Bougie Apocalypse
Chapter 5: Swampfall
The deeper we pushed into the swamp, the more the world felt like it was trying to forget us.
By the second night we found a decent piece of higher ground — not much, just a small hammock ringed by water and thick cypress. It would do. We backed the 4Runner in tight and the dad of the new group did a decent job positioning his truck. He was shaping up okay for not being ex-military or a “prepper.” After we got a perimeter set with the trucks and the stand of trees, we could all take a breather tonight, I hoped.
The three strangers — Tom, his daughter Sarah, and the kid they called Mikey — stuck close but not too close. They helped drag fallen branches for a fire line and never argued when we told them where to sleep. Small mercies.
My wife stayed up with me for a bit, chatting, as I started the first watch of the night. The percolator was already working its magic again, the familiar glug-glug cutting through the frog noise and occasional gator splash.
She handed me a cup, steam rising in the moonlight. “You really think we can make something here?”
You took a slow sip, letting the bitterness ground you. “Not yet. But we’ve got coffee, a little ham and beans left, and three extra sets of eyes. That’s more than we had two days ago.”
She nodded toward the strangers’ makeshift camp. “They’re scared. Especially the kid. But they’re not stupid.”
“Neither are we,” you said. “We keep one of us awake at all times. No exceptions. The Cough took the world fast. I don’t plan on letting it take what’s left of us the same way. Tom and Sarah seem solid enough — with a bit more trust and a little training they can start standing watch too.”
She gave a soft snort. “Explains why you had the go-boxes packed tighter than most people’s bug-out bags.”
“Damn right,” you said, adding a pinch of salt. “Years of watching the news and thinking ‘what if the experts are wrong this time?’ Turns out mild paranoia pays better than blind trust.”
The percolator bubbled. The ham and beans simmered. For a few precious minutes the night felt almost civilized.
Then another moan rose, closer this time.
Your wife stood first, 1911 already in hand. You followed, Wilson Combat coming up smooth.
The strangers tensed behind you.
You kept your voice low and steady. “Welcome to the new normal. We protect the coffee, the beans, and each other. Everything else is negotiable.”
Your wife gave a soft laugh, eyes scanning the darkness. “And if they get too close…”
You finished the thought without missing a beat.
“…we shoot the Walker and go back to the beans.”
The percolator kept bubbling.
The night kept watching.
And for the first time since The Cough broke the world, you had the faint, dangerous feeling that you might actually be building something again.
Even if it started with bad coffee, half-decent ham and beans, and strangers you still didn’t quite trust.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
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