Page 162 of Shrapnel

Jamie found a chest labeledProps. Prying open the lid he struck gold. A box rattled suspiciously like lead rounds. He popped up the cardboard box to find shells, but not the kind he was hoping for. Two blanks were rolling around the bottom of the box. They looked and felt like real shells but there was no projectile. All the boom, none of the owch.

Pocketing them, he moved on. The carriage wheels were rusted. It didn’t take much to pry one of the wheel spokes free. The metal spoke was the width of his thumb and would just work.

Returning to the workstation, he got started. The history lesson had been inspirational, but of course, the tutor didn’t tell him how to make the DIY gun. He would have to rely on his expertise with firearms to create his own version.

It was ugly, but he could make it work. The pipes were about the same size as the shotgun blank. The smaller pipe had a branching section that would work for a handle. He slid the smaller pipe into the larger and then created a second handle with a thick rag and some duct tape.

An old nail would serve as his firing pin, he put that into the larger pipe. His plan to use the spoke as the projectile hit a dead end when he realized there was too much dead space around it. The kinetic energy from his blank would go around the spoke and not project it out.

He cast around for something but decided he would have to use his shirt. It tore easily when he pulled at the section that was already ripped. Balling the ripped shirt between the blank and the base of the spoke seemed to take up enough space.

Carefully he assembled the whole thing. In total, it was about the length of his forearm. If it worked, and that was a big if, he would only have one chance.

Setting his janky weapon on the table, he used the duct tape as a makeshift splint. He rolled the tape around and under his foot in looping figure 8’s until he ran out of tape. It was hot, and he still couldn’t put any weight on it, but it felt more stable.

Jamie felt more confident with a weapon. He pushed out the barn doors and made his way back toward the saloon. It was the only habitable building in the place.

With each limping step, he tried not to think about what he was doing. There was a fine staticky buzz in his brain, from drugs or dehydration he wasn’t sure. But it was better than thinking. He had done enough of that.

Thinking wouldn’t get him home. It wouldn’t bring him back to being pressed against Owen. To pissing off Noah. To basking in Elijah’s patented fond smiles.

Jamie had played their game. He survived everything they threw at him, and now he wanted his fucking prize.

Ian was resting against the railing of the porch. If it weren’t for the white latex gloves on his hands, he would have looked like any man just enjoying the burgeoning evening from his porch. With his gloves, he looked like a goddamn psychopath.

He heard Jamie’s slow shuffle, turning to face him. His eyes darkened when he saw him. Stepping off the porch, the sand made a soft shushing noise under his boots.

“What are you doing?” he grated.

Jamie’s eyes flicked to the Glock on his hip. Ian didn’t make a move for it. With two hands on the pipes, one leg lifted off the ground, and a tattered shirt rippling around his waist, he hardly looked like a threat.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Lassie.” Every word felt like someone was ripping a cheese grater up his throat.

Ian cocked an eyebrow. His dark eyes narrowed over a wiry beard. It made him look brooding. He took a step towards Jamie.

“Stay,” Jamie ordered, leveling his gun at Ian’s chest.

The big man’s eyes dropped to the amalgamation of junk Jamie was pointing at him. His lips quivered like he wanted to laugh but he stopped, face freezing. His fingers twitched toward the gun at his hip.

“Cute toy.”

“You’ll love the squeaker function,” Jamie snapped. “Throw your gun over here.”

Ian’s lip curled. “I don’t need a gun to kick your ass.”

He readjusted his grip on the pipe.

“Fine,” he pulled the gun from his holster but tossed it behind him instead of to Jamie. “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.”

Ian curled his fists, taking a boxer’s stance. “C’mon, fight me like a man.”

He hesitated, looking down at his fists. The barrel of the pipe wavered. Ian grinned, stepping forward confidently.

Jamie slammed the pipes together. The iron spoke exploded out of the pipe, whipping through the center of Ian’s chest. The big man teetered, a surprised look on his face. He blinked twice before falling face forward. Crimson blood seeped into the gritty sand.

Rubbing his shoulder, Jamie looked down at Ian.

“Nah.” he dropped the blackened pipes to the sand. “Think I’d rather be a monster.”