The Fallen Warrior

A Futile Resistance

He scrambled backwards over the rough dirt and debris, the sharp edges cutting into the flesh of his hands as his legs kicked out in a desperate attempt to propel him further, while his feet slipped upon the loose rubble that was strewn all about his position.

Surely he'd gone far enough?

His back impacted on the rough surface of a wall which remained stubbornly upright despite the repeated bombardment of the area and a sharp stab of fear lanced through his chest as he quickly realised his chosen route of retreat was rudely blocked against any further progress.

What the hell had just happened? It was meant to be an easy target.
His chest heaved as he gulped down breath after breath while his mind tried to catch up with the enormity of it.
The team strike team was gone.
His team. His people.

The explosive blast had knocked him clear off his feet only moments before their position was peppered with gunfire. The hail of bullets that tore into the ground with such ferocity churned up a thick cloud of dust that had obscured his view but also gave him the cover he needed to escape.

At that very moment, it seemed like no one else had made it out.
Was he was the only survivor?
His heart seemed to fall away within his chest and he swallowed down the urge to be physically, violently ill at the thought.

The breeze which swept through the ruins had already dissipated most of the cloud to leave only a thin haze above the torn, twisted landscape where piles of freshly gathered debris and bodies littered the ground.
He stared in brazen defiance as he scoured for any sign of movement; any hint of life.
No, he couldn't be the only one. Surely?

Sporadic gunfire erupted from over to his left.
He shifted position to scour the rubble-strewn wreckage as far as he could see, but could not find the source. The shots were frenzied and rapid, but the howl of defiance which tore through the air gave rise to some hope there were others out there who'd survived.
Now they had to fight for their lives.
The howl turned to screams.
Defiance to terror.
The gunfire stopped.
The ember of hope which had flickered quickly doused as despair took hold and he swallowed hard and pressed his eyes shut, hoping like hell that his comrade had found a swift death.

Of course, scavengers.
He'd seen them on battlefields before as they picked through the bodies to find those who were still alive and then dragged them off toward the enemy lines. They seemed to be an amalgam of metal and living tissue, and highly resistant to gunfire.
Troops would unload full magazines into the things in an attempt to free fallen comrades from their clutches, which only seemed to slow their dogmatic progress in execution of their morbid task.

Stories were told, as they often were in most great conflicts, of inhuman acts metered out on those unfortunate souls taken by the enemy. Tales of mad experiments to test human endurance and of the conversion factories which turned living souls into mindless automatons which swelled the ranks of the invaders rippled through the lower echelons of Earth's defenders as they waited to be deployed in the field.
Hell, he'd told a few himself.

It was the reason why a consensus was reached that it was more humane to shoot the captive than allow them to suffer a fate in the hands of their enemy.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he opened his eyes and glanced down to the rifle clasped tight against his chest, the small gauge built into the side of the firing chamber an indicator of how little use it was to him.
Three shots left, maybe four.

Against the normal militia troops there was a good chance he could take down one or two before using the last bolt on himself, but against those mechanised creatures?
Their hide was too heavily armoured which meant his chances of taking one down with less than a full clip were slim at best.

He lifted his gaze to stare out across the rubble and debris which had slowed his retreat, knowing that his belt filled with reloads was out there somewhere, lost in the mad scramble to retreat.

His head fell back against the surface of the wall as he tried to slow his breathing, taking in hearty gulps of air. In through the nose and out through the mouth.

If he could find cover within the ruins all about him and hide there was a chance he could wait out their search. It was a very slim chance, but enough to relight that sliver of hope deep within his chest.
Yes! He was going to survive!

Somewhere over to his right, he heard the scrabble of metal on stone and his breath caught in his throat. He turned his head, ever so slightly, with his eyes as far to the right as he could manage to try and gain sight of the source.
His hand tightened about the grip of his rifle.

His gaze stretched along the wall he used as support to the far end where its jagged uppermost edge met with the cracked paving slabs, then beyond to the almost mountainous pile of masonry that had gathered where a building had fallen into the street. Dislodged bricks tumbled down the incline but there was no other sign of the thing that caused it, yet he could still hear it moving against the loose rubble as it scrambled and scuttled about.
It sounded fast, agile and close.

His tongue slid across his lips and his breathing reduced to a slow and steady rhythm as he tried to blink away the small beads of sweat that had cascaded from his brow to the corners of his eyes. He had to stay still.
Dirt fell upon his shoulder.
He held his breath.
Something was above him.

Slowly and steadily, he twisted his head around and to one side so that he could look up above to the ruined line of wall that stood above his own place of refuge and felt his heart race within his chest as he watched the two metallic limbs snake about as they came into view. Each of them segmented, which allowed almost organic freedom of movement much like that seen in a tentacle as it writhed to and fro.
On the end of each arm, there was a claw that seemed to flex and snap at the air as the creature moved further into view above him.

An arachnoid. He tried to swallow as softly as he could manage.
They'd found him...