Surviving the Apocalypse with Crafting Skills

Since handling gunpowder was dangerous, people were driven out of the ‘workshop’ with that excuse.

All I did was glue metal plates and pieces of wood together, hammer nails, and weld — still countless tools were scattered over the desk.

“Surely, one can’t make excuses with a few iron plates, right?”

It was like a makeshift crafting kit where things appeared whenever needed.

It wasn’t entirely realistic, but it wasn’t the time to worry about that… since I had to make bullets.

“Ugh!?”

The moment I realized that I had to make bullets, my body started to move on its own, regardless of my will.

Mr. James had rummaged through what looked like a warehouse, laid down multiple items on the desk, and took out the tools.

“This is why… my fatigue is skyrocketing.”

My aching arms strained forcibly, exerting effort.

Steel scissors were scraping away rusted metal bits.

But still, how were they making bullets in here?

As far as I knew, even making a single bullet required various materials and complicated processes.

— But, while I was thinking this, my body just kept moving steadily.

– Click, Click, Click.

Plastics were getting sliced into circles and gathered on the table.

Iron scraps were being cut sharply and started piling up.

And then…

“What? Is that all?”

The gunpowder was sitting on the desk, its lid still open.

The rest of the materials were prepared as well.

I picked up a red shotgun shell from the desk.

The messy table didn’t have anything close to this yet.

Was there anything more I needed to do here?

“Oh… right. Paper.”

That’s it. That’s the final step for the shotgun shells. Of course, based on the assumption that I had shell casings handy.

If I didn’t have those casings, I would have to make them myself.

And for that, you need a lot, really a lot of paper.

So, I opened the door to ask for help.

“Are you done?”

Mr. Curtis suddenly thrust his head in.

“…You scared me! No, I need more materials.”

“What materials?”

“Paper.”

“…Paper? Like books or such?”

“Yes. Any kind will do.”

“Are you making shotgun shells…?”

“Yes.”

Despite his skeptical eyes, Mr. Curtis suddenly started walking in front without saying a word and gave me a light tap on the shoulder.

We arrived at a room where Ms. Sarah was sitting by a table lamp, stacking piles of papers and jotting down something.

“There’s a bunch of documents here. After a brief read, it looks like records of goods being transported here and there.”

“…Good.”

“Sarah, which side of the papers do we not need?”

“The right.”

“You can take it. Though it was meant to be used as kindling, might as well use it if you need to.”

I carefully lifted the piles of paper stacked to about knee-high.

…These arms.

“Why do you need this?”

“I’m making bullets.”

“…Huh?”

It’s naturally puzzling.

Because I have no idea either.

But somehow, in the game, I could make shell casings out of paper—although you couldn’t reuse these makeshift casings, you could still fire bullets with them.

“Might as well call it an alchemy transmuting stimulants into antidotes. Even making bullets out of paper.”

Mr. Curtis burst into a hearty laugh, giving me light pats on the back, then sat next to Ms. Sarah and pointed at her notebook.

“What’s this then?”

“There are tons of codenames I can’t understand. ‘Glass’ was moved from D-4 to D-67…”

While Ms. Sarah continued copying notes, I returned to the workshop with an armload of paper.

Honestly, I still don’t know what’s happening.

But my hands keep moving.

A ruler and pencil were used to trace straight lines repeatedly on the paper.

In the extra spaces, I drew small donut shapes using a compass.

And just like that, after cutting countless identical shapes for what felt like forever…

“Hmm…”

When the cut doughnut-shaped papers were stacked neatly, it almost seemed like the base of something.

After three rectangular layers of paper were wrapped around a shotgun shell on the desk and secured firmly with glue from a drawer, they started forming tubes.

When the tubes were glued with the circular doughnut-shaped bases,

“…Shell casings, right?”

Before I even realized it, numerous shell casings made of stiff paper were created.

Saturated with glue, they were soggy and sticky—but the ones made first had already solidified.

– Tick.

Resilient enough not to crumple when flicked with a finger.

Then, my hand began moving again.

Packing the prepared materials into the newly made casings piece by piece, assembling them.

Just how much time passed?

“…”

One hundred bullets sat before me, their only difference from actual bullets being the material.

“…”

Will they fire?

…They will, right?

With trembling hands, I inserted one into my now-claimed pump-action shotgun.

Loading went smoothly without any hitches or jamming.

I immediately walked out after opening the door.

A short distance away, a horde of zombies was rattling the barricade.

“Ah, Mr. Xuan Woo.”

“Mr. James.”

“…Well, thought it was about time we should start shooting.”

The barricade was creaking little by little.

It’s clearly taking damage.

After all, wasn’t the method to break a bulletproof helmet with durability of 200 to hit it 200 times?

“Shall I fire?”

“I came here to test it.”

“Test…? What do you mean?”

Carefully pulling the pump, I extracted an unfired bullet.

“This.”

“…Did you make this? For real?”

“For starters.”

“— How?”

I didn’t respond.

Since I had no idea myself.

My body moved on its own and somehow crafted it. There’s no way I could teach someone else.

– Click.

I reloaded the bullet and aimed ahead.

Mr. James glanced back and forth between the gun and me, then quietly stepped back.

“…Whenever you’re ready, fire.”

A deep breath.

And when I clenched the trigger,

– Bang.

The fragments flew and struck the zombie’s face.

“Nggh, Aaaagh!”

The portion where the brain should be was gone, and the eyes were punctured holes, a grotesque sight.

Pulling the pump once more, I noticed the paper casing safely ejected.

It looked usable only once.

“It works.” “It works!”

We both said simultaneously.

Mr. James stared at me for a moment, then raised his hand.

“…Quicker.”

I stared at his waving hand.

What does he mean… Oh, seriously?

– Slap.

I hit his thick palm with mine.

A high five.

“James!”

Leaving behind the sound of stomping on fallen corpses, I turned my head.

I waved to Ms. Sarah and Mr. Curtis running toward me with a pistol and double-barrel gun.

“Any injuries?”

“No. Rather…”

I handed them some bullets I’d prepared in my pocket, causing Mr. Curtis’s eyes to widen.

“Give it a try.”

“…Did you actually make these? They’re paper!”

“Yes.”

“Er…”

His hesitant hand went toward the gun.

Removing the pre-loaded bullets, he replaced them with my pristine white ones.

The feel of them fitting perfectly into the chambers seemed to settle his trembling hand.

– Bang.

A single bullet fired, piercing the heads of two zombies standing left and right.

– Bang.

This time the bullets tore through the zombies’ faces, leaving ghastly wounds without knocking them down though.

“Show me your other rounds.”

Handing him the bullet, Mr. Curtis suddenly drew a knife and cut open the covering of the bullet.

Before I could stop him, the innards spilled out onto the ground.

Everything except the gunpowder powder was intact.

“This is a chaotic mess. You know how to make bullets, but not how they function.”

“Eh?”

“It’s not about being wrong. Listen.”

He pointed to the nuts scattered from the bullets.

“This is something akin to a slug, roughly.”

The sharp iron pieces he cut reflected the light of the flashlight.

“This type rips up flesh but can’t kill. It inflicts terrible pain and makes the victim bleed, so perhaps the person it hits will die from infection or blood loss faster than from the bullet.”

“…Yes.”

“Do you have bolts?”

Searching my pocket, I handed him a bolt.

Mr. Curtis tightened two nuts from the bullets onto the bolt.

“This will act as a makeshift slug. The accuracy might be worse than a real bullet, but it should smash heads at close range.”

“…Ah.”

“How many of these bullets did you make?”

“I’ve shot three, disassembled two here… so around 95 remain.”

“…95.”

“95.”

The three of them stared silently at me with mouths agape, then blinked.

Mr. Curtis glanced at Mr. James’ watch before looking at me again.

“Could you make 50 slug bullets and about 30 that severely injure people? If you don’t mind.”

“So, what about the bullets you’ve already made…?”

“Don’t throw them out. While I shoot these guys, I’ll run some experiments.”

“Ah, yes.”

So makeshift slugs can be made too.

Bullets are usually brought by NPCs so we don’t need to make them often… and when we do, it’s mostly during hostage situations.

Still, now I know.

“Uh… What time is it?”

“It’s been two hours since our late lunch. Three o’clock.”

So making 100 bullets took only two hours?

It might not be that bad.

***

“…First medicine, now bullets.”

Mr. James stroked his scruffy beard.

Picking up the paper-made bullet casing that had fallen to the ground.

“Is this thing really made from the paper I was reading? That’s unbelievable…”

Standing next to her father and gazing at the bullet casing together, Sarah turned her head toward the corpse dangling from the barricade.

Because the pile of bodies in front of the barricade obstructed the zombies from advancing slightly now.

The black worms wriggling from the burst head soon collapsed limply.

“To think someone who only knows how to handle, load, and shoot a shotgun can create bullets from paper, bits of metal, and gunpowder…”

Curtis carefully lifted the cut bullet casing with gunpowder powder inside and tightly clenched it in his hand, clamping his mouth shut again.

“Doesn’t really look like a redneck to me.”

“You’ll hear a bang-bang sound the moment they get close.”

Sarah chuckled.

“What about the time you teased him, calling him a yellow monkey?”

“He’s yellow, sure. But I won’t call him a monkey anymore. He’s probably smarter than us.”

James sighed deeply, staring pensively at the barricade.

In the face of disappearing order, guns have always been the correct means.

More accurately, the gun and the bullets.

You always maintain the gun, but bullets inevitably run out.

Even though we had occasionally managed to break open ammo boxes due to good luck, those stocks were depleting too…

“– There was this monstrous gorilla wearing steel on its head.”

“Are you telling a dream?”

“No, it was real. This thing squashed people with its head, its arms were like it had been injected with some kind of drug.”

“Bigger than dad’s arms?”

“Dad didn’t take drugs. That’s what those guys at the front of the gym who were stumbling around trying to hit on you did — but that’s not the point.”

Adjusting his throat with a cough while fumbling for the water bottle — sounds occasionally came from behind the mostly closed door.

The sound of paper being cut.

The sound of bolts dropping on the floor.

Nuts as well…

– Rattle rattle.

“Oh no, I spilled them.”

Sarah, who was listening carefully, twitched her eyebrows.

James took another sip of water before coughing again.

Curtis, leaning against the wall, wiped his nose once.

“So, what about the monstrous monkey, gorilla, or whatever?”

“It was killed by Mr. Xuan Woo.”

“How?”

“Shot its legs, set it on fire, smashed its head against the wall, and then fired bullets into its head again and again until it died.”

“…I might regret calling him a monkey.”

“Even the story about the cult of red-skinned people turned out to be true.”

The family of three exchanged glances.

The time spent surviving after the bunker had been as short as it was long.

Because of the fallout spreading after the nuclear bomb destroyed the city, they had probably found the bunker doorway later than the city people. So they entered it later.

However.

Even so, the man with yellow skin, black hair, and black eyes seemed to know everything.

Behind his innocent-looking face,

What lay hidden there?

“Is there nothing else but faith?”

“…Perhaps.”

“Hey, wait, wait, wait.”

To the frozen expressions of father and grandfather, their daughter and granddaughter Sarah interrupted by waving her hands.

“Didn’t he save my life?”

“That’s right.”

“But is it right to treat him this way?”

“Yes.”

Two voices overlapped.

“People change endlessly in war, Sarah.”

“Even young children can throw firebombs at tanks and fire rocket launchers, shouting ‘Heil Hitler.'”

Father’s rough hand softly caressed daughter’s cheek.

“I thought I knew everything, but compared to Xuan Woo, we know next to nothing. That’s a new worry for your dad.”

“…Anyway, he seemed like a good person when he treated wounds. Is it such a big mistake to trust people?”

Grandfather’s wrinkled hand tightly gripped the granddaughter’s shoulder.

“Believing in people isn’t wrong. But trying to believe despite knowing that there are people who try to deceive others — that’s just foolishness.”

“But you said everything you’ve said so far is true, right?”

“We don’t know if everything in the future will be true too.”

“If he wanted to kill us, the best time would have been when I passed out. He could have easily fed us to spider monsters.”

“He might have been an enemy of the church. Perhaps he helped us to kill that… Church of Reitun, right?”

“There’s also a saying that the enemy’s enemy is our ally, isn’t there? You even said there was a resistance in Italy, right Grandpa?”

“Sarah.”

In this world where laws and public authority disappeared, there were endless questions.

Sighing inside this framework, the three of them exhaled.

“Would you make just one promise?”

“What?”

“Should that Mr. Xuan Woo ever touch you…”

“He’s only interested in making bullets without eating since he woke up. Not even injuries.”

“Still.”

“Besides, didn’t we always hear this kind of thing outside too?”

The rumbling growl of zombies spread faintly.

The workshop was still emanating the sound of something being made.

“Food. Is there enough left?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll take it in. I need to see how he can make so many bullets in just two hours.”

“He did say it was dangerous because of gunpowder.”

“I’ll go in but I won’t disturb him.”

While Sarah leaned against the wall, limping, Curtis led with his creaky knees, picking up food.

While the ham was all gone, they carried a pack of sterilized milk with crackers.

– Rattle.

On one corner of the wall, partially disassembled supply boxes were there.

The desk was covered with countless tools.

– Rattle.

His arms, pale enough but slightly healthy-looking, filled the casings with gunpowder.

Is this by estimation?

Or because he knows the exact weight?

Or, perhaps, because he marked gradations inside the casings?

This was unknown.

But the important thing was the ‘95 bullets’ gathered in a bucket by the side.

And the man who was making more without any sign of fatigue.

“Alright.”

There wasn’t a trace of malice on his face.

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