Everything I'd ever learned about marksmanship flowed through my mind as I sighted down the length of the barrel. Breathing, steady and slow, wait for the natural pause. Trigger squeeze, tip of the finger, not the bend, smooth squeeze, don't pull. Sight picture, the base of the antenna squarely framed by the rear notch, bisected by the sight post. My hand had never seemed so steady, so sure. Everything slowed to a crawl, and as the breath left me, I paused for a split second and took up the slack on the trigger.
That old revolver roared in my ears, but my eyes never left the target. I knew the shot would go true, but I didn't know if it would be enough. As the bullet ripped through the chitin and into the joint, there was an explosion of clear, viscous liquid, and the monster screamed again, but the antenna didn't go flying off like I'd hoped. The centipede turned, orienting on me, and the antennae lashed out toward me.
It was only then, after beginning to think that I'd failed and doomed us all, that I saw how that antenna flailed wildly, no longer tapping with the same precision as the blind beast tried to find me. I hadn't taken the antenna off, but I had crippled it. We had a chance.
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