Whatever it was, it was all I had, and it’s a poor workman who picks a fight with his tools. I heard that scrabbling sound again, from right in front of me, as my unseen assailant scaled whatever it was I’d fallen over. I made myself wait for an agonising second and then brought my makeshift club up with all the strength I had left, two-handed, with a silent prayer that the thing would be jumping down on me as the club came up. Its own speed and weight would give the blow a lot more heft than I could right then.
The shock jarred my arms right up to the shoulder. Something went crunch, and then the thing bellowed in agony even as its weight came down on me. I felt claws pierce my shoulder and I yelled too, kicking and rolling to try to get out from under it before it recovered from the pain and the shock.
No dice. I managed to lever my upper body a few inches up off the ground, but then the claws tightened, sending bolts of agony into my captive flesh, and hot stinking breath played over my face like a flameless blowtorch.
Out of options, running on pure instinct, I rammed my stick into the place where that mouth had to be, and was rewarded with another shuddering impact. No bellow of rage this time: it’s hard to make with the primal screams with a five-pound toothpick lodged in your gullet.
It wouldn’t stay down: I knew damn well it wouldn’t. I’d hurt it, and I’d given it so“7;deavmething to think about besides me, but this wasn’t a fight I could win: not without my whistle and a fair bit more lead time than the couple of seconds I probably had.
My eyes were starting to adjust to the dark now, at least a little, and I could see the crazy diagonal of the unhinged door up ahead of me.
I made it out onto the landing, but my head was still reeling a little from the whack it had taken earlier, and I almost fell down the stairwell before I could skid to a halt and orient myself. Down or up? No contest.