Free Death Drop by Sean Allen Page A

splintering shower of razor sharp fragments and the heavy door, bent inward from the blast, ripped from its recesses and hurtled through the air as the colonel pounced on Dr. Blink, shielding him from the onslaught. He grunted in pain as the sharp quills on Blink’s back pierced his uniform and stabbed mercilessly at his torso.
    Otto was only a fraction of a second slower than Abalias as he dove to the other side of the desk and rolled beneath it. Once securely inside the desk’s cubbyhole, he pulled his gun from its holster at his hip and prepared to return fire.
    Malo was neither light nor nimble on his gigantic hoofed feet. Instead of resorting to impossible acrobatics, he tucked the upper portion of his snout in the crook of his elbow, defending his eyes from the blinding projectiles with his now armor-clad arm. The Moxen’s skin was tough and Malo suffered only a few nicks and scratches.
    Sergeant Graale simply closed his eyes and let the debris bounce harmlessly off his impenetrable body.
    Bertie had wheeled around toward the entrance and had his flat expanse elevated vertically again as if he was protecting the rest of the room’s occupants from another blast. His compartmentalized flanks were open, and he quickly removed the manacle device, the lighted attachment, and the inter-scanner and replaced them with hands.
    The attack alarm for the base had sounded and was wailing with amazing ferocity down the corridor and into the disheveled examination room.
    “Are you all right, Doctor?” Abalias shouted over the alarm as he stood upright and fingered the spiny objects that jutted from his abdomen and chest.
    “Um—I—don’t,” the doctor stuttered.
    “Are you hit?”
    “Hit—er—I don’t — ”
    “Dammit, Artie! You’re a doctor—you should be able to tell me if you’re injured or not!” The colonel was in survival mode and his combat instincts did not allow for the time-wasting formalities of polite address. There was only time enough to keep everyone alive.
    “I’m—um—not injured. I’m—I’m okay…but you !” he stammered, straightening his half-moon spectacles now hanging sideways from his snout and motioning toward the quills in Abalias’ torso. “I’ll get some forceps and some disinfectant and something to stop the…”
    Abalias frowned at Blink and then ripped out the quills in large handfuls, exhaling in uncomfortable grunts as each batch of red-tipped spikes hit the floor.
    Dr. Blink could see the blood, a vivid crimson against the colonel’s perfectly white skin, begin to pool and then trickle downward. But then the advancing blood trails slowed and thickened, turning dark before vanishing: subsumed under a layer of ice that shimmered beneath the perfectly round holes in Abalias’ uniform.
    “There, that ought to stop the bleeding—don’t you think, Doc?”
    “Yes, yes…that should be sufficient,” muttered Blink in a disapproving, medical tone.
    Abalias pulled his gun from its holster and cocked back the heavy hammer. “Artie, you’re a helluva a doctor, but you’re in my world now. You’ve got to trust me, okay?”
    Dr. Blink did not answer but nodded dazedly in consent.
    “Good. Now get on my hip and stay there. I don’t want…what in the HELL!”
    Blink was shaking his head from side to side in disagreement and Abalias was certain the doctor was either scared out of his wits or had taken a hit to the head from the explosion.
    “Are you saying that you won’t get on my hip and stay there?” Abalias asked indignantly. The colonel was looking at Blink like he was torn between concern for an injured friend and loathing for a mutinous traitor.
    “With all due respect, Colonel,” Blink said as he motioned to his mechanized assistant. “Bertie.”
    Bertie flung all four hands into a separate compartment and pulled them out again like he was drawing down on a lone gunman at high noon, but instead of a six-shooter in each of his robotic hands, Bertie clutched