Stray Humans

The dilapidated cityscape stretched out before Solan, a haunting testament to a world no longer ruled by its original inhabitants. Tall, gray buildings, pockmarked with empty windows and draped in verdant vines, whispered forgotten tales on the wind. Every surface, from cracked pavement to rusted lampposts, was consumed by a wild, green embrace.

He moved with practiced stealth, his dog-like feet expertly navigating the debris, avoiding the tell-tale crunch of dry leaves. His glowing yellow eyes scanned every abandoned vehicle, every shadowed doorway, a silent hunter in a city of ghosts. For two hours, he had found nothing, but that was typical. Weeks, sometimes months, could pass without a single sighting.

Humans, as they called them, were elusive creatures, using these crumbling cities merely as transit points between their hidden forest havens and subterranean sanctuaries. Yet, the search was constant, for who knew when a stray might pass through, leaving a faint, fleeting trace.

“Just caught two small packs of humans here,” a voice crackled from his comm unit. It was Fifi, his partner. “Are you available to help us load them into the ship?”

“Two whole packs? How did you pull that off? I’ll be right there.” Solan replied, already turning back towards the camp, a rare success filling him with anticipation.

But a faint sound, carried on the soft breeze, made him pause. A fragile, wavering sound. Was that… crying?

He pressed a button on his belt, sending a signal to his team—something had come up. Following the noise, he wove through the decaying architecture until he reached a chain-link fence. Beyond it, curled into a tight ball, was a human boy, his small body wracked with sobs.