UNFINISHED: Prince of Madness

~ Chapter 12

Agatha was not pleased to have woken up - in the middle of the night - aching and covered with sand. To stop the growl rising from her throat, she had to remind herself of the circumstances.
Her face was coated with a thin layer of cold sweat, though she could not remember if that had been due to an already-forgotten dream, or some other reason. Still, she hauled herself into a sitting position and surveyed the scene.
Opposite the remains of the 'campfire', Marcel was still asleep. Further to Agatha's right, Ruben was still faced away from her. And yet a lingering, tense feeling would not leave Agatha's chest; worse yet, it was the same as before. Before, when she had looked out of her window and found the old hospital in flames.
Footsteps padded closer from behind her, and she gulped down a quick intake of air before slightly turning her head.
Then more footsteps. At least two pairs. Agatha's breath caught in her throat.
There was a low growl that she knew for certain was not her own.
She shifted her entire body to look at the people coming towards her.
But they were not human.
Agatha sprang to her feet as the dog-like creatures - Gods, four of them - bared their yellow razor teeth, their dark eyes glinting maliciously in the moon's light. They were spread out in a formation that would allow them to circle the trio and attack effectively enough to kill them all.
They were also unarmed.
"M-Marcel! Ruben?"
Agatha couldn't hide the absolute terror in her voice - it was difficult enough to keep still and not to scream. Her entire body felt about to collapse.
"Wh- What is it, Agatha?" Marcel's voice was like that of a groan, but quickly changed to a fearful "Damn it- What do we do?"
"We don't have any food," Agatha whimpered. "We don't have anything you want here. Please leave us alone."
"They're desert hounds." Ruben was now wide awake, though Agatha feared she would provoke a violent response from the creatures if she whirled round to look at him. "They don't back down."
"Very helpful," hissed Marcel.
"They're clever but very resilient. They won't leave us alone until they get something. But," Ruben stopped as if he was about to drop a game-changing fact. "You see that hide? It looks like wiry sand-coloured fur but is actually almost impenetrable. Our only hope is really cold water or something extremely sharp."
"Still not helping, Ruben!" Marcel's hiss had become significantly louder. "Our water is lukewarm. Would that do anything?"
"No." Ruben released a gasp that suggested he'd been struck by a realisation. "Ah, I remember trying to tame one, once. It still ran away. But is that..."
Ruben strolled somewhat casually past Agatha and towards one of the hounds, which was still in a threatening position. It loosed a ferocious bark from its' dripping jaws, but unfazed, Ruben reached a hand towards its' head.
Agatha squealed when the jaws closed around Ruben's wrist.
"Nope. I was mistaken."
"Get back, Agatha." Marcel threw himself in front of her, ushering backwards onto the charred remains of his shirt and way from the danger. She picked the satchel up as quietly as she could and did so, right as he shouted, "Ruben! Did you pack anything extremely sharp?"
Ruben shook his head, making a sound as another two desert hounds leapt at him.
Agatha didn't know why, but she shut her eyes. No amount of willpower would get them to open on command.
There was more barking, then crunching, then yelping, then cracking. Her chest heaved up and down, her stomach shaking and rolling.
Then the noise stopped.
Marcel swore.
"I-is he okay, Marcel?"
"Yes. That was..." 
Agatha's eyes finally shot open, though she wished they hadn't.
"Bloody hell, Ruben," said Marcel.
The carnage was a sight to behold. The four desert hounds were all sprawled across the floor in an awkward and gruesome array of positions, most of which implied some twisting of the spine. Ruben's hands up to his elbows were stained with a dark colour, and splatters were spread across his torso and trousers.
"Bloody hell, Ruben," repeated Marcel. "What in-"
"Ow ow ow ow ow-"
"Oh, stars, how much of that blood is yours?" Agatha's hand plunged into the satchel, praying there was enough bandage left over.
"Not as much as you're thinking, I promise. Ow-"
"Says the man who took on four rabid dogs with nothing but his bare hands." Marcel closed the three metres between them in less than a split second, and before Agatha could pass over the thankfully large roll of bandage she'd located, he was checking the sensation in Ruben's fingers.
It reminded Agatha of how sweet he used to be - of all the worry he hid underneath his seemingly carefree demeanor. And it warmed her heart as much as it broke it.

It took until sunrise to clean Ruben's hands, and even then, they weren't as clean as Agatha would have preferred. But the injured one absolutely refused to use any of the water they had stored, "Because the water is more important". Still, she counted it lucky that none of the 17 bite wounds he suffered were deep enough to rip out chunks of skin.
"Thank you, both," Ruben said when they were done. The orange and lightening sky marked the morning, but Agatha did not feel tired anymore; only aching.
"Anatolia is close," Ruben said as if the night's attack had never happened. "Let's keep going. We're almost there."