Pratt also collapses, or he would if he wasn't batted out of mid-air by an enormous furry paw that bashes him right into a tree.

He tumbles to the ground in a heap, one arm around his torso as he bleeds from the neck, from where his head hit the tree trunk, and from newly spreading wounds across his chest as bits of bone try to escape. Still, no matter how injured he is, he'll always get back up, he'll only stay down when someone puts him there permanently. Right now he's on all fours, a shaky, bloody hand reaching for the gun at his belt, forgetting that it's on the ground somewhere, lost in the chaos of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

Having died before, he knows what's coming, knows he has only minutes left if that. There's a wheeze as he tries to get further upright and at least look at the creature that's about to end him, if he doesn't bleed out first.

"Go on. Cull the herd."