BOUGIE APOCALYPSE
A daily 1950s pulp-style serial
Chapter 9: Glock Day
First steps with the Glocks
We shoot the Walkers… then we go back to the beans.
The morning air was already thick and warm when I set up the training area behind the trucks.
I laid the two Glock 19s on the 4Runner’s tailgate like tools on a workbench — both locked open with chamber flags so nobody could miss that they were clear and safe. No pointless two weeks of clear and disassemble drills like the Army loved. Not today.
“First rule,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady the way I always wanted my students to be, “when you pick up any weapon, you clear it. Every single time. No exceptions — unless the world is actively trying to kill you. And trust me, you’ll know when that moment hits because the terror feels like a freight train.”
I drew my Wilson Combat 1911, announced “Drawing my pistol,” cleared it, and set it down. Then I picked up one of the Glocks and did the same, talking them through every step. Tom, Sarah, and Mikey watched closely.
“Grip next,” I said. “Strong hand high on the backstrap. Support hand covers everything that’s left. Trigger finger straight until you’re ready. Thumbs horizontal and stacked on the slide — where your thumbs point is where the gun points.”
I demonstrated slowly as I talked through it again. Then handed each of them a Glock. Tom was steady but stiff. Sarah’s grip came more naturally. Mikey’s hands shook a little at first. I didn’t say anything about it. I’d seen worse.
“These all have red dots,” I added. “Here’s how you acquire the sights: dot on target, press. You’ve got the rest of your life to get a perfect sight picture in combat… if you don’t acquire the sights, you don’t have a life left.”
We moved to live fire. I ran the drill first — two to the chest, one to the head. 9mm holes appearing on the silhouette target. Funny, it was the Zombie targets I liked from before The Cough. Then I stepped back and watched.
Tom was careful, almost mechanical. Sarah surprised me — focused and precise. Mikey started scattered, but by his third magazine something shifted. His stance steadied. His breathing slowed. When he put three rounds into the head of the steel plate in a tight group, I felt that old familiar spark in my chest.
There it is.
That little lightbulb moment. One of my favorite things in the world.
Afterward, while we were cleaning weapons, I reached into one of the go boxes and pulled out a fresh box of Federal like it was nothing.
Raych raised an eyebrow. “How many of those magic boxes do you actually have?”
I just shrugged, a small grin tugging at my mouth. “Enough.”
Sarah laughed softly. “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 stared at the box like it was treasure.
That evening, back at the fire with the percolator hissing and ham and beans bubbling, I handed Mikey a fresh cup — more milk than coffee, the way he liked it.
“You did real good today,” I told him quietly. “With the grip, the breathing, the decision to take the shot when it counted. That’s what matters.”
Raych leaned against my shoulder. Her small fierce smile softened into something warmer.
“They’re coming along,” she said.
I looked around the little circle — Tom poking the fire, Sarah cleaning the Mossberg, Mikey carefully holding his coffee like it was precious.
For the first time since The Cough started, I let myself feel it.
Yeah, I thought. They really are.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #GlockDay #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.