Poor Odds

“Force field is active.” A rapid jumble of data scrolls behind Lizard’s eyes.
“Time until it fails?”
The Fury screams, writhing its huge body in an ecstasy of rage, tentacles searching the darkness for attackers.
“Five minutes.”
Witch sights down her rifle. “How sure are you this will work?”
“Approximately 32%.”
“Crappy odds to bet your life on.”
“Long odds or no odds. You choose.”
She has the shot they need. Never any doubt about those odds at least.
“Ready.”
“Fire.”
She fires.
The Fury screams again as her bullet bores into its left eye.
Then it comes for her.