Zinc Bunker

Night brought cold air off the river, so I rolled away from the open trench to secure heavy cover. Near the fence line, an overturned zinc washbasin sat tilted against a flat granite slab. Perfect. I rammed my body under the rim, dislodging a damp clump of dried peat and wedging a heavy rusted bolt under the metal lip to hold a slit open for surveillance. The chill metal rings like iron armor. Settled deep into the dry dirt beneath the dome, I command this bunker. The yard can freeze tonight; my position holds unbreakable.