Decapod

Here’s an idea I had for a story:

Killy Leach woke to a scrabble of claws against the door and gripped the gun resting on his naked chest. He rolled off the sleeping platform and hit the deck hard as the door burst inward and slammed against the wall. Light from the station corridor dazzled his vision. He heard the flechette gun hiss, a snare drum roll of tiny darts embedding in walls and furniture. The fermented alien stink turned his guts to water.
Decapod. Oh, shit.
Killy had asked Ricci for one more day to round up the money he owed. Ricci owed him that much. This was the little gangster’s answer, to put a hit on him.
Ungrateful bastard.
The thing filled the doorway like a 600-kilo centipede, confused not to see Killy dying in bed.
“Wher’ ara you, Kirian-a Reach?” it tittered. Its flat, armored head no doubt scanning the dim room, obscene red antennae waving. Killy raised his weapon over the platform and squeezed off a three-round burst, hoping for the best. The decapod screamed like human girl and sprayed Flechettes into the ceiling and wall behind Killy before dropping its weapon to the deck with a dull thump.
Killy risked raising his head over the thin mattress. Smoke curled from a large black hole in one of the thing’s mid-body segments. All the limbs below the wound drummed uselessly against the deck. Those above gripped the doorway for support.
“Prea-za, no kill! I can-a herep you,” it chittered.
Amateur.
Killy raised his gun and blew the thing’s head off.

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