Star Crossed

Ron felt the warning before his ears ever heard it. One minute he'd been combing over the same corridor of dusty, abandoned warehouse offices he'd explored at least three times before. The next, without even consulting his brain, his body had automatically dropped into a low crouch. Alarm buzzed over his skin like static electricity, raising the hair on his neck and arms.

A stack of wooden crates loomed above him, hiding him in shadow, and offering the illusion of protection. Alone in the semi-darkness he waited, pulling the neck of his stained gray sweatshirt up over his mouth and nose to try to quiet the sound of his breathing.

Then he heard it - a distinctly insectoid chittering, soft at first. Then closer. Scrape. Scrape. A sound like fingernails on a chalkboard... or claws on concrete.

The noises grew louder, and just when it seemed like the source of them must be nearly upon him, they stopped. Ron held his breath and tightened his fingers around the crowbar he'd been carrying; if it slipped from his sweaty hand, he'd give away his position.

A sharp keening howl rent the air, which could only mean one thing - death was imminent.

As long as it's not mine, Ron thought to himself. He leapt to his feet, and dashing out from behind the crates, smashed his crowbar into the alien's face.

Ron felt a satisfying crunch as the metal impacted the soft spot that was located just above what one might consider the creature's nose. It dropped to the floor of the warehouse like it was made of lead, but he hit it again and again, just to be sure it was down for good.

It had taken humans a long time to find any advantage over the aliens that had invaded Earth just about a year ago. Now with billions of people dead and the survivors thrown into tiny local factions, each struggling to eke out an existence, each out to protect their own, the knowledge that the Bugs had a soft spot didn't seem like much of a consolation.

But I'll take it.

Once he was sure there were no more bugs in his immediate vicinity, Ron used his sleeve to wipe the sweat and Bug juice from both his face and the long fringe of dark blond hair that fell over his forehead. He looked down at the alien, which was twitching a safe distance from his feet. It really did look like a bug, like a giant, blue, six-foot-tall praying mantis that walked upright.

Humans had quickly learned that guns wouldn't do any good against the Bugs' thick carapaces, and the stockpiles of ammo that remained after the invasion hadn't lasted very long anyway. Instead, humans had been forced to learn how to use hand weapons to hit that soft spot. Bows and arrows worked too, though taking a bug down that way was not an easy feat unless the Bug happened to be sitting still.

Fighting these aliens required a specific fighting style, almost like boxing or fencing – you had to learn to dart in, strike, and then back off quickly if you missed, so you wouldn't be in the way of its claws. The Bugs didn't have great reflexes, but they did have a lot of power and strength. And while they didn't have hands for carrying weapons, they also didn't need them - not with the wicked, serrated claws they wielded. Ron had witnessed first-hand the effect of not being fast enough in a Bug fight. He'd seen decapitations, seen people lose limbs - and if you lost an arm these days, you were as good as dead.

It wasn't really the fact that the Bugs had terrifying claws and were well armored that had wiped out humanity. No, it had been the element of surprise from above, combined with superior firepower from their ships. Now the Bugs had numbers over the humans, something also of immediate concern for Ron, because he was sure this one hadn't been alone.