BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 15: Tom’s Shotgun
An old Winchester tells its story
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The next morning broke clear and warm. After breakfast — rice with the last of the canned chicken and a sprinkle of seasoning — I nodded toward Tom.
“You mentioned an old hunting shotgun the other night. Mind if I see it?”
Tom gave a slow nod and walked over to his truck. He pulled out a long soft case, unzipped it, and brought the gun over like it was made of glass. It was a beautiful old Winchester Model 12, 12-gauge with the heavy duck barrel. The wood was worn smooth from decades of use, the bluing still dark in places.
He cleared it properly — finger off the trigger, action open — and handed it to me.
“Inherited it from my dad,” Tom said quietly. “He bought it sometime in the early sixties, right before I was born. Used it for ducks mostly. Said it was the best gun he ever owned. I’ve carried it since he passed.”
I turned it over in my hands, appreciating the balance and the way the pump action still felt tight after all these years. “Beautiful piece. Reliable as hell.”
“Always has been,” Tom said.
We ran some dry drills first. He was rusty on the little things but rock-solid on the fundamentals. When we moved to live fire, he put three rounds of Federal 00 Buck into a stump at twenty yards with authority. The heavy barrel soaked up the recoil and the old gun ran like it was brand new.
Mikey watched with wide eyes. “That’s a lot louder than the Glock.”
Tom gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. But sometimes loud is what you need.”
Later, while we were cleaning weapons, Raych asked the question gently.
“Do you have any other kids besides Sarah?”
I felt a quick pang of guilt. I’d already known the answer from the quiet conversation Tom and I had by the fire the other night, but in all the training and movement and chaos I’d completely forgotten to tell her.
Tom was quiet for a long moment, running a bore snake through the Winchester.
“Two boys,” he finally said. “Ryan and Matt. Ryan’s a Marine Staff Sergeant. Matt’s a teacher… was a teacher. Both called me the first day things got bad. Ryan tried to sound like everything was under control. Matt was scared for his wife and little girl.” He looked down at the shotgun in his hands. “Haven’t heard from either of them since.”
The air got thick. I didn’t push. Neither did anyone else.
Raych handed Tom a fresh cup of coffee. “You ever think about going looking for them?”
“Every damn day,” Tom said. “But I don’t even know where to start. And I’ve got Sarah and Mikey right here. Can’t go running off and leave them.”
I nodded slowly. “We’ll keep an ear out. If we hear anything — anything at all — we’ll figure it out together.”
Tom looked at me for a long second, then gave a single nod. “Appreciate that.”
That evening, as the percolator hissed and the pot of rice and beans bubbled away, I watched the group around the fire. Tom sat a little straighter, the old Winchester resting nearby like a trusted companion. Sarah stayed close to Mikey, but her shoulders looked less tense. Raych leaned against my side, her small fierce smile softening into something warmer.
The old world was gone. Families were scattered or lost. But here, under the stars, with hot food and people we trusted, something new was forming.
I took a slow sip of coffee and thought about Ryan and Matt out there somewhere — and about the two boys Tom had lost track of in the chaos.
Civilization, it turned out, wasn’t just about beans and bullets.
It was about the people you could reach and keep together.
I still hate zombies.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #TomsShotgun #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.