BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 12: First Watch
The crew stands guard
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The rain finally eased off sometime after midnight, leaving the swamp dripping and the air thick with the smell of wet earth and cypress.
I’d set the first real watch rotation that evening. One strong team member with one still learning — that was the rule. I paired myself with Sarah for the first shift, Raych with Tom for the second, and Tom with Mikey for the last hour before dawn (with me awake and listening from the 4Runner, just in case).
Sarah and I took the first watch. The two of us stood back-to-back near the edge of the clearing, listening to the night sounds slowly return after the storm. The percolator was still warm on the Coleman stove, a fresh pot of coffee keeping watch with us.
Sarah was quiet at first, then asked, “How do you know when someone’s ready?”
I handed her a cup. “When they stop thinking about being ready and just do the job.”
A little after 0200 we handed off to Raych and Tom. I crawled into the back of the 4Runner and slept lightly, one ear still tuned to the night.
Just before dawn I heard the low murmur of Tom’s voice and Mikey’s softer reply. I stayed lying down but fully awake, 1911 close at hand, listening.
A single shot cracked the quiet.
I was up and moving before the echo faded, Raych right behind me. Sarah was already on her feet.
Tom stood at the edge of the clearing, shotgun still raised. Mikey was crouched low beside him, eyes wide but holding his Glock steady.
“One Walker,” Tom said calmly. “Came straight out of the mist. Mikey spotted it first, called it out clear.”
I looked at the boy. He was pale, breathing fast, but his hands were steady.
“Good eyes,” I told him. “Good call. You did exactly what we trained.”
Sarah exhaled, lowering her pistol. “He stayed calm. Just like you showed him.”
I gave a single nod. “That’s how we do it.”
The sky was just starting to lighten when we all gathered back under the main tarp. The percolator was hissing again. I poured fresh cups while Raych stirred a pot of rice and canned chicken left over from the night before.
Tom sat down heavily, shotgun across his knees. “First time I’ve stood watch with a kid since I was running night patrols with young Marines… back during Desert Storm and Somalia.”
The words hung in the damp air. No one pushed.
I thought to myself, “Yeah, I figured he’d done more than just march around Camp LeJeune.”
Mikey looked up from his coffee. “Did I do okay?”
“You did better than okay,” I said. “You stayed calm, you followed the drill, and you let Tom take the shot when it counted. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
Sarah reached over and squeezed her son’s shoulder, pride and relief mixing on her face.
As the sun finally broke through the trees, I looked around the little circle — Tom cleaning his shotgun with slow, practiced strokes, Sarah checking the Mossberg, Mikey carefully wiping down his Glock the way I’d shown him. Raych leaned against my shoulder, her small fierce smile back in place.
The percolator hissed. The rice and chicken warmed on the stove.
For the first time since they’d joined us, it felt like a real crew standing guard together.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
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Jack Harlan’s adventures continue right here for now, but the official home for the whole Bougie Apocalypse series is moving.
Come find us at JackHarlanStories.com and BougieApocalypse.com — same beans, same bullets, same stubborn civilization.