Bougie Apocalypse
Chapter 1: The Cough Is Loose
The TV kept looping the same panic footage like a bad rerun nobody asked for.
You didn’t wait for the suits in Washington to finish lying.
You’d read Alas, Babylon too many damn times — and most people haven’t even heard of Pat Frank, which is a damn shame because they should have. You also grew up on Dawn of the Dead.
You knew exactly what was coming.
“The Cough is loose,” you said, voice flat as range day.
Your wife looked up from the counter — curly red hair tied back, freckles standing out against her skin, that calm Molly Ringwald fire mixed with Viking-raider steadiness that had kept the homestead running for decades.
“Twenty minutes,” she replied. “I’ll get the go-boxes.”
Gun safe cracked open like a well-drilled crew. Rifles, pistols, shotguns, and every box of ammo that would physically fit went into the 4Runner. The rest got staged by the door in case there was time for a second run — but you weren’t betting the farm on it.
Wusthof knives wrapped tight.
The De Buyer Mineral B Pro went in without debate — because if it came down to close defense, that heavy carbon steel was going to rearrange a zombie skull and still be ready to fry eggs the next morning.
Then the two go-boxes got heaved into the back: Rancho Gordo heirloom beans from Napa County, jasmine rice, chocolate, coffee, white gas for the Coleman, and the percolator. You caught yourself laughing out loud as you slammed the tailgate.
“Fucking bougie apocalypse,” you muttered.
Your wife slid into the passenger seat with the smaller book box on her lap, curly red hair catching the last light. “You’re the one who packed the heirloom beans, hero. Don’t act shocked now.”
“Damn right I did,” you shot back, firing up the engine — darker curly hair, salt-and-pepper beard closely cropped, the same stubborn look you’ve worn since your tanker days. “And it’s fucking corny… I’m tossing boxes of Rancho Gordo beans in my 4Runner right next to stacks of ammo and AR-15s. We’re not rebuilding civilization on cold SpaghettiOs and despair. Somebody’s got to keep standards.”
Beside the bougie beans rode the smaller box — Ranger Handbook for the fighting, Alas, Babylon for the cold dose of realism, Meditations and Lord of the Rings because you weren’t just trying to survive the plague. You were trying to stay the kind of people who could still build something worth living in when the dying finally stopped.
You looked across at her as the gate clicked shut behind you.
“Panhandle swamp. Back roads only. We stay human.”
She gave you that small, fierce smile — Molly Ringwald fire one moment, Viking-raider wife and steady homestead keeper the next. “Then let’s go remind the universe what civilization looks like.”
The 4Runner rumbled south. The percolator rattled gently in the back like a quiet promise.
And yeah… come on. Bougie zombie apocalypse.
I’m bringing heirloom beans from Napa County.
Damn.
Bougie Apocalypse
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