BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 4: First Strangers
The first people who weren’t trying to eat us
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The swamp edge finally appeared just before dawn — a tangled mess of cypress and black water that looked like it would swallow anything stupid enough to wander in.
We’d been rolling slow for the last hour, headlights off, using moonlight and sheer stubbornness to navigate. The inside of the 4Runner smelled like gun oil, coffee, and the remnants of last night’s ham and beans.
Raych pointed to a slightly higher patch of ground. “There. Looks defensible.”
I backed the 4Runner in, killed the engine, and we sat listening for a long minute. Just frogs, a soft splash that might have been a gator, and the lazy buzz of a few early flies. No mosquitoes yet, but they’d be along with the sun.
Then headlights appeared behind us — weak, bouncing, clearly not military or law enforcement.
“Company,” I muttered, already reaching for the Wilson Combat on my lap.
The vehicle stopped thirty yards back. A battered pickup. Three people got out slowly — hands visible, moving like they were scared of their own shadows.
A man in his mid-fifties, weathered like a mechanic who’d spent his life under hoods. A younger woman, late twenties or early thirties. And a kid, maybe twelve years old.
The man called out, voice shaky but trying to sound steady. “We’re not infected! We saw fresh tire tracks, thought we heard a vehicle… been driving since the power went out yesterday. We need some food, mister. We’ll pay.”
I snorted. “Cash?”
The younger woman nodded hard. “We can trade. We’ve got tools, some fuel…”
Raych stepped up beside me, 1911 still low but ready, quiet fire in her eyes. “We’re not running a shelter. But we’ve got a little ham and beans left. You sick?”
The man shook his head. “No. Swear it. Just hungry and tired.”
I glanced at Raych. She gave a small nod — cautious, but not hostile.
“Stay where you are,” I called. “We’ll bring some over. No sudden moves.”
While Raych covered me, I scooped three portions of the still-warm ham and beans into metal cups and walked them halfway, setting them on the ground before backing up.
The kid practically dove for the food.
The man looked up after the first bite, eyes wet. “Thank you. Most people we’ve seen just… drive past.”
Raych spoke up, voice calm but firm. “We’re not most people. But we’re also not running a shelter. You got weapons? Any skills?”
The younger woman nodded. “I can shoot. He was a mechanic. Kid’s smart — learns fast.”
I stirred the last of the beans in the pot, thinking. Sharing food was one thing. Sharing space was another.
“Stay the night,” I finally said. “We’ll see how it goes in the morning. But if anyone starts coughing… we handle it quick. No discussion.”
The man swallowed hard and nodded.
As I walked back to the 4Runner, Raych leaned in close, voice low. “You trust them?”
“Not yet,” I answered. “But I’m tired of only talking to Walkers and MREs. Now we have to keep one of us awake at all times just to stay safe.”
She gave me that small, fierce smile. “Good. Because if they turn out to be trouble, I’m not wasting good ham and beans on them.”
We both laughed quietly under the moonlight while the percolator started its second round of the night.
The Cough was loose.
The Walkers were out there.
And for the first time since it all started, we weren’t completely alone.
But trust? That was going to take a lot more than one shared pot of beans.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #TheCough #StayHuman #FirstStrangers
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.