I can't believe you can even say that with a straight--*
[Well maybe not FORGOT, per se, he was just back-shelving the problem while he bought time to figure out a way to with it. Shitsticks. Rapidly backing up and unloading as many bullets as he can before he's buried, keeping calm and grim and even as they come - a hundred at lowball estimate.
Giant man-eating mutant moths from hell are still going to have a damn hard time overwhelming Arsenal, especially when he drops the other gun and pulls short hunting knives. Rapidly losing sight of Moth Man, though, and this feels like a last chance as he's dogpiled - mothpiled. With two thudded into his chest - ow - and six more clawing at his back - ngh - he can't reach most of his options, so he rips a knife through one (metallic!? that's just mean) jaw and hurls it low to pin one foot.]
[And then he loses all sight past the slavering jaws snapping at his face. Muffled from under the pile, he might still be audible if you're close.] Moths to a -- heheh.
[Footing lost, swept under the tide, he can still reach his flares. The next one's just getting popped and dropped. He shuts his eyes - doesn't need them to punch out the beastie gnawing on his shoulder.]