The back roads were darker than they had any right to be. No streetlights, no oncoming traffic, just the 4Runner’s headlights cutting through the night and the occasional distant moan that might have been wind… or might not.
You kept one hand on the wheel. Each door pillar had spring clips holding an AR securely in place — nothing loose, nothing rattling. During full zombie armageddon you each had an AR in the clips and a Wilson Combat CQB 1911 with an 8-round mag full of Federal hollow points resting on your lap. Your wife rode shotgun, map on her knees, her own 1911 ready, curly red hair glowing faintly in the dash lights.
“Next left should be clear for a few miles,” she said, voice steady. “Then we can pull off and set a quick bivouac.”
You nodded. “Beans are going to have to wait. No time to soak and cook properly yet. But we can do coffee. Real coffee.”
She gave you that look — half amusement, half Viking-raider assessment. “Of course we can. Priorities.”
Twenty minutes later you found a small gravel pull-off shielded by trees. You killed the lights, backed the 4Runner in so it faced the road, ready to go, and both of you moved like you’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Perimeter check. Quick fighting positions. Then the Coleman stove came out.
While you set security, your wife measured the coffee and water with the calm precision of someone who’d kept a homestead running through worse than this. The percolator started its familiar glug-glug rhythm.
You allowed yourself half a smile as you spooned out a bit of cold beef stew from your MRE. Definitely rejected by Ethiopians ran through your head as you smelled the coffee — and thought, Zombies or no, I’m drinking some good coffee… love me some Stocking Mill Midnight Run.
She handed you a metal cup, freckles catching the faint blue flame of the stove. “Drink fast. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before something smells that and comes looking.”
You took a sip, letting the heat and bitterness ground you. For one quiet moment the world felt almost normal — just you, her, good coffee, and the faint crackle of the stove.
Then the first Walker appeared at the edge of the tree line. You knew from Zombieland what to expect, but damn.
It was slow, clumsy, still wearing what used to be a gas station uniform. A second one followed a few yards behind it, then a third. Not a horde. Not yet. Just the early Walkers.
You set the cup down carefully on the hood, drew the Wilson Combat CQB from your lap, and put two calm rounds through the first one’s head. It dropped without drama. Your wife did the same with the second. The third never got close.
She never even spilled her coffee. She just raised an eyebrow. “Told you.”
You picked your cup back up, took another sip, and scanned the darkness. “Beans tomorrow night. Proper pot. Tonight we keep moving after this cup. But damn if we’re not doing coffee right.”
She smiled — that small, fierce Molly Ringwald fire mixed with Viking steadiness. “One civilized thing at a time, hero. The zombies can wait their turn.”
You drained the cup, rinsed it with a little water, and packed the percolator away. The 4Runner rumbled back to life.
Behind you, the night swallowed the gravel pull-off again.
Ahead of you, the road south waited.
And somewhere in the distance, more moans were starting to rise.
Bougie Apocalypse
A daily serial about heirloom beans, carbon steel skull-crackers, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #CoffeeAndAWalker #TheCough #StayHuman