Mack peered down to the source of the hot redness to find a stinging pain and a tear in his thick uniform at his upper thigh.
Thankfully, it seemed the bullet had just grazed him. The sniper was likely disoriented after the flashbang was thrown, causing them to miss. That didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell, though.
Two buzzes on the wrist.
Seriously?
He looked out through the window at the center of the sandbag wall and searched the field for whatever idiot was about to throw a frag grenade on an area with virtually no cover.
One of Squad 9's ambush supporters suddenly broke from the throng and rushed towards the turret, right hand fumbling along their belt for explosives.
They were aiming to destroy the thing in a last ditch effort.
Unfortunately, the enemy wasn't that stupid. Someone sprinting with their life on the line in the middle of an active battlefield drew attention, and soon there were several enemy assault members upon the person.
In one swift motion, a reinforced steel machete, top sharpened like a surgical scalpel and bottom barbed with rusted spikes (a combination of efficient flesh-slicing and difficult-to-heal wound creation) met its end at their stomach, and pierced clean through.
Though the figure stood, and they were in throwing range, holding down the handle of the blade with their other hand to prevent the enemy from yanking it back out.
There was a chance then, to damage the turret and those surrounding it.
Their shoulder pulled back like the bowstring of an archer, and nocked at its end was the frag grenade that had just been signalled.
But before they could release it, another enemy soldier grabbed their forearm and wrenched their shoulder quickly in an effort to dislocate it, forcing them to drop the grenade to the floor.
Unfortunately for the three of them, the pin had already been pulled.
The BANG! it created was easily enough for everyone to pinpoint the sound.
The three bodies blew away from each other with the force of the shockwave, front layer of clothes seared off with the heat created by being so close to the blast.
Forming three points within a circle of debris dug into the ground, the bodies lay prone, limbs twisted in various conformations of unnatural breakage. One's shattered femur even visibly strained at its pantleg while the man's boot, likely still containing a foot, lay inches away and angled away.
Each body was decorated with an uneven smattering of steel fragments buried completely in their skin, marked by the flowing of blood from the wound, making their torsos look like canvases for a child's fingerpainting.
Not a single corpse attempted to get up. Their fates were all sealed.
No no no no, Mack thought. One of their own, one of Lucky No. 9 itself, had just found themselves in the lethal radius of their own fragmentation grenade.
An assault member, of which there were only three.
Captain Gram, who was positioned at the other end of the battlefield, Berett Klein, and Iris Perez.
Mack's thoughts began spiraling.
We just talked the other day. It can't be possible that she's--no, no. She wouldn't do that, would she? Try to sacrifice herself like that?
Mack took a breath. He couldn't let himself dwell on it any longer. But--
The figure threw with its right hand. Iris is left-handed.
Then it was Berett Kline's corpse that lay in front of him. Knowing that shouldn't have relieved him at all: it was still a person he knew, someone he talked to.
Hell, Berett had helped him fix the corner of his sheets a few weeks ago, when the wrinkles would have likely made him fail inspection.
They'd discussed how much they missed their parents over unsalted porridge breakfast.
They'd drunk and sang together like every other Squad member after victory. Mack was tasked with dragging his sloshed and passed out body back to the barracks, when he himself wasn't in a much more sober state.
[what a skilled gardener this place must be to graft a life on another]
Yet a part of him couldn't help but be absolved of its grief. That it was 'only' Barett, and not Iris instead laying there with a hundred holes in his gut, machete still sticking straight up from his abdomen.
TACKTACKTACKTACKTACK!
The second round of turret fire snapped him out of his thoughts. The sandbag wall he hid behind was growing more unstable now that several more massive bullets had lodged themselves inside.
A single bullet's momentum was so strong it was nearly enough to force one of them to slide backwards, which would effectively topple the entire structure.
Since Mack's position had been exposed, he wouldn't be able to pick off targets easily anymore, being thrown into the center of the battle, and the short reprieve of hiding here seemed as if it, too, would soon be torn to shreds.
As he analyzed his surroundings, an idea came to mind: about twenty feet away lay the still-twitching body of an enemy assault squad member, carrying with it a machete and full belt of weapons.
Mack was no good with hand-to-hand weapons, but hopefully, going deeper into the throes of battle would detract attention from his position as he blended into the crowd of wounded men.
So that was exactly what he did. For the first time in the battle, he left his rifle behind, after ejecting its clip and putting the remaining bullets in his pockets. Mack probably wouldn't be the only person scavenging for weaponry, after all.
It was somehow easy to ignore the screams of carnage around him, the cranking of the turret, the cries of the dying, and the clashing of blades as he crept towards the body.
When he reached the man, helmet still on, Mack saw the chest still rose and fell every few seconds, making a sick rattling sound as it did so.
Though the man did not look as if he had the strength to move his limbs anymore.
Mack rolled him over, ignoring the soft moans of pain, unclipped his weapons belt, and slung it around his chest like a cross-body bag. He took the blade and left the man to choke in his own fluids.
It was easy to leave the enemy to suffer when their face was obscured.
Mack began his staggered trek to the turret, aiming to circle behind. Barett's main mistake was running so conspicuously towards it. To get close without drawing attention, it was necessary to not make the move look purposeful at all, but a natural result of being pushed back in battle.
Mack had also noticed something else. Though the first round of firing hadn't had the discretion to only target his fellow defending soldiers, the second had.
It had avoided shooting at areas dense with its comrades, and lingered more at each spot while it swung around to ensure at least one of the rapidly-fired projectiles hit its target.
That meant if Mack wanted to get close to the thing without being shot by it first, he had to risk close combat.
Though a man as unlucky (or lucky?) as him wasn't even afforded the time to mull over such a dilemma. Already staggering towards him was an enemy soldier brandishing a weapon identical to the one he held.
Shitshitshit.
Though the man was clearly limping, haven been struck in the calve at one point, the matchup was hardly in Mack's favor. For one, he only had one good arm to weild a two-handed weapon. And for two, unlike the other assault members, he had no access to bulletproof armors.
As such, there was no need for the soldier he faced to bother with aiming for the armor's joints and weakspots. His whole body was a weakspot.
I can't afford to go for the kill. I have to use this.
The gears of a plan were turning in his head.