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 Jack set up the training area behind the trucks.
He 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-week disassembly drills like the Army liked to do. Not today.
“First rule,” Jack said, his instructor voice calm, polite, and carrying just enough weight to be heard. “When you pick up any pistol, 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 will feel like a freight train.”
He drew his Wilson Combat 1911 and announced clearly, “Drawing my pistol,” then released the magazine, racked the slide to the rear, locked it open, visually and physically checked the chamber, and announced, “Clear.” He set it down next to the Glocks.
Then he picked up one of the Glocks and repeated the exact same drill, announcing, “Drawing my pistol,” before releasing the magazine, racking the slide, locking it open, inspecting the chamber, and saying “clear.” He talked them through it the whole time. “Draw. Magazine out. Slide to the rear. Lock open. Inspect the chamber. Say it out loud: clear. Do this every single time you handle a pistol until the day you don’t have the luxury.”
Tom, Sarah, and Mikey watched closely. Jack handed each of them a Glock in turn.
“Next — grip. High as you can get your strong hand on the backstrap. Support hand covers everything that’s left. Trigger finger straight along the slide until you’re ready to shoot. Thumbs stacked.” He demonstrated slowly with his 1911, then had each of them mirror the grip while their pistols stayed pointed safely downrange.
Once the grip felt solid, Jack stepped them into live fire.
Tom was steady and methodical. Sarah was focused and precise. Mikey was nervous but visibly improving with every string of fire. Jack watched like a hawk, offering quiet, specific corrections between reloads — “finger off the trigger,” “reset your grip higher,” “slow your breathing” — never raising his voice.
By the time the last magazine was empty, the air smelled of burnt powder and the group was starting to move like people who might actually keep themselves alive.
By mid-morning Jack figured a Walker or two would probably show up, drawn by the sound of all that shooting. Sure enough, a single one had wandered into the clearing — slow, shambling, clearly easy pickings. Jack caught Raych’s eye and gave her the signal: hang back. She nodded once, understanding immediately.
Jack stayed put, arms crossed, watching.
Tom looked at Sarah. Sarah looked at Mikey. The boy swallowed hard but stepped forward.
“Take it,” Sarah said quietly.
Mikey raised the Glock with both hands, just like Jack had shown him. His breathing was fast, but his grip was decent. He fired. Once. Twice. The Walker dropped.
Not perfect. But not bad for his first real shot.
Jack gave a single nod. “Good decision. Good control. That’s how we do it.”
Later, while everyone was cleaning weapons, Jack 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 bags do you actually have?”
Jack just shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corner of his 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 and the pot of ham and beans bubbled away. Jack handed Mikey a fresh cup of coffee — mostly milk, the way he liked it.
“You did good today,” Jack told him. “Not just the shot. The decision. That’s what matters.”
Raych leaned against Jack’s shoulder, her small fierce smile softening into something warmer. “They’re coming along.”
Jack 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,” he said quietly. “They are.”
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #GlockDay #TheCough #StayHuman