I got very sick this morning at like 1:15 and uhh yeah
this is written in the third person for effect. there shouldn't be too many chapters that are this way except for ones like this.
of gunfire and bullet wounds
pt. 1 of 3
He ducked as a bullet whisked past him, his breathing tight. He could feel the strain of his muscles beneath his gear, beneath the shirt and pants he wore under that, and even in his skin, just beyond the cloth material. To his right, he felt Forbes shift his weight so he was laying on his back, the two of them facing one another, careful not to show himself. A glance not to his right, but straight ahead; he took note of Talen's bright blue eyes staring at his head from the opposite ledge. And, in the corner, completely out of sight lay Gordo, a shadow amongst the dark foliage that concealed him in the woods.
He reminded himself to stick close to Talen, should they be split up; she was known for being quite excited when given a gun, which was precisely why she wasn't given one during round up. Of course, much like a girl, she proceeded to whine and banter until they'd had no choice to give her one; what she didn't know, and hopefully wouldn't find out too quickly, was that it wasn't loaded with rounds. The rest of them were loaded with more than they needed to do this job––half of which was her rounds, split into three sections.
He swallowed nervously; all he could hope was that this worked, that he hadn't sent all these people to their deaths and that the enemy wouldn't catch on until it was too late. This had to work––the best of the best were on his line, in his attack teams, in his formations. One wrong move and every single one of them could be blown to bits by a bomb or shot in the head too quick to have a final thought. The job was simple: kill the enemy, who happened to be kicking their asses right now. They'd had more artillery, more men than they'd expected.
This was going to be rough.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind; they could come later. He had a job to do; he had lives, people, and even his own ass on the line.
"You sure this is gonna work?" Forbes whispered harshly beside him. "There's only four of us in this dump, and I don't see you doing much!"
He glanced at Forbes, his most trusted ally, his second-in-command. "It's gonna work," he stated simply, and he hastily continued as Forbes' face started to twist in the beginning of a denial speech. "Trust me." He glanced in front of him and caught sight of the fifth member of their team, bled out and staring at him with cold, dead eyes.
He gulped in spite of himself, praying to God that this worked.
A glance to Talen; to Gordo; to Forbes. He steadied his shaking hands, calmed his racing heart as he mouthed one word:
"Move."
Together, they moved as one, shooting their guns at the farthest range. He could see people falling through his scope, could hear soldiers crying from below and above him. He heard a body slam behind him and didn't so much as flinch as bones cracked, cries died to silence, and the wet stench of blood reeked in his nose.
He could hear Forbes yelling at him from up ahead, and felt Talen's hand snatch the back of his uniform, hauling him away from the smoke and gunfire. Nothing but his own racing heartbeat pounded in his ears, for the rest of the world seemed to be on pause.
"Shit," Talen whispered faintly, then her voice rose as she called ahead, "He's shot!"
But they had no excuse but to keep going, for the enemy was already advancing. They raced between trees, weaved around bends, leaping over fallen logs; only the sound of their footsteps and ragged breathing could be heard in the too quiet landscape.
And then, suddenly, Talen was taken from his side, her throat being ripped open by a gunshot, and blood––wet, hot, sticky blood––clung to his face, his body, his senses as he continued on, his body screaming in protest.
There was nothing he could do, and so he kept going, farther and farther into the heart of the forest.