The morning after the scrap felt almost normal.
You had everyone behind the trucks where the ground was drier, empty bean cans lined up on a fallen log. The Remington 870 tactical rested easy in your hands, synthetic stock still cool. Sunlight cut through the cypress like it was trying to pretend the world hadn’t ended.
“Again,” you 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. You 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 you’d rigged up. The kid was nervous but trying hard. As he shouldered it, something flickered in your chest — a quick flash of being ten years old in 1986, learning on that odd little Mossberg .410 bolt-action your dad had. Single shot, heavy bolt, the quiet click as you worked it. That strange gun had taught you patience before you ever touched anything faster. Mikey would learn shotgun on the Mossberg 500 pump your dad bought for you in 1988.
Tom stood behind Mikey, weathered hands ready to steady if needed.
Raych leaned against the 4Runner, sipping coffee from a metal cup, watching you watch them. That small proud smile said she already knew what you were thinking.
By the time the sun was high you 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.
You kept the Remington 870 close. That one was yours — almost as dear as Raych. Instead you 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 your 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.”
You chuckled low, spooned out ham and beans for everyone, and passed the hot sauce. The strangers were turning into the core group faster than you’d expected.
Night settled in thick and humid.
Percolator hissed. Ham and beans bubbled low. Firelight danced against the cypress. You sat on the stump, Wilson Combat 1911 holstered, Ruger AR across your 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. You and Raych dropped the last two with quiet, controlled pairs.
“Clear,” Sarah said, voice steady.
You 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.
You and Raych dragged the bodies while the others kept watch. When you got back, the beans were still warm.
You accepted the steaming cup Raych handed you and looked at the little group around the fire.
“Evaluation,” you 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 you 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, then the bigger one that meant she was proud. “Told you civilization waits for the shotgun too.”
You 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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