It came out of no where. No time to think, no time to do anything but react. Mike yelled at his partner but it was too late. He pulled out his gun and fired, once, twice. He kept firing until the gun was empty. It did nothing. They cut through the whatever it was like it was air. Maybe it was air. But it was air that in a matter of seconds had sliced a man open. Graham, eyes still open in a horrified shock, was dead on the ground, his neck a gaping sick smile of a wound, his guts spilling out of more slices cut into his flesh.
Mike did the only thing he could think of. He ran. He ran and prayed. He didn't look back, he couldn't. He had never thought of himself as a coward but in that moment he was scared. No he was terrified. That thing, half man half rabid hell hound, was after him and a part of him knew that he wasn't going to escape. It was only a matter of time before he too was dead.
Still he ran, jumping over debris, knocking down anything he could in a vain attempt to slow down the monster. He tripped, feeling himself fall as he lost his footing and braced himself for the impact and the first blow from the hound man.
But it never came. Mike could feel a strange wind and heard a crash behind him. He rolled over, wincing from what was likely a fractured rib and to his shock saw Henry Fitzroy going toe to toe with the thing.
"Fitzroy." Mike gasped.