Barrow Fields And under mountains in the moon

His vision was blurred and dark around the edges, but still he fought on. He wouldn't let this puny geriatric cunt bring him down. This wasn't how he died. He cried out as she clamped down on his muzzle, trying to bash his skull as hard as he could against her teeth (hoped he knocked them all out). Trying desperately both to loosen her grasp and to push her back down to the ground.

Then he felt another set of jaws take hold of him, and things became even more chaotic. He whirled, ripping his face from Caiaphas with a fresh spray of blood, blinded and trying to find purchase on the other. It was the other, Major Asshole. . . Where was he, where was he where was he where was hewh er wew aes eh ewa

Get out.

A voice clear as anything he'd heard before broke through the din, loud and commanding. Could it be that of God? Or--more shocking yet--that of his sense of self-preservation? He'd rarely been graced with its presence, and had heeded its warnings even less.

But he was blood-blind, deafened by his heart pounding in his ears, his body was going numb all over, and every breath was more labored than the last. Panting erratically, a constant bubbling growl in his throat, he found enough strength to attempt to loose himself from his enemy's grip once more. Should he escape, he'd run run run blinking hard enough to see again, though painful,

Running and not stopping until he found the redwoods again.