Jaz didn't waste any time with the abrupt weight of the creature off her, pulled herself back, hands grabbing and pushing at the people she'd attempted to shield. "Run," she told them hoarsely, watching her savior with wide eyes as he he pulled a sword out, of all the crazy shit, a barbaric guardian angel-
- and that's all she got out, because the creature clawed through his pant leg and Jaz shouted an unintelligible protest.
The dog stopped moving; the guard went down. I killed him, her mind supplied, despite that he was still sitting up. He's scratched and now he's dead. The notion she'd almost died was quickly compartmentalized. Half crawling, half running, Jaz scrambled over to him. Fell to her knees in the sticky, coagulated blood on the ground next to him. What little she could see of his leg was ripped to shreds. "Oh jesus," she moaned, watching the blood starting to soak his pants. "Oh no, oh jesus-"
There was so much noise: gunshots from other parts of the camp, yells raised up from who knows where, echoing throughout the community; snarling noises, howls and yips and barks. Retching, as the smell of the animals got worse as more of their insides reached the open air. All this on top of the blood rushing in her ears, the sound of her own whimpers of fear.
With shaking, frantic hands Jaz tore at his pants, trying to get to his wound. There wasn't any way she had the strength to rip them apart right now but her brain didn't seem to understand that. It just wanted to see the damage, wanted to help. Was replaying the creature taking one last cruel potshot. Outside the overwhelming panic and urgency she was currently consumed by, she was probably doing more harm than good to his leg, pressing on the deep-clawed lines with her weight, pushing the fabric into the wounds.
"What do I- what do I do, what am I- what do I do?" she begged him, looking up at the grim set of his face. It was blurry behind the well of tears in her eyes.
And the thing is, and she knew this in a part of her mind that wasn't accessible right now, she'd dealt with worse in the last year. Handled worse, seen worse. But right this second, red on her palms and bloody dead dog drool covering her neck, the front of her shirt- she just- she didn't-