Jack was struggling to hold on, his arm was aching and the blood was drying, sticking to him. He grit his teeth and held on, shoving his gun into his waistband and used both arms now. He was losing blood and he knew he was going to die again. Dying slow was the worst. He rested his forehead to the pillar. "Shutshutshutshutshut," he muttered. He knew if he died before it shut, he'd be lost to it. But this was a battle he was losing. I hate dogs, he thought, resting his forehead against the pillar, closing his eyes.