Something I Stepped On

                                        

                                              
Footsteps thudded down onto the mist wet cement, creating a cascade of echos in The abandoned street. The crumbled buildings all around the retreating figure were sad sentinels, witness to one weak prey's attempt to survive. They were the dying ruins of a great colony; advanced technology, advanced science, a flourishing civilization, and one of the few remaining citizens from that forgotten world was fleeing for their lives.
                              
The air was thick with swirling gray ashes, delicate as snow flakes, deadlier than snake bites. To make matters worse for the pour soul, the toxic mist was out today, blurring the horizon, adding confusion to their retreat. The standard breathing mask obscured the features of the face, ashes having stained the goggles a faint gray, preventing even a glimse inside the mask. The figure's harsh breathing hissed into the no longer quiet air. Because far down the street, not properly visibile in the mist and ash sodden air, was a flurry of movement. The air churned and boiled, the huge figure bursting into view.
                              
It was larger than the figure running from it, having a strange dome like front half with a sinuous, multi-legged body propelling it along. The creature was a pale yellowish-gray colour, a near perfect camoflague if it stood still in the dessicated city ruins. The joints and body of the creature dripped ichor, lubricating itself as protection against the toxic mist and ashes. Disturbingly enough the creature was a native to this planet, body altered through millenia of evolution to survive. Despite the initial distance between the fleeing figure, the creature sped towards its prey in a devastatingly fast rush and with a muffled scream the dome descended. The silent ruins stood mute witness as there were horrid crunching sounds, wet tears and then slurping. The creature never came to a complete stillness, some part of it always moving, clicking, chittering. The ichor dripped to the blood stained cement and steam rose from it, hot and vile.
                              
Standing perfectly still less than ten feet away was a lone figure, watching the spectacle. It too wore a breathing mask, and had garments that were tattered, dusty, beige and gray. The mask itself was battered looking, the materials durable and tough but still worn looking. The owner of the mask had added pieces to the mask, giving it a demonic edge with three horns spiking out from the forhead, and a barbed twist of bone and metal braided into the straps of the mask, securing it to their face but making a deadly sheild against those that would tear the mask off.
                              
The large creature was somehow unaware of the witness to its feasting. It sucked the moisture of blood and bile out, cracking bones to access the precious marrow inside. When it had satiated itself on the poor meal, it retreated back down the street and away from the witness. When there was no more stirring in the ashes and no sound echoed down, the immobile figure suddenly broke into action. With deft movements they approached the remains, oblivious to the filth of death the figure searched through sodden clothes, removing items that could be salvaged. The mask was coated in globs of torn flesh, but otherwise serviceable, and with a careless flick of gloved fingers, the shred of skin were discard and the mask was tucked away. The figure turned away from their fallen comrade and prepared to make their way up the rubble hill when an unusual whistling sound rang out in the air.
                              
Peering upwards, trying to track the sound, it was impossible to see. The ashes and mist offered no view, and instead the figure closed their useless eyes and felt the area around them, listening intently. The ground rumbled slightly, vibrations stronger in one direction than the others, and the weird echoes corroborating the direction. Quick but silent movements had the figure scrambling through the rubble, dodging in the ruins towards the growing sound. A faint memory from childhood prompted their actions, a subconscious realization compelling them forward.
                              
In the distance, but close enough to be knocked off their feet by the impact, the figure heard something crash down. A wave of dust billowed in the ashy mist, coating the fallen figure in another layer. After a moment to ensure the impact and upheaval had ceased, the dust caked figure rose up and catuiously approached.