GUNSHOT

Southaven looked up. The ladder looked sound. “I’m going up.”

“Uh, wait. I’ll go.” Mike quickly said.

“No,” Southaven answered, “I need you here. Give me covering fire. Then I’ll cover for you.” Mike nodded.

“What about me?”

Both men looked at Heather.

“Some more cover fire?” Mike proposed. Heather’s face was hopeful, it soon turned jubilant.

Southaven spoke, “you could launch a few grenades to keep their heads down. Shoot...at...them.” He pointed back 20 meters up on the catwalk where they thought the rebels were hiding. “It’s the only decent cover up there. Just shoot there.” Don’t shoot me, he thought but didn’t say, don’t blow up the ladder or blow a hole in the catwalk that I have to cross. In fact I’d rather you didn’t do anything, but you won’t listen anyway and Mike is enabling you and, hell!

“Ok,” she said.

He took a deep breath and another. “One, two, THREE!”

Mike popped up and began shooting at the crates on the catwalk. Three round bursts, just like the game’s AI tutorial taught him when he was a kid. A constant stream of three round bursts.

Southaven ran for the ladder. He let go of his own rifle and the patrol sling held it by his side. Hands on the rungs at head height, he started to climb. Nobody was shooting at him.

Mike was running out of ammo in his clip. He reached back with a leg and nudged Heather. She took her cue and popped up. Mike fired a few more bursts while she aimed the grenade launcher. The weapon’s sight and the targeting on her visor’s HUD painted a crosshair on the crate. She leaned into the weapon and pulled the trigger. CHUNK. The stock of the launched kicked back into her shoulder. The grenade spat out.

It missed the crates, her aiming point, but hit the wall and exploded only two meters in front of the crates. “Yes!” she shouted. She blew a big hole in the wall that she hit.

“That will, uh, keep their heads down,” Mike said.

Mike popped up and started shooting again. Heather didn’t bother ducking down. She just started reloading. Without looking, she just grabbed a grenade round and shoved it into the weapon.

Southaven was scampering up the ladder like his life depended on it. His life probably depended on it. At the very top, he half jumped, half threw himself onto the catwalk. He could see shots hitting the crates, but there was darkness behind. Light that was streaming in through the hole in the wall messed with his vision. His hands automatically grabbed his rifle and were bringing it to bear. “Helmet, infrared,” he commanded.

A grenade hit with a firey explosion. A very firey mess. A splatter of fire and burning fuel landed a meter in front of him. Incendiary? Who the hell would shoot an incendiary this close… The answer was clear. Heather. Probably thought she was helping. The tolerant thought was instantly replaced by angry thoughts. The firey mess ruined his infrared view. Everything was white hot. Almost everything. A dot wasn’t.

What the hell? He flipped modes. Through the firey screen he saw it. The menacing muzzle of a gun barrel. Everything was in slow motion. Southaven tried, but couldn’t get his weapon on target. He tried to pull the trigger. Vague suppressing fire was better than nothing. Everything was too slow.

The shot rang out. Southaven could swear that he saw the bullet exit the gun. Impossible, he thought. Then there was a searing pain and the world went black.