BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 7: Beans And Bullets
First real scrap since the cough got loose
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The fire was low and steady, just the way Jack liked it.
Percolator hissed on the Coleman stove, coffee bubbling dark and strong. Ham and beans simmered in the big pot beside it, the smell cutting clean through the thick swamp night.
You sat on a stump, Wilson Combat 1911 holstered tight on your hip, watching the treeline. Salt-and-pepper beard catching the firelight, darker curly hair still damp from the day’s sweat. Raych stood a few paces off, her own 1911 low ready, curly red hair tied back, freckles hidden in the shadows but that small fierce smile still there.
Tom poked at the fire with a stick. Sarah kept one eye on Mikey, who was trying very hard to look like he wasn’t scared. The boy was twelve and learning fast.
“Beans almost ready?” Mikey asked, voice small.
“Five minutes,” Raych answered, never taking her eyes off the dark. “Civilization waits for no one, but it sure as hell waits for proper beans.”
You chuckled low. Old habits. Even out here in the panhandle swamp, with the world coughing itself to death, you still made coffee and guarded the pot like it mattered. Because it did.
Then the splashing started. Not gators. Too rhythmic. Too many.
Raych’s head came up first. “Company.”
You were already on your feet, Ruger AR-556 MPR sliding off the Tristar 2-point sling and into your shoulder. Trijicon optic catching the faint fire-glow. Magpul grip solid in your hand. Finger straight along the receiver until you needed it.
Eight of them — maybe ten — drifted out of the mist and cypress knees. Wet, shambling, eyes reflecting the fire like broken glass. First real scrap since the single Walker back on day two.
“Left flank, two,” you said, voice flat as range day.
Raych answered with her own AR, sharp cracks splitting the night. Controlled pairs. No panic. No mag dumps. Just the honest bark of unsuppressed 5.56 echoing across the water.
You dropped the nearest one with two quick rounds through the optic, the rifle’s recoil familiar and comforting. Another stepped too close; you transitioned smooth to the Wilson Combat 1911, the heavy .45 report booming once, twice. Skull rearranged.
Tom’s shotgun thumped behind you, dropping a straggler that had slipped past.
“Clear,” Raych called after thirty seconds that felt like three hours.
You swept the treeline again. Nothing.
“Check yourselves,” you ordered.
No bites. No scratches. Just ringing ears and the sudden quiet.
Sarah already had the big pot off the heat, keeping the beans warm. Mikey stared wide-eyed but didn’t cry. Good kid.
You and Raych dragged the bodies thirty yards out into the swamp while Tom kept watch. The gators would deal with the carcasses. Quick, professional, no drama.
Back at the fire the beans were still hot.
You sat down, slung the Ruger, and accepted the steaming metal cup Raych handed you.
“First real one,” you said, blowing across the coffee. “What worked: optic cut through the dark, sling kept the rifle right where I needed it, we didn’t burn ammo we can’t replace. What we’ll do better: earlier warning next time. Perimeter lights on a trip wire, maybe. Mikey, you watch how we moved — slow is smooth, smooth is fast. No hero shit. We protect the pot, not the other way around.”
Raych gave that small fierce smile again, freckles dancing in the firelight. “World didn’t end tonight.”
You took a sip, then spooned out a bowl of ham and beans.
“Damn right it didn’t. Pass the hot sauce.”
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #BeansAndBullets #TheCough #StayHuman
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.