Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (14 page)

Jim sighed. “I appreciate your ... enthusiasm, doctor. But you can’t understand what this feels like to just ... well, lose a part of you in a split second.”

Bowman pried the fingers of the hand open.

“Really?”

She reached down to her ankle and hiked up her trousers a few inches. Beneath, the silver head of a bolt glinted, embedded in pink plastic. She lifted her foot from the floor, and the hinge moved.

“Whoa,” said Jim, clutching his injured hand.

“Car crash,” said Bowman. “Twelve years ago. My leg was crushed, and they amputated below the knee.” She tapped her shin. It sounded hollow. “Why I got into this area of medicine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jim.

Bowman smiled. “No problem.”

“But you don’t even have a limp!”

She winked. “That’s how good we are here at Bloom Memorial.” She studied the hand. “Ah, I see what happened. A fuse has blown.” She reached into the inner workings and snapped the offending part free. “Our engineer is in today, so he should be able to fix this right up.”

“You don’t build them?”

“Steve builds them and I fit them. Our system works.” She stood. “Make yourself comfortable, Jim. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Right,” he said, looking a little more reassured. “Thank you, doctor.”

Bowman crossed the pastel-toned patient suite and through the door at the rear. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees on entering the workshop. The windowless room, from the thick carpet and views of the patient suite, was oppressive. Beneath the bare bulbs, various limbs hung from rows of shelves. Legs stood in racks, like umbrellas. Hands sat in rows, robot spiders waiting to be used. It reminded Bowman of a puppet maker’s workbench.

“Steve?” she called. Her voice echoed. “Steve are you back there? I need a new fuse for a TN500.”

Silence greeted her.

“Damn. You on your lunch?”

She headed deeper into the room, passing more body parts. She had no idea what the building had been used for previously. The hospital had seen their work, offered positions at the facility, and given them the use of the building, set within the hospital grounds. The workshop contained a small washing area and the remains of a ward. Various bits and pieces had been left behind, the larger objects covered by sheets. Bowman had nagged Steve about shifting it all.

She approached the washing area. Steve had emptied the cupboard under the sink, and a black leather bag stood next to the rusted metal sink. Bowman glanced at her reflection in the streaked mirror.

“Steve?”

Nothing.

She opened the bag and peered inside, catching a hint of metal. She reached in.

“Eugh!”

She pulled out a scalpel, studied it, and dropped it back. It emitted a small clink, striking other instruments.

“Steve! I told you to get rid of all this!”

She turned away.

“Guess I’ll have to find the fuse myself.”

She walked down the old ward, scanning the cluttered shelves and work areas. Saws, drills, hammers, and other vicious objects littered the place.

“Health and safety nightmare,” said Bowman, wishing for the comfort of the patient suite. She stopped. “And what the hell are you doing with this?”

A metal chair lay against the wall. Its seat, complete with head and foot rest, had been formed from a sheet of bent aluminum and polished to a dazzling finish. It sat on a short column, also fashioned from metal. An intricate pattern adorned its surface.

Looks like you’ve been renovating this. But why?

Something tapped her left foot. She looked down.

A fuse rolled and stopped.

Bowman picked it up.

Must have knocked it off something
...
Bit of luck. And it hit my left foot and not my right!

The wet fuse slipped within her fingers, and she wiped it on her blouse. The tiny cylinder vibrated in her palm for a second.

“Odd.” She examined it closer. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Must just be me.”

She glanced at the chair and shivered. She’d never claimed to have any sixth sense, but the chair raised goosebumps on her arms and back. She wondered if anyone had died in it.

Right, Steve. As soon as your belly’s filled, you’re getting rid of this chair. That bag, too.

Turning her back on the piles of junk and the hideous chair, Bowman headed back through the workshop. She stopped, her heels scraping on the floor.

Something. Something behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing moved. The chair sat in the old ward, like a still life painted by Giger.

We need more lights in here. Place is getting to me.

Shaking her head, Bowman strode through the workshop, thankful as she entered the patient suite.

“Here we are, Jim,” said Bowman, joining her patient back on the sofa. “Sorry about the delay. Steve’s on his lunch, but I managed to find a fuse.”

Jim shifted forward, perching on the edge. “We trying it again, then?”

“One more time, at least to check the fit. We’ll make an appointment for next week so we can start your rehab properly.” Bowman flipped the prosthetic hand over and clicked the fuse into place. The fingers twitched, and Bowman nearly dropped the attachment. “Must have some discharge,” she said, and ripped open the Velcro. “Don’t worry. You won’t get a shock!”

Jim offered a nervous smile and slowly held out what remained of his severed hand. Bowman slid the fixture over the torn skin and fastened it tight.

“There we go.”

Jim frowned. “It feels strange. All tingly.”

Tingly?

“That’s normal,” said Bowman, frowning. She looked at the clock. Aware of her next appointment, she decided to cut the chat. “Just like before. Try to make a fist.”

“Okay,” said Jim. He closed his eyes.

“Ready?” said Bowman. “One ... two ... three!”

Thin blades shot out of the metal fingertips with a sharp
ping
!

Bowman flinched.

What the—?

“Did it work?” asked Jim. He glanced down.

The hand shot up, fingers closing in a claw. The five blades punched through Jim’s throat, and blood shot across the sofa.

Bowman screamed and jumped to her feet.

Jim gurgled, wide-eyed and falling back. Crimson poured down his chest, blossoming on his white shirt. The fingers embedded in his flesh jerked and flicked, trying to dig deeper. Jim clutched it with his good hand.

“Oh god,” Bowman moaned, retreating. “Oh god!”

Jim pulled the hand away for a second, but, not to be denied, it surged forward in another frenzied attack. The force knocked Jim’s head back.

Bowman fled to the front door.

The sounds of Jim’s thrashing and the whirring from the hand stopped behind her.

The doctor froze, her hand on the door knob. She peered over her shoulder.

Jim lay back on the sofa, his body still. His head had tilted back, revealing the carnage beneath his chin. Blood trickled down his front from pulsating tissue, which hung from his throat like glistening candy shoelaces. The remains of a crushed, mangled tube poked out of the pulpy mess.

The hand had vanished.

“Oh shit,” said Bowman, and covered her mouth. The carpet seemed to tilt, and her vision blurred. She blinked the patient suite back into focus.

“No,” she cried. “Oh no!”

She yanked the door handle.

The hand dropped from the ceiling and onto her arm. Bowman jumped away from the door and beat at the prosthetic. It clung on like a metal tarantula, crawling for her shoulder. The blades had retracted.

Bowman tripped on a rug and toppled onto her knees. Her leg cracked, and the fake limb came free. It hung loose within her trousers.

The hand crept along her collarbone, impartial to her thrashing.

She screamed and grabbed it. The metal throbbed within her grasp.

“No!” she yelled, prying it free.

It held onto her blouse, refusing to budge. Bowman’s fingers slipped, and the metal hand darted to her face.

She snatched it with both hands and pulled.

A finger, containing tiny pistons and wires, hooked toward her mouth. The tip brushed her lips.

“Get ... the fuck ... off me!”

The hand emitted a loud click and fell away. Bowman threw it across the room just as the detached finger slipped into her mouth. She clenched her teeth, clamping the loose digit that squirmed like a swollen maggot. It curled, and the tail end flicked against her nose.

Bowman fell forward and coughed. She pressed against the probing finger with her tongue. It pushed further in, metal squeaking against her teeth. Bolts of pain shot through her tight jaws. She grabbed for the probing digit.

It slipped all the way inside and jabbed the back of her throat.

Bowman gagged and wailed.

The finger seemed to grow, and a sharp point pressed into the roof of her mouth.

The blade!

Realization fueled her panic, and she hooked the metal with her fingertips. They slid over the saliva-slick intruder and failed to find purchase.

The flesh at the back of her throat parted, and the finger dug up toward her brain.

Bowman managed a final cry and fell forward, twitching on the carpet. Her left leg jerked and kicked the hanging prosthetic.

Laura studied the mangled flesh of her elbow for the thousandth time.

You ruined everything!

She squeezed her missing hand into a fist and almost felt the fingers close. The limb remained in her mind. It gave her hope the hospital was right about Dr. Bowman’s prosthetics that responded to muscle contractions. Laura knew she’d never play the guitar again, but to be able to lift a cup to her lips, or to pick a flower, the thought carried her.

And if it looked real enough, to stop the stares and whispers. That would be amazing.

She breathed in the sweet scents of hospital garden. The sun winked through hanging canopies, creating a dancing pattern of light and shadow on the path. Further along, a man in a dressing gown occupied a weatherworn bench. Laura pressed on, sure the prosthetic center lay at the end of the path.

She greeted the man as she passed. He threw biscuit crumbs on the path for the birds.

“Good afternoon,” he said, returning her smile. His gaze lowered to her left arm, and his lip twitched.

Laura hurried past, her good mood evaporating. She hid her arm as best she could.

Why can’t people stop staring? I’m not a freak!

She rounded a sweeping bend in the path, leaving the man behind and out of sight. She checked her watch.

One minute till two. Think that’s pretty punctual.

Laura headed down the remainder of the path to the hospital building. A sign on the door read:

Dr. S. Bowman and Mr. S. Bennet

Prosthetic Center

Bloom Memorial Hospital

Laura knocked on the door.

A thump sounded from the inside, and Laura leaned forward, her ear close to the wood.

What was that?

It sounded again, closer, like someone had dropped a sack full of clothes.

Laura knocked once more. The door swung open, and she stepped back.

On the threshold stood a woman of around thirty in black trousers and a white blouse. Dark hair cascaded around her shoulders in thick waves. She coughed, covering her mouth.

“Yes?” the woman said. She seemed to check the contents of her hand before lowering it. “Can I help you?” She studied Laura with deep, brown eyes.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Bowman?” said Laura. “Is this the right place?”

The woman stared past her for a moment and seemed to snap her attention back.

“I’m Dr. Bowman. Laura, isn’t it? Two’ o’clock?”

Laura nodded.

“Step inside,” said Bowman, smiling and holding the door open. “I was just cleaning up.”

Laura entered, pleased by the warm, light room. It contrasted to the sterile, bleak corridors of the rest of the hospital.

“Nice place. Not what I expected.”

Bowman closed the door and stared toward the rear of the room. Another door stood open.

“The treatment can be a challenge at the best of times. We like everyone to be as relaxed as possible.” The doctor remained frozen, attention held by the far door. “Take a seat,” she said.

Laura walked around a rug, which was rolled up and left in the middle of the room. A throw draped a sofa. Laura sat, sinking on the plush cushions beneath.

“I’ll just be a moment,” said Bowman, not looking in Laura’s direction. “Make yourself comfortable. Today might change your life.”

The girl sighed.

I hope so.

She glanced down at her stump.

Bowman, unblinking, crossed the room and vanished through the rear door.

Laura exhaled and settled back, listening to the gentle tick of the wall clock.

She seems nice enough. A little distracted, though.

Hope she’s as good as her reputation.

Minutes passed, and Laura’s attention wandered from her stump to the window, to her stump to the clock, and back to her stump. She knew her arm would never grow back, save for some miracle breakthrough. Even the thought of having a guy’s arm grafted on appealed. She’d be more of a freak, but at least she could play the guitar.