Mike risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The demonling, as he'd started calling it in his head, was still following. The previous charge had left it looking slightly disoriented, but it wasn’t dissuaded from the pursuit. Or perhaps the gash on its neck, still weeping blood, was finally taking a toll. Its pace had slowed, but it was still gaining on him. The old advice about not putting weight on an injured leg was a luxury he couldn't afford. Ignoring the searing pain, he forced himself into a desperate charge toward the split boulder he’d passed earlier. His wounds tore open wider, and his left leg was now sheathed in crimson. The pain was an excruciating, white-hot agony with every step, but the fear of death was a far stronger motivator. This was his only shot, he was sure of it. The short sprint had already pushed the pain to a terrifying new peak, and a dizzying wooziness from blood loss was starting to cloud his vision. And who knew what poisons or pathogens festered on a Infernal dog’s claws? Mike could only offer a silent, desperate prayer that his new powers came with a supercharged immune system. He finally reached his goal, heaving a few ragged breaths before turning to face the monster, now only forty meters away. Seeing its prey had stopped running, the creature hesitated, its advance slowing to a halt. A low hiss rumbled from its chest, a sound far too deep for a creature of its size. Mike’s blood ran cold. He was afraid it would simply wait, letting his wounds bleed him dry, or worse, summon reinforcements. If that happened, his sliver of a chance would be extinguished completely. The throbbing agony in his legs was a constant reminder that his time was limited, with or without a demonic pack arriving. “COME ON, YOU PIECE-OF-SHIT DOG!” he roared, the curse feeling clumsy and inadequate on his tongue. He snatched a small rock from the ground and hurled it with all his strength at the demonling. It sailed through the air in a high arc before missing spectacularly by several meters. Luckily, the creature needed little encouragement for mayhem. With a guttural roar, it lowered its head and barreled straight for him again. “Come on, come on…” he whispered, his knuckles white as he readjusted his grip on the hatchet. This was it. Do or die. When the monster was just three meters away, he threw himself to the side with every last ounce of his strength. The creature was more prepared this time, and a claw managed to rake across his calf. The gash wasn't as deep as the others, but it still burned like hellfire. The demonling’s momentum carried it forward, straight into the narrow cleft of the split boulder. The space was barely wide enough to admit its head and shoulders. It slammed into the rock with a sickening crunch of stone and bone, becoming wedged fast as its second pair of legs hit the opening. Gravel and rock chips flew, and its pained snarl was thick with fury. There was no time to hesitate. Mike scrambled to his feet, the pain so staggering it nearly buckled his knees again, but the adrenaline surging through him refused to let him fall. This was the small window he had gambled everything to create. If this didn't work, nothing would. Offering a silent plea for strength to any god that might be listening, he gripped the hatchet with both hands and swung with all his might at the base of the monster’s spine. He could only hope the anatomy of these hell-spawn was similar enough to terrestrial animals—that a blow to the spine would sever nerves, maybe even an artery. The axe blade struck true, cleaving through bone with a wet crack. A geyser of dark blood erupted from the wound, followed by a piercing yelp. The creature's powerful hind legs went completely limp, thumping uselessly against the ground. But even trapped and crippled, it was no sitting duck. It thrashed wildly, and one of its four remaining legs lashed out, catching Mike squarely in the stomach. He was thrown backward, the hatchet ripped from his grasp. He hit the ground with a thud that drove all the air from his lungs. Ignoring the protest of his worsening wounds, he forced himself back to his feet. The world spun for a dizzying second, but he clenched his jaw and willed himself to stay conscious. The sight that greeted him was better than he’d dared hope. Both of the beast's hind legs were useless, and a pool of dark red blood was rapidly spreading beneath it. The wound he’d inflicted must have nicked a major artery; the blood was gushing from its back in far greater quantities than from the shallow cut on its neck. There was still fight left in it, though. It clawed at the rock, trying to pull itself free, its efforts gaining it a few centimeters. It also let out a series of desperate, unending roars, as if calling for its brethren. Mike wasn’t about to wait for them to arrive. He stepped forward gingerly, gripped the axe handle, and with a sharp tug, ripped it free from the monster’s spine. He was smart enough to step back this time, anticipating another violent thrash. But all that came was a weak snarl. Blood gushed even faster from the open wound. It looked doubtful the creature would survive even if he left it alone. Not daring to take the risk, Mike stepped forward again. With a swing like a baseball bat, he planted the axe deep in its torso, hoping to shred its lungs and other vital organs. A sickening thud echoed in the quiet woods, and more blood streamed out. The beast barely moved now, only faint whimpers escaping its throat. Mike didn't stop. He raised the hatchet and brought it down again and again, a frantic, desperate rhythm, until his own strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground, heaving. A strange warmth flooded his body, a product of the violent exertion. The entire left side of the monster was now a grisly maze of wounds. All movement had ceased. No more roars or whimpers escaped its maw. Its head and front two paws were still jammed between the two halves of the boulder, its arms mangled from the reckless charge and its subsequent attempts to claw its way free. While Mike knew nothing of the resilience or tricks of a demonling, this thing looked well and truly dead. He laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position and fought to catch his breath. As the adrenaline began to fade, the stark reality of his situation crashed back down on him. He was hurt. Badly. He must look like a madman, caked in blood from head to toe, a gruesome mixture of his own and the monster’s. It felt impossible that he was still conscious, let alone alive, after losing so much blood. If he didn't do something, he wouldn't see another sunrise. He slowly, painfully, got to his feet and began to stagger back toward the camp. He thought about shouting for help but immediately dismissed the idea. The last thing he needed was to lure another monster, not when he couldn't even lift his axe. The trip from the boulder to the camp had taken less than a minute before. Now, he ambled forward for what felt like an eternity, until the chaotic, ransacked campsite finally came into view. The camper was still standing next to the car, but its side was dented. The cooler they had brought was on its side, its contents of water and beer spilled across the dirt. He didn't have the energy to care about the mess. He lurched toward the camper, its door hanging wide open. With some foresight, they had brought a decent first-aid kit. A hospital was what he really needed, but unless someone could drive him, he’d never make it. For now, he could at least disinfect and bandage the wounds, perform some crude battlefield triage on himself. It might be enough to get him back to civilization. For the first time since returning, Mike realized something was wrong. There was no blood in the camp. No body parts. He hadn’t dared to let the thought form completely, but on some subconscious level, he had assumed the demonling had killed the others. If they had been attacked, there should have been blood, at the very least. Mike had little confidence that the others could have fended off that beast and escaped. The axe in his hand had been the only real weapon at the camp, aside from a few small kitchen knives. And even with it, he had only survived through sheer luck and a desperate plan. His improved physique had been a massive help, but that alone would never have been enough. That creature had been faster and stronger than a bear. Unless the others had received the same strange strengthening he had, they would have been prey, not adversaries. He glanced around cautiously as he neared the camper. The car was empty. No sound came from inside the camper, either. “Guys? Are you there? Chloe?” he croaked, his voice a subdued rasp, still terrified a shout might attract more monsters. But silence was the only answer he received.

Chapter 4: Blood and Desperation