They were two hours into the patrol when his comm beeped.
“Hey, Gunny, some damned…pod just shot goo all over my visor. Gotta stop and clear it.”
“Negative, weed. Stand down, stand down!” As the gunny shouted, he knew his warning came too late.
He heard the familiar whip-crack sound as a creeper as thick as his leg discharged a huge thorn. It neatly transfixed the kid’s head from side to side.
He dropped in place, never even knowing what had killed him. Though they reduced the offending vine to oozing ruin, it was a bit too late to matter.