From “Legend”

Lights came on automatically, illuminating a long corridor as the elevator doors closed behind Blake’s back. The walls were blank, no doors, no windows, disappearing into the far dark distance.
‘What is this place?’ whispered Blake.
From behind him, the sound of the lift as it began its long ascent. Someone above had pressed the button. They were still coming for him.
Blake had no choice. This corridor had to lead somewhere. He had to find a way out, to get back to the coach before it started off without him.
He had to run.
Blake’s head went down and he sprinted. His mum would have been proud of him, once. Now he did not want to disgrace her memory.
Up ahead, darkness. But then more lights, showing another far, far distance. Two-hundred, four-hundred metres came and went.
His lungs were bursting. Blake wasn’t built to run this far. He felt sick, with worry as well as with the effort. The corridor did not end. It seemed as if it never would, with his heavy legs as if wading through wet concrete under him.
The lift was coming down again, he knew it. There was nowhere to hide. He had to get to the end. He had to get out.
Then, at last, the final set of flickering lights were igniting to show the double exit doors at the end of the race and Blake was flying through with hands just barely before lowered head. To Blake’s relief, there were no security guards, but he hadn’t time to wonder why. He threw himself at the release handles and the doors crashed wide.
Blake fell out into the cold fresh air. He saw the hills surrounding him and the low winter sun as he collapsed against the armoured metal plates covering the closed double doors behind.
He dropped back in fear.
Blake went down as a wolf-pack of huge slavering dogs flew at his face. The heat of their breath hit him like a slap of warm dead meat. Thick, smelly slobber like rabid drool spattered across Blake’s mouth.
The dogs were colossal, dark-haired and mangy, with rough, matted fur through which the blue-mauve of thick, sore-scabbed skin showed. They were on him, left and right, razor-snapping as he dragged himself harder against the doors.
Blake cried out. His voice was drowned by the hyena-like howls from six starving open mouths full of curved yellow fangs and quivering violet, violent tongues. He shoved back and back, reaching behind for the handles. But there were none on this side of the door. There was no escape.
The barking howls of the dogs were growing ever more hysterical as Blake’s face came back out from behind his protective arm. The dripping, clamping mouths, three to his left and three right, were horribly close, but they were not quite able to get at him. The dogs were tethered, on chains just long enough to keep them away – only just.
Not all of them were tethered though, just one either side, with a thick studded collar round its neck. But they all struggled and raged to break free, as if one collar was enough to hold back three flailing heads. Blake leaned over to see how this was being done.
He cried out in terror. This time, his voice carried. This time, with the fear and horror of what he saw, he shouted even louder than they – even over the three braying heads left and three right, with their one left and one right body.
Blake shouted out. He was being attacked by two three-faced monster dogs, each with one body, four legs, one thick tail, and a triple-headed will to kill.