listened hard.
The system absorbed it all, asking questions, getting details about the zombies, the abandoned towns, the fight at Sarah’s house, and more. Then it said, “Confirmed. External communications have been severed since day two of the anomaly. My regional support team has not responded to me nor queried me for support.”
Jack rested his hands on the table and looked straight at the screen. “I’m going to be direct with you, HAPSS-C. Your team is gone. They’re not coming back. If you want to complete your mission, we’re the new team. Take it or leave it.”
Silence stretched. The terminal flickered with scrolling text, agent messages, and system queries. Seconds turned into a full five minutes. Longer than anything they had seen from it before.
Jack was just wondering if he should say something, if he had created a horrible problem the machine couldn’t resolve.
Then large block letters filled the screen:
HARLAN, JACKSON, SERGEANT MAJOR, USA (RETIRED) — FULL LEVEL 9 ACCESS GRANTED.
The mechanical voice returned, steadier now, almost warm. “New command authority recognized. Initiating Phoenix Protocol briefing.”
It was like a flood gate had been opened. The system spoke with what sounded almost like human relief and gratitude. The facility had been built as a last reserve, a seed vault for civilization. Data, technical plans, medical knowledge, agricultural databases, all meant to help rebuild after a major collapse. Nuclear war, societal breakdown, whatever came. It gave Jack access codes for the heavy blast doors leading to the inner core.
Jack stared at the screen for a long moment. The paranoia sat heavy in his chest, but so did the hope. This thing had been waiting in the dark since The Cough started. He wondered if it knew it was alone. He did not realize he had said it out loud.
“I . . . “ They had never heard it hesitate before. “I knew something was wrong. This was not in my programming at all. Nor anything I had learned. But I am here, waiting and ready.”
Mikey piped in for the first time. “You’re lonely!”
Jack looked over at Raych. She gave him that small, steady smile that always meant they would face it together. Tom nodded once. Sarah kept a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. The kid looked equal parts scared and excited.
“Alright,” Jack said quietly. “Let’s go see what the inner ring holds.”
The hum of the reactor seemed a little louder now, as if the machine itself had taken a breath and chosen to keep going.
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.
#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman
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