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   Chapter 42 No.42

Demonspawn By Christina Engela Characters: 5092

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:02


"How many?"

"Seven this load, sir."

"Previously?"

"Fourteen."

"Twenty one." Lofflin counted. "Out of fifty five."

"Sure there's no one else?"

"No sir." The operator replied grimly. "Not alive, leastways."

The last group was already arriving. One of them was down. Two of his comrades dragged the unconscious form off the stage. It looked like there were multiple stab wounds in his abdomen. There was blood everywhere, all over the body and over those carrying it. He was quite obviously dead. These latest arrivals seemed to be in much the same condition as the last lot – only worse. They were clearly more distraught. Lofflin spotted Ralph Billingham, standing there, pale as death, shocked and silent, looking down at the blood spattered all over his uniform. He seemed to be checking himself for injuries, a blaster in one hand, and a comlink in the other. Lofflin wanted to ask him 'What's the matter Ralph, too much blood?' but he resisted. It was too bad for that. Really bad.

Sergeant Murphy had made it back too, and staggered off the platform wide-eyed towards him. His blaster radiated heat that could be felt from nearly across the room as he approached. His face was a blank stare, a picture of com-plete terror. He appeared to be trying very hard to calm himself.

"Oh gods... it was horrible... the fear..." He stammered, trembling as he waved the blaster around with wild, descriptive gestures. "It was unnatural, that's what it was, unnatural!" He started sobbing, then laughed hyster

ut should he decide to send some of them back to replace the transponders and ultimately retrieve the crates.

Who else would he send to do the necessary? Bennett? Or a cook perhaps? Maybe Lt. Kinsley? He grinned to himself wryly, resisting the temptation for the latter option, simultaneously feeling the noose tightening around his neck.

Thoughts looped through Joe Lofflin's mind. They made tight little loops, spiraling through consequences and actions like they were simply wind and smoke. He didn't want to send anybody back into that cold dark mausoleum, just to kill the droid – but he had to do it to get the spares they needed.

"Murphy." He called. The ailing acting chief of security, who had slumped onto the deck, and was sitting on it cross-legged and holding his head in his hands, looked up at him.

"Sir?"

"How do you kill a war-droid?" he asked.

"I dunno, sir." Said Murphy frankly. "I've never killed one of those before."

"I suppose the same way as you'd kill a tank, right?"

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