BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 11: Rainy Day
Roots in the Rain
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The rain started sometime after midnight and never let up. By morning it was a steady, drumming curtain that turned the ground to slick mud and made every leaf drip like it was crying.
The percolator was already hissing on the Coleman stove under the big tarp I’d rigged between the 4Runner and Tom’s truck. I stood nearby with a steaming metal cup in hand, watching the camp wake up slow and reluctant.
Breakfast was a big pot of rice with canned chicken. I’d tossed in a packet of seasoning pulled from one of the go boxes like a magician. It wasn’t ham and beans, but it still felt like a proper meal. Sarah stirred the pot while Mikey hovered close, clearly hungry.
“Rice and beans are smart,” Tom said quietly as he cleaned his shotgun under the edge of the tarp. “Dry, light, tons of calories. Just need boiled water. Smart packing.”
I nodded, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Been thinking and preparing for years. Just in case the government wasn’t always right. Better than MRE’s and we ain’t savages.”
After breakfast I kept training light. No live fire — the rain would muffle sound but I still didn’t want to advertise. Instead I ran dry-fire drills and weapon cleaning under cover. Mikey practiced drawing and presenting his Glock, his tongue poking out in concentration. Sarah worked the Mossberg 590 with quiet focus. Tom sat nearby, methodical as always.
I moved among them, correcting grip here, elbow position there, all without raising my voice. The rain made everything feel closer, almost intimate.
At one point Mikey asked, “How do you know when it’s enough practice?”
I handed him a dry cloth for his pistol. “When it feels boring. That’s when it’s starting to stick. But it’s never enough. Just like baseball, gotta do it over and over.”
Sarah gave a small smile, the first real one since yesterday’s tension. She was still a little raw, but the rain seemed to be washing some of it away.
Later, while everyone was sorting gear, I reached into one of the go boxes and pulled out a bundle of dry socks and an extra tarp. “Magic box strikes again,” I muttered.
Raych laughed softly from where she was leaning against the 4Runner. “One of these days that box is going to spit out a tablecloth and real plates.”
Tom chuckled. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
As the afternoon wore on, the rain kept drumming. We all ended up huddled under the main tarp. Dinner was another pot of rice and canned chicken, this time with the new seasoning making it taste almost luxurious. The percolator kept working, steam curling up into the damp air.
Raych rested her head against my arm, voice quiet. “Feels like we’re putting down roots, doesn’t it?”
I glanced around the sheltered circle — Tom methodically wiping down his shotgun, Sarah staring into the rain with a softer expression, Mikey cradling his coffee cup with both hands like it was the most important thing in the world.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Starting to.”
The rain kept falling, but under the canvas it felt warm. The percolator hissed steadily. The rice and chicken were hot and filling.
For tonight, at least, civilization was winning
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #RainyDay #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.