"How many of 'em do you think there are? I can't see, but I'm guessing there's more than one." Palmer doesn't dare shoot, for fear of hitting someone on his side. He has a hard time tracking the creatures.
Palmer instinctively freezes. The creatures are coming after them, and his one small gun won't be enough to hold them all at bay. There's more than one, for sure, he's having trouble following their movements, and he's probably the most vulnerable member of the team in terms of physical capabilities. All in all, Palmer isn't feeling particularly optimistic.
However, Furiosa dragging him closer snaps the mechanic out of it, and he scampers toward the ramp, joining her. He wants to be out of the way when Harley brings out heavier weaponry, as well as out of the creatures' grasp if he can help it. His mind's conjuring up creatures from movies and real life - scuttling xenomorphs, the snarling Dog-Thing, monsters of every shape and size. He hasn't gotten a good look at the creatures, letting his imagination run away with him. The fact that the danger is very real doesn't help.
He ducks, imagining a twining tail or a tendril reaching down to snag him by the throat and haul him up, like a monster out of a movie he remembered seeing before Antarctica. Except there isn't just one monster, there's a whole pack of them. They're outnumbered and surrounded. Not good.
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Palmer instinctively freezes. The creatures are coming after them, and his one small gun won't be enough to hold them all at bay. There's more than one, for sure, he's having trouble following their movements, and he's probably the most vulnerable member of the team in terms of physical capabilities. All in all, Palmer isn't feeling particularly optimistic.
However, Furiosa dragging him closer snaps the mechanic out of it, and he scampers toward the ramp, joining her. He wants to be out of the way when Harley brings out heavier weaponry, as well as out of the creatures' grasp if he can help it. His mind's conjuring up creatures from movies and real life - scuttling xenomorphs, the snarling Dog-Thing, monsters of every shape and size. He hasn't gotten a good look at the creatures, letting his imagination run away with him. The fact that the danger is very real doesn't help.
He ducks, imagining a twining tail or a tendril reaching down to snag him by the throat and haul him up, like a monster out of a movie he remembered seeing before Antarctica. Except there isn't just one monster, there's a whole pack of them. They're outnumbered and surrounded. Not good.
"Why are these things after us, anyway?"