We made it another forty miles south before the night tried to collect its toll.
The running battle was ugly but short — a loose pack of Walkers caught between two abandoned cars on a narrow county road. The AR-15s chattered from the spring clips while the Wilson Combat CQB stayed on lap as backup. I burned through a full magazine. Good thing I’d tossed a couple cases of 5.56 in the 4Runner.
Your wife never raised her voice. She just reloaded, gave me that small fierce smile, and said, “Ham and beans tonight. I’m tired of MREs.”
We found another pull-off just after midnight — a wide spot next to an old oak hammock with decent sight lines. Far enough from the last mess that we might actually get ten quiet minutes.
I backed the 4Runner in, killed the engine, and we set a quick perimeter like it was muscle memory. Then the real work began.
Coleman stove out. White gas hissing. The big pot came off the go-box. The smell of coffee hit the air while I was still getting the ham and an onion diced up and into the pot. The beans were already at a low simmer and you could smell what was coming. No time or ability for all the fancy stuff we’d do at home — browning the onions properly, deglazing the pot, adding bacon for depth. Just survival cooking.
Now I really hate zombies.
Your wife stood watch a few yards away, curly red hair tied back, 1911 loose in her hand. She glanced over at the pot, then at you.
“So… any brilliant theories yet?” she asked, voice low. “Because all we saw on TV was people coughing, then turning into… that.”
You stirred the pot, keeping one eye on the tree line. “Not brilliant. Just paranoid. Bad virus gets loose. Maybe engineered, maybe not. People start dying fast, then they stop staying dead. Classic ‘we fucked around and found out’ scenario.”
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 the first low moan drifted through the trees.
Your wife raised an eyebrow, pistol already coming up.
You kept stirring.
The zombies could wait their damn turn.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
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