John was down. He'd taken a risk when he followed the banshee into the woods and it caught him off guard; something few creatures had the pleasure to boast about.
The wound itself barely hurt when John paused long enough in his pained crawl towards the truck, but it lit up like a bonfire when he attempted to put weight on it. The creature had whipped up a gale around him; leaves rustled, trees groaning through the wind, branches like wooden missiles. He'd taken one through the lower leg and it jutted right through the limb; half sticking out of his calf, the rest from the shin, narrowly missing the shinbone entirely.
The aging hunter swore as he forced himself to stand. His only respite would be found in the truck, now that the banshee--really a Baba Yaga, according to another hunter's intel--had been killed while he was down; laid to rest with a formal chant forgiving her of her earlthy sins and forgiving those who she sought vengeance against.
Sweat stood out on John's forehead as he hauled himself into the truck. The keys sat on the seat and he turned the beast over to get the heaters going, an all-over body shiver setting in as the blood loss continued. He reached for his cellphone and swore as he found nothing, realizing then that he had likely lost it on the run from the monster.
His head hit the back window as he swore out loud, slamming the steering wheel with his fist hard enough to honk the horn once, loudly, scattering birds from the trees and actually giving himself a mild fright.
"FUCK!"