The bottle shattered under his boot. Mistake. A pile of trash to the right rustled,and as the soldier turned to see, a matte black automated turret popped up, unfolding. The Russians had mass produced thousands of them, mainly sound activated variants to be used in area denial during the war. At rest, it looked like an over sized upside down mixing bowl. Deployed, it looked like a piece of mechanical origami designed by Giger. The turret swung around, dual 30mm cannons centered exactly on his chest. It fired before he could even cry out, just a burst of six rounds, averaged out by the Soviet engineers to be enough to kill an average target with minimum ammunition expenditure. All six tore through his chest, just below his left pectoral. He was still standing when the turret snapped back into its hiding spot under the trash bags. He fell without a sound. Sargent Weathers turned to the squad behind him, who were still staring at Private Kingsley’s body.
“We might want to try another way,” he whispered.

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