He stepped into the chamber and an overwhelming stench of decay hit him immediately. Waylon gagged, pressing a hand over his mouth as he forced himself to move further in. Bones and shattered insectoid exoskeletons crunched softly under his boots with each cautious step. The darkness was nearly complete, broken only by a faint bioluminescent glow from patches of slime clinging to the walls.
He inched forward, every sense on high alert for any movement in the gloom. The floor was uneven and carpeted with remains—splintered bones, cracked carapaces, and sticky residue from long-decomposed bodies. With each step, he felt as though the darkness itself were closing in, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Fear and nausea mixed in his gut as he realized just how many creatures had met their end here.
As Waylon carefully placed his foot down, it sank into something soft and yielding. A wet squelch echoed in the silence and he froze, dread coiling in his stomach. Slowly, he lifted his boot to see strands of viscous, snot-like slime clinging to the sole. The sight and smell of the slimy muck made bile rise in his throat as he desperately tried not to retch.
He braced himself against the cavern wall, swallowing repeatedly to keep his stomach under control. Carefully, he dragged his boot along a patch of rough stone to scrape off the mucus-like goo. The slime stretched in tenacious strings before finally snapping and falling away in globs. Even after wiping, a slick residue remained, and he shuddered at the thought of what organic filth he was carrying on his shoe.
His eyes darted across the chamber, adjusting to the dim light. Amid the jumble of bones and detritus, something moved—slow, almost imperceptible. Waylon squinted and realized with dawning horror that several pale, slug-like creatures were gliding over the piles of remains. They left shimmering trails of slime as they went, the quiet sound of their bodies sliding across stone barely audible.
One of the slug-like beings oozed over a ribcage, its gelatinous body conforming to the contours as it moved. He watched in morbid fascination as the creature paused over a scrap of rotting flesh. A moment later, a tendril of slime secreted from its underside and the flesh began to dissolve, bubbling quietly as the slug consumed it. The process was disturbingly efficient, reducing a chunk of meat to nothing within seconds.
Waylon's skin crawled at the sight of it, yet he couldn't look away. These slugs were living disposal units, slowly devouring everything left in this macabre chamber. The realization sent a chill through him—this wasn't just a random collection of carcasses, it was a deliberate dump site. The insectoid creatures must use this place to discard their dead and unwanted remains, leaving the slugs to do the cleanup.
He realized with a sinking feeling that these insectoids were not only dangerous, but organized. The existence of a dedicated refuse pit meant they had established routines—this was a colony that cared for cleanliness, or perhaps to prevent disease. They weren't mindless beasts acting on random instinct; they had a system, a horrifyingly efficient one. That knowledge made them even more terrifying, as it hinted at a structured intelligence behind their monstrous actions.
He wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, the air so foul that each breath felt like inhaling decay. It took all his willpower to stay quiet and not gag again at the sour, organic stench. If this truly was a garbage pit for the insectoids, then he was standing in the worst possible place. The thought of being discovered here, trapped among the bones and acid-secreting slugs, made his heart hammer wildly.
He carefully navigated around the piles, placing each step with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. The last thing he wanted was to slip and fall face-first into the filth or, worse, disturb the creatures feasting on it. Despite the terror clawing at his mind, he forced himself to observe quietly, hoping to learn something useful about his enemies. Every second in the chamber tested the limits of his endurance, the fear of what else lurked in the shadows ever-present.
He heard it then—a faint skittering echo from the tunnel behind him, cutting through the silence. Waylon froze, blood running cold as recognition set in: something was coming. The unmistakable cadence of multiple clawed feet on stone grew rapidly louder, confirming his worst fear. In mere seconds, the murmur of the chamber was overtaken by the clatter of approaching insectoids.
In that instant, adrenaline flooded his veins and the urge to flee nearly overtook him. He knew what would happen if he ran headlong into those creatures—he had seen the aftermath scattered around this chamber. But there was nowhere to run that wouldn't put him directly in their path.
Heart in his throat, his eyes darted around frantically for any scrap of cover in this open charnel house. The towering heaps of bones and carapaces offered a grim opportunity. It would mean immersing himself in the gore, but it was the only chance to avoid immediate detection.
Waylon dropped to a crouch behind a particularly large heap of exoskeleton fragments and bones. The slimy ground beneath him made his footing uncertain, but he steadied himself with one hand on the floor. With no time to hesitate, he eased himself down and pressed his body into a depression between mounds of remains. His heart pounded so violently he was sure the creatures would hear it as they entered.
He grabbed at loose bones and pieces of carapace, hastily pulling them over himself. Each fragment was slick with decay, and he had to stifle a gag as he draped a particularly rancid hide over his back. The instinct to recoil from the gore fought with the instinct to survive; survival won out. Within moments he was lying prone under a layer of foul detritus, trying to make himself as small and corpse-like as possible.
The world became a claustrophobic crush of death around him. He felt the cold, slimy surface of an exoskeleton pressing against his cheek and a jagged bone digging into his side. Each shallow breath he took filled his nose with the stench of rot, threatening to choke him. Waylon shut his eyes tight, focusing on staying utterly still despite the revulsion wracking his body.
The clattering sound of insectoid limbs on stone grew louder, then stopped as the group entered the chamber. Waylon could barely see through the gaps of the piled remains, but he sensed movement and the presence of several large figures. A chittering exchange echoed off the walls—the creatures were communicating in clicks and hisses. He lay frozen beneath the bones, scarcely daring to breathe.
From his limited vantage point, he caught a glimpse of spindly legs and a glint of carapace shifting in the darkness. At least two insectoids had come in, their footsteps producing a nerve-shredding chorus of taps and scrapes. Waylon's fingers twitched involuntarily around a bone he clutched, every muscle in his body taut. He prayed that in the dim light and amidst the clutter of death, he would remain just another lifeless shape.
A heavy thud jolted the pile as something was dropped not far from him. He felt the vibration through the bones covering his back and fought the urge to flinch. Peeking through a narrow gap between two skulls, he saw one of the insectoid creatures hauling what looked like a corpse across the floor. It stopped in the center of the chamber, dragging its burden with a sickening scrape.
It was smaller than some he had seen before, perhaps a juvenile or a worker, yet still grotesque. Its elongated arms clutched the limp body of another creature by the remnants of a leg. The corpse left a dark smear of fluids along the ground, a trail of blood and viscera glistening in the low light. Waylon's stomach lurched at the grisly sight, but he remained utterly still.
The insectoid dragged the corpse toward the center of the chamber, apparently heedless of the stench or the slugs that writhed nearby. It tossed the body onto an existing mound of remains with a dull, wet impact. A new wave of putrid odor wafted up, and Waylon had to clamp his mouth shut to suppress a gag. The creature stood there for a moment, multi-faceted eyes scanning the chamber briefly.
Waylon's lungs burned as he kept his breaths shallow beneath his grisly camouflage. He dared not move a muscle, even as a bead of sweat dripped into his eye, stinging. Through the tiny gap, he saw the insectoid's eyes flick over the piles of detritus, lingering for an agonizing second on the very heap he hid under. His heart nearly stopped when the creature took a step in his direction, sniffing the air with twitching mandibles.
The insectoid let out a low chitter, but then another sound from the tunnel made it turn away. It clicked once as if in response, then began to skitter back toward the passage it came from. Waylon watched in cautious relief as the creature disappeared into the darkness the way it had come. The clacking of its limbs faded, leaving the chamber to the soft squelch of slugs once more.
For a long moment, Waylon remained under the bones, fearing that any premature movement might draw something back. He could hear the faint squelches of the slugs resuming their feast on the fresh corpse, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded. The absence of any new insectoid noise—nothing but his own thundering heartbeat and the occasional drip of moisture—was his only assurance that he hadn't been detected.
At last, when his muscles ached from the prolonged stillness and his joints screamed for relief, he knew he had to move. He began to shift, inch by inch, letting the bones slide off him as gently as possible. Every motion was agonizingly slow; he felt as if even a single clatter would bring the horrors rushing back.
A femur rolled away as he pushed himself up, the sudden sound startling him despite its smallness. He paused, heart leaping to his throat, but no new chittering came, no clawed footsteps rushed back. Slowly, Waylon rose to a low crouch, the pile of remains sliding off his back and shoulders. The cold air of the chamber felt almost fresh compared to being under that awful heap.
He was shaking uncontrollably now that the danger had passed—an aftereffect of adrenaline and terror. Bits of rotted flesh and sticky gore clung to his clothes and skin, filling him with revulsion. Waylon wiped at his face with a sleeve, smearing more than cleaning, but he was too rattled to care. His priority was escaping this nightmare pit before something else arrived.
He knew just how close he had come to a gruesome end. If that insectoid had spotted even a hint of movement, he would have been torn apart without mercy. A shudder of terror ran through him at the mental image, but it also steeled his resolve to never let himself be that vulnerable again.
He cast one more glance around the chamber, teeth chattering softly as he fought to steady himself. The slugs continued their silent work, indifferent to his presence as long as he kept his distance. There was no telling when the insectoids might return or send another to dispose of more remains. Steeling himself, Waylon crept toward one of the tunnels branching off from the chamber, choosing the opposite direction from where the group had come.
The tunnel he picked was narrow and descending, its walls slick with moisture and something oily. His footsteps were too loud in his own ears, each soft thud of his boots seeming like a drumbeat in the quiet. Waylon forced himself to slow down and move as lightly as possible, despite the urge to sprint blindly from the horrors behind him. The darkness ahead was complete, forcing him to rely on touch and the faint hope that no creature waited just beyond his sight.
He realized with alarm that he was likely leaving a trail—smears of slime and blood from the pit clinging to his boots. Each footprint could be a beacon for the insectoids hunting these corridors. Swallowing his fear, he pressed on regardless; stealth was his only option, but speed was necessary too.
As he moved deeper, the sound of the slug chamber faded, replaced by his own ragged breathing. The passage twisted and he felt his shoulder scrape a wall where it narrowed unexpectedly. He bit back a curse and pressed onward, one hand trailing along the damp surface to guide him. The scent of rot was slightly less overpowering here, but the air remained heavy and stale.
Each step took him further from the vile pit, but not from the danger. He couldn't shake the feeling that in this warren of tunnels and chambers, he was only ever a few strides ahead of death. In a rare moment of despair, he questioned why he had ever come down here at all. The thought was pointless, he knew—no answer would matter if he couldn't make it out alive.
The tunnel leveled out and widened slightly, enough that he could almost stand fully upright. Waylon's hand slid along the wall until it met empty air—an intersection of passages. He hesitated, straining his ears for any hint of pursuers. The silence gnawed at him, as nerve-wracking as any noise because it meant he was utterly alone with his decisions.
He found himself at a junction where two paths diverged into darkness. Left or right—neither gave any clue of what lay beyond. Anxiety welled as he realized any choice could lead him deeper into danger or towards escape. With no time to second-guess, he followed his instincts and veered right.
He tried to quell the rising panic as he committed to the chosen path. The darkness ahead promised only the unknown, but going back was not an option. Each step forward felt like balancing on a razor's edge between salvation and doom.
He took the right-hand tunnel at a half-run, driven by urgency and dread. The passage curved sharply, and he rounded the corner with his shoulder nearly skimming the wall. In the next instant, he collided with something solid and wet, sending him stumbling back. A sickening sense of déjà vu washed over him as the reek of blood filled his nostrils anew.
Blinking in shock, Waylon found himself face to face with another insectoid creature looming just an arm's length away. This one was taller than the worker he had seen in the pit, with a broader, more armored torso. In its clawed arms it held a mess of bloody remains that dripped down its front. The creature's mandibles clicked in surprise or aggression—Waylon couldn't tell which.
The insectoid's head was cocked to the side, and its multifaceted eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it in a mosaic of eerie gleams. Each of those countless lenses focused on him now, an intelligent alien curiosity mixed with hunger glinting within. The creature smelled of iron and decay, fresh gore from the carcass painting its chitinous arms. Waylon's mind went blank with terror, every instinct screaming at him to move, but his body refused.
He tried to scream, or perhaps to swing the small knife he carried, but no sound or movement came. In that fraction of a second, Waylon felt utterly powerless, as though he were a mouse cornered by a ravenous predator. His throat tightened, a whimper stuck somewhere deep as he finally comprehended the sheer size and brutality of the thing before him. Time itself seemed to slow, stretching out the moment of impending doom.
The insectoid creature let out a shrill, chittering hiss that reverberated down the tunnel. Its grip on the bloody remains loosened slightly, pieces of flesh plopping to the ground between them. Waylon flinched at the sound but remained rooted to the spot, his legs numb with terror. The creature's sudden movement—dropping its grisly cargo—indicated it now had its full attention on him.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Waylon stood paralyzed, his body betraying him completely. The only motion came from his trembling hands and the involuntary heave of his chest as he gasped for breath. His wide eyes were locked onto the creature's face, drawn irresistibly to those glittering, multifaceted eyes that stared back.
At that instant, Waylon's world narrowed to that single, horrifying stare. Every detail of the creature's visage burned itself into his memory—the faceted eyes, the dripping mandibles, the gore-slick carapace. He was dimly aware of a hot tear slipping down his cheek, born of pure terror and despair. Waylon remained frozen in shock, staring directly into the creature's multifaceted eyes, unable to do anything but await his fate.