BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 14: Bean Shortage Scare
Magic boxes aren’t actually magic
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The morning after the first real watch felt almost normal. The rain had stopped, the percolator was hissing away, and I was digging through one of the go boxes looking for the last of the real milk when the math finally caught up with me.
There was just this one carton left and it would be gone today. I set it aside with a sigh and confirmed that there was powdered milk in the right box. There was.
I stood there staring at the inventory I’d made the other day and scribbled on the back of an old range card. Five people. Not two. The “magic boxes” I’d packed for Raych and me to shelter in place for four weeks weren’t going to stretch anywhere near that long anymore. The rice and beans would last a while — dry goods are forgiving — but the fresher stuff was disappearing fast. The last of the real milk and creamer would be gone within a day or two. After that it was powdered milk or black coffee, and I knew how much Raych hated black coffee.
I let out a slow breath.
Raych walked up beside me, wiping her hands on a rag. “You’ve got that look again. The one that says the numbers aren’t lying to you.”
“Five mouths,” I said quietly. “I packed these boxes for two. We’re burning through the easy stuff faster than I planned. Real milk and creamer are basically done.”
She leaned against the 4Runner and crossed her arms. “So what’s the verdict, Sergeant?”
“Rice and beans will carry us. The canned chicken helps. But the luxuries — the fresh milk, the little packets of creamer, the good seasoning — those are going to run dry quick. We’re going to have to get serious about stretching everything.”
Tom wandered over, overhearing the last part. “We’ve been eating pretty good for people running from the end of the world.”
I gave a short laugh. “Yeah. That’s the problem. We’ve been eating like people who still think the grocery store might open back up tomorrow.”
Mikey, who had been pretending not to listen while he cleaned his Glock, looked up. “Are we gonna run out of food?”
“Not run out,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But we’re going to have to get a lot smarter. No more big pots if we don’t need them. Measure everything. Make sure nothing goes to waste.”
Sarah joined the circle, wiping her hands on her pants. “So… no more real creamer after tomorrow?”
I shook my head. “Probably not.”
She actually smiled a little. “Guess we’re all drinking it black from here on out.”
Raych groaned theatrically. “The real tragedy of the apocalypse.”
I reached deeper into the go box and pulled out another sealed bag of rice like a magician producing a rabbit. “Magic box strikes again.”
Tom chuckled. “One of these days you’re gonna open one of those and a whole damn supermarket is gonna fall out.”
We all laughed, but I caught Raych’s eye. She knew the truth. The boxes weren’t actually magic. They were just finite. And we had five people now instead of two.
Later that evening, as the percolator hissed and the pot of rice and canned chicken bubbled away with the last of the good seasoning, I sat back and watched the group.
The old world — with its endless grocery runs and takeout apps and “just run to the store real quick” — was gone.
But we were still here. Still eating hot food. Still making coffee.
Civilization, it turned out, was a lot harder to kill than I’d expected.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #BeanShortageScare #TheCough #StayHuman
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.