BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 10: Mama Bear
Pushback and progress
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The percolator was already hissing on the Coleman stove when the first light filtered through the cypress. I stood nearby with a steaming metal cup in hand, watching the camp wake up.
After a quick breakfast of ham and beans, I had everyone out for movement training. Nothing fancy — just the basics.
“Move away from the threat while keeping your weapon on it,” I said, voice calm. “Side step, back step, whatever it takes. Muzzle stays on the target. You lose sight picture, you lose the fight.”
I had them practice with pistols first, then rifles and shotguns. Tom was steady. Sarah was sharp. Mikey was trying hard, but I pushed him a little more than the others — not mean, just enough to build real confidence under pressure.
“Again,” I told him. “Keep that muzzle on the bad guy. You moved the gun off target again.”
Sarah’s head snapped up. Her maternal side flared instantly. “He’s twelve, Jack. Ease up.”
The words came out sharper than she probably meant. The air got thick for a moment.
I didn’t snap back. I just took a slow sip of coffee and met her eyes.
Raych stepped in smoothly before it could escalate, her voice warm but firm. “He’s not being hard on the boy, Sarah. He’s trying to keep him alive.” She gave Sarah a small, understanding smile. “We all want the same thing.”
Sarah exhaled, the tension easing a bit. “I know… I just…”
“I get it,” I said quietly. “But if a Walker gets close, hesitation gets people killed. Better to learn it here than out there.”
The rest of the morning passed with more movement drills — side steps, back steps, keeping the weapon on the threat. By the time the sun was high, everyone was sweating and improving.
Later, while everyone was cleaning weapons, I reached into one of the go boxes in the back of the 4Runner and pulled out a fresh box of Federal ammo like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Raych raised an eyebrow. “How many of those magic boxes do you actually have?”
I just shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Enough.”
Sarah laughed. “I’m starting to think they’re bottomless.”
Tom shook his head, amused. “One day we’re gonna open one of those boxes and a whole damn kitchen is gonna fall out.”
Mikey just stared at the box like it was magic.
That evening, back at the fire, the percolator hissed again and the pot of ham and beans bubbled away. I handed Mikey a fresh cup of coffee — mostly milk, the way he liked it.
“You did good today,” I told him. “Not just the shooting. The movement. That’s what matters. Constantly improving is what keeps us alive out here.”
Raych leaned against my shoulder, her small fierce smile softening into something warmer. “They’re coming along.”
I looked around the little circle — Tom poking the fire, Sarah cleaning the Mossberg 590, Mikey carefully holding his coffee like it was a treasure.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “They are.”
Zombies still suck
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.