The Spine

White hot fire lanced through his shoulder; the resultant spasm of his right arm muddled his sight red and black. A foot of chitinous spine bloomed from his chest. He staggered, but did not fall. His revolver hung limply from twitching fingers. Mesmerized by the spreading wet scarlet on his shirt, time slowed. The battle raged, shrieks of rift horrors, valiant battle cries and the anguish of the injured forming a deafening, chaotic din. He took the gun in his left hand. Grinning through the blazing pain, he loosed a mad laugh, and blew a crater in an advancing horror.