The strains of Pachelbel’s Chorus sounded a bit tinny coming from the speakers. The smoke from my cigar wafted up to the corridors vent port.
I pulled my belt off and wrapped it above the hole in my leg. Cinched it tight and grasped my gun again. I pulled myself up and proped my gun on the debris that surrounded me for cover.
“Dennis… It’s me, Marty.”
Marty and I went back quite a ways. She had the kind of eyes that drew you in, like a naked singularity. We had been together for five years, subjective. Had our share of laughs, drunken liberty calls, and more than once shared our bodies in a crowded bunk. Her short auburn hair, her rounded …
“Dennis, we have to talk,” her voice came from around the corner.
“I’m going to step out, into the corridor. I’m unarmed.”
She stepped over the bodies that lay in the corridor. Her empty hands spread out to her side. She didn’t glance down at the spilled brains and blood that oozed on the deck. A red dot from my laser sight fixed itself to her forehead.