BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 8: Shotgun Day
The shotgun finds its new owner
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The morning after the scrap felt almost normal.
I had everyone behind the trucks where the ground was drier, old empty cans I found in the tree stand were lined up on a fallen log. The Remington 870 tactical rested easy in my hands, synthetic stock still cool. Sunlight cut through the cypress like it was trying to pretend the world hadn’t ended.
“Again,” I said quietly. “Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.”
Sarah worked the pump like she’d been listening. Solid. Deliberate. The big 12-gauge bucked once and a can flew off the log. I watched her stance, her eyes, the way she kept her finger straight until the moment she needed it. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Mikey went next with the little .410 I’d rigged up. The kid was nervous but trying hard. As he shouldered it, something flickered in my chest — a quick flash of being ten years old in 1986, learning on that odd little Mossberg .410 bolt-action my dad had. Single shot, heavy bolt, the quiet click as I worked it. That strange gun had taught me patience before I ever touched anything faster. Mikey would learn shotgun on the Mossberg 500 pump my dad bought for me in 1988.
Tom stood behind Mikey, weathered hands ready to steady him if needed.
Raych leaned against the 4Runner, sipping coffee from a metal cup, watching me watch them. That small proud smile said she already knew what I was thinking.
By the time the sun was high I had a pretty clear picture. Tom was steady with a shotgun — old habit from years of hunting. Sarah had good instincts and even better focus. Mikey was green but calm under pressure. None of them were liabilities.
I kept the Remington 870 close. That one was mine — almost as dear as Raych. Instead I handed Sarah the Mossberg 590. “This one’s yours for night watch from now on. Simple. Reliable. One pump, one problem. You earned it.”
She took it like it was something sacred. “Thank you.”
Raych topped off my cup from the percolator still hissing on the Coleman. “Civilization waits for no one,” she said softly, “but it sure as hell waits for proper training and proper beans.”
I chuckled low, spooned out ham and beans for everyone, and passed the hot sauce. The strangers were turning into the core group faster than I’d expected.
Night settled in thick and humid.
The percolator hissed. Ham and beans bubbled low. Firelight danced against the cypress. I sat on the stump, Wilson Combat 1911 holstered, Ruger AR across my lap, Remington 870 resting nearby like an old friend. Raych leaned against a tree, her AR low ready. Sarah had the Mossberg 590 cradled like she meant it. Tom and Mikey stayed close to the fire.
The splashing came slower this time, almost hesitant.
“Company,” Raych murmured.
Four Walkers drifted out of the mist.
Sarah stepped forward without being told. The 590 came up smooth.
BOOM.
The first one’s head snapped back. She pumped, stepped, BOOM. Second one dropped clean. Raych and I dropped the last two. The Remington did a zombie nicely.
“Clear,” Sarah said, voice steady.
I swept the treeline once more. Nothing.
“Check yourselves.”
No bites. No scratches. Just the heavy echo of the 590 still hanging in the wet air.
Sarah’s hands trembled slightly when she lowered the shotgun, but her eyes were bright. Mikey stared at her like she’d grown ten feet tall. Tom gave a slow nod of approval.
Raych and I dragged the bodies while the others kept watch. When we got back, the beans were still warm.
I accepted the steaming cup Raych handed me and looked at the little group around the fire.
“Evaluation,” I said calmly. “Sarah, that 590 ran like it was made for you tonight. Good stance, good eyes, good follow-through. Tom, you’re solid backup. Mikey, you stayed calm and out of the way — that matters more than you know. We’re turning into a team.”
Right then I decided it was time.
“Tomorrow we start handgun work. Glock 19s. Grip, sight picture, trigger press. The rifles are loud and they run out of ammo. Pistols work even if the rifle is dry.”
Raych gave her small fierce smile, the one that seemed to be reserved for dead Walkers, then the bigger one that meant she was proud. “Told you civilization waits for the shotgun too.”
I spooned out fresh bowls of ham and beans and passed the hot sauce.
“Damn right it does. Eat up. World’s still ending tomorrow… but we’re ending it slower.”
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.