Gun Work

“I’m glad you guys are all here, so I only have to tell the story once. I’ve told Armand a little bit of it, but I’ll give you the definitive version, gory details and all. There’s a reason I’m doing this, and I’ll tell you up-front that I am in full possession of my senses, so don’t blame my meds. When I get done telling the story, I have a proposition for you, but it’s not really something I can ask of any of you. I think I know you all well enough to risk putting these ideas out into the air, and if I’m full of shit, tell me. As far as you’re concerned, this is just a made-up story about an imaginary guy named Barney, and what happened to him. Armand’s been asking me what I think I want to do after this, and I’ve been mulling it over — asleep, not asleep, coming at it from every angle I can think of. Here’s what I want to do: I want to tell you the story. And if, at the end of the story, what I have to say sounds insane to any of you, don’t say yes, don’t say no, no buts or maybes... just get up and walk out of the room if you’re not down. Fair enough?”

Sirius hauled in an extra chair. Barney recounted everything he could remember. And then he told the three men what he wanted to do.

Nobody left.

Barney barely saw the fifth Bleeding Room thanks to the benefits of modern anesthesia. His body first had to be strong and adjudged fit enough to withstand the rigors of induced unconsciousness, and there was no way the dual procedure could be performed by Dr. Brandywine with a local.

More forms. More time.

Barney’s hands were butterflied like lamb shanks so Dr. Brandywine could get at the interstitial bones — the ones no longer required due to the missing-inaction index fingers — and remove them. Resectioning to close up the gaps. Nerves and blood vessels were reconnected with microfilament too small to see with the naked eye. Bones never meant to be neighbors were brazed together. The remaining healthy skin now gave enough surplus to fold closed and suture. They would leave very interesting scar patterns. The shortest of these multiple surgeries was a ten-hour stretch.

Add plasma, antibiotics, painkillers. Mix well and let set.

Serves one.

The result was an adequately proportioned, though decidedly bizarre-looking three fingered hand so natural in shape that your eye was deceived into wondering what was amiss at first view. It was something you had to devote time to noticing. Freakish, maybe; odd, yes. Barney was re-evolving from near-useless flippers to a tri-taloned Martian hand from War of the Worlds, or what Mickey Mouse actually hid beneath that three-fingered glove.

But no bump, no stub, no disproportion.

Now all he had to do was learn to work with these new tools.

A finger stump would have necessitated special handgrip grooving for stabilization. The stretch of hand minus a finger would have to be accommodated by an extended handgrip, and the trigger, modified for a middle finger wrap — the middle finger was almost a whole knuckle too much for a proper pull. Gross gun weight, and therefore felt recoil, would have to be factored into the smaller overall palm area.

Karlov was working out that problem right now, somewhere else, leaning over a gun bench, probably wearing his double-magnifying specs for close work. Concocting new mutant forms of firearm. Making them evolve.

Armand was dealing with ballistics — what kind of rounds, how many grains of powder per cartridge, range, kick, bullet type. The swage die was his alchemical furnace. He had always manufactured his own ammo.

Sirius commenced a round of interviews with Barney that led to a pile of pencil sketches in slow layers of accumulation. It was all about strategy. Penetration routes, exit schema, logistics. Drills on backups, backstops, Plan Bs, contingencies. Who, what, and how many. Room plans. Terrain. Things that could not be recalled or anticipated had to be imagined. Best guesses. Smartest options.

Barney commenced therapy on both hands as soon as the seams set and they were sure not to burst under stress like wet piñatas. Squeezing, lifting, isometrics in an agonizingly slow but progress-oriented crawl.

The first red-letter day came when Barney could cycle the trigger on Armand’s Magnum through one complete double-action pull. Snap.

Thirty-nine to go.

For nearly a month and a half both his hands were imprisoned in nylon cross-lace braces with metal supports, like corsets for his wrists.

Red-letter day Number Two saw Barney feeding himself without a drop of spillage. His fingers and thumbs were beginning to get to know each other again.

Karlov brought him a rebalanced SIG Super .40 with a whisper trigger; Barney managed five pulls.

Which hung him up for another week when his hands started to bleed.