The Mad Dog of The Apocalypse (pt.8)

In a flash, John jumped back on his good leg, the beast too surprised to hold her grasp.  With enough distance between them now, he thrust his crutch into her abdomin and pushed himself even further back against it.  Though it felt like hitting a brick wall, the blow had meant to wind her, and it worked, barely, but it had come at a cost.  She had caught his crutch in one of her paws at almost the instant of impact and thrown it to the woodline.  John didn’t try to hang on to his improvised weapon, instead letting her take it.  She would have easily dragged him with it, had he not.

With only one leg, functional or otherwise, John would fall to the ground with only the slightest further provocation.  He had relied on his wooden leg since the moment of his injury and had never bothered to learn to balance well without it.  His mistake to be sure, but if her were honest, it wouldn’t have helped in the slightest.

He pulled his arming-sword from its scabbard and drove the point into the ground, steadying himself between it and his good leg.  Once he lifted it again, he could perhaps make one good swing- using all his body weight- before he fell.

But did he want to fight this beast?  To win against her?  No, not really.  But at the very least, he refused to die any other way but on his feet.  More than that, this was also his last chance to goad her into taking his life before he lost his soul to her lust.

He hefted his shield from his back and made a show of his will to fight.  “Come at me, beast!” he howled.

To his amazement, the hellhound took a seat.  In the middle of the road, the giant creature sat cross-legged.  With a smirk spreading across her face, she set her chin upon a paw with her  elbow resting upon her knee.

“No,” she said calmly.  “You come here.”  Idly, she picked up a rock about the size of his clenched fist and began playing with it, tossing it into the air and catching it.

John looked down at the sword supporting his weight, its tip buried in the earth, the only thing keeping him standing at the moment.  His scowl deepened.

“Oh, that’s right, Gimpy,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery, “You can’t move.  Cause you’re broken.”