This was going to be one quiet day. No need to seach for any more people - any more and we'd have to get some sleeping bags - and I had suddenly decided to pull a muscle in my ankle. No biggie, I could still move - enough to pick up a M1911 and wake everyone up in a rather violent fashion. Somehow, in an ironic twist, the gun imploded in my hand and sent searing hot metal into my palm, which was much more effective at waking the horde. I stuck my hand on Rob's leg, and he yelped in pain as the shards of metal dug into his skin. Everyone sprung into action to assist in my aching hand, minus Jack, who found it as funny as a comedy sketch. Eventually, a bucket of cool water was found, and I plunged my hand in. The shards floated out, followed by blood. No danger.
As the squad searched for some sort of bandage, I chortled for one reason; Jack had inadvertedly stood, in bare feet, on the wrecked gun, and was now hopping around in an ungainly fashion. Revenge is so sweet when served sharp and red hot.
I eventually got my mangled hand into a bandage, and set about the healing process; little activity. I was loving this. I decided to find the metal and wood that had been left behind in the initial panic, and set about a project of epic proportions. I hobbled my way to the Technical department and begun my project. It was to assemble a gun to specifically deal with zombies. And I had decided to make it as simple as possible - a crossbow design. With the right tools, I reckoned this would be easy.
I began work on the stock. I wanted this to be wood, for a traditional hunting feel, and I decided to go for a simple build with no pistol grip - a thumbhole would be fine. A quick jaunt through the pieces of wood I had collected wielded a suitable part, and I fired up the wood lathe and carved. I was soon joined in the workroom by Duncan, who had decided to bug out after an argument with Jack had got out of hand and resulted in Jack attempting to shoot him. I promptly employed him as my slave (of sorts) and got him to get the pillar drill ready with a flat bit. After some serious work (almost), I lined up a hole for the thumbhole and stuck the wood in. The drill worked smoothly, and the hole was drilled in no time. I employed Duncan to shape it and do the fiddly little slots for other parts.
While Duncan tooled around with some sandpaper, I began work on the little pieces, such as the lathe. I searched a bit and found an appropriate piece of material, and filed it to a shine and strength I had not expected. I placed it to one side, while I began work on a crank and trigger. I decided to cannibalise a defunct crossbow in the storeroom (hey, maybe the Tech teachers like target shooting) and steal the trigger, crank and other little bits from it. Then, with some metal, I stenghtened the crank up and gave it some proper shine. It was all coming together well.
By now, Duncan had made a real fine job of shaping, but a real awful attempt at a paintjob. He had found some paint cans and painted it, with a degree of excellence, in an awesome medium blue, but had then found some metallic silver and painted "EGHD" on the right-hand side of the stock. Never was it said that the apocalypse would diminish Duncan's fatherly love of his YouTube channel. I left him to put it all together, but not before I had painted the top of the stock white and written "Captain Slow 2.0" on it. Revenge times two.
Finally, it was complete. Project Crossbow was over, and, my God, I was proud. It gleamed with glory and power, and I was aching to test it out. I lined up the scope and fired a bolt. It was so powerful, the door I had fired the bolt at now had a gaping hole in it. My jaw hit the floor. I HAD to use this on the undead. But before we left, I had one more thing to do. Sign it in blood. I opened up my pained hand's bandage, dipped my finger in the blood (a mildly painful experience), and wrote my name on it. My work here was complete. I covered my wound back up and returned back to base.
I came back to the sight of an undead bearing me down 100 metres away. I loaded another bolt in, set it on fire with a lighter for added impact, and took aim. As I pulled the trigger, the bolt rocketed out and smashed into the zombie's head, splitting it clean in two and roasting it. Now both our jaws hit the floor. Jack stuck his head out of the door, saw the split head, and scowled in anger that I had outdone his M249 PUSSY SAW with my crossbow. Satisfied, I retired back to the shelter to show off my new toy. Everyone, it turned out, was also suitably astonished.