There was a truce in the Fourth World War, or so went the rumor before the internet crashed. The joke was that both sides had run out of bombs, munitions and anything else that made an explosion and it was all down to hand to hand combat now.
JB needed to fire up the forge as his skills as a blade smith were being put to use at a greater rate than they were during the last zombie outbreak. Men needed good steel and the key to that was his forge outside his bunker.
Seconds after he pulled back the handle of the sliding door the acrid smell of one thousand expended chemical munitions hit his face, burning his eyes, nose and mouth.
Dropping to the deck he hurriedly slammed the slider closed.
“I can’t believe it! It’s been 12 weeks since the last bomb hit and I forgot to mask up What the hell is the half-life on that stuff?.”
He pulled his mask from his neck, secured it around his nose and mouth, blocked the filter with his left hand and blew out any possible residual gas as it made a seal to his face.
The smell of rubber and astringent permeated his senses, he could go outside and not breathe in the toxic air, but for the rest of the day he would feel as if he had smoked 500 Cuban cigars all at once.
He slid on a pair of tinted wrap around safety glasses, thinking to himself:
“If you’re gonna grind steel in a toxic wasteland, you might as well look good doing it!”
Lastly, on went the headphones, because every one needs their music.
Shards of twisted metal littered the landscape, plenty of steel for the taking!
Plenty of blades to build!
The secret was anyone of his pieces was guaranteed to last one thousand lifetimes!