Gary feels the weight leave him and instinctively crumples into a tight ball in the snow. The snow leaves him, too. He rationalizes that as the reason for why he feels so warm and wet along one side, because it seems more likely, and also less alarming than considering that it's from his own blood.

When he staggers upright, it should be obvious that it's actually the latter. There's a heavy gash just above his hip that's already soaked through the ripped edges of his windbreaker, but a combination of adrenaline and shock keeps him from noticing right away. Instead, Gary focuses on the stick still clutched in his hand and the fact that the sabertooth is moving a lot slower than it was a few minutes ago, and tries for that lunge again.

This time he's much more successful, not because he actually hits the cat's leg, but because he misses and snags it a bit higher up, spearing its gut. Gary is already hopping backwards as it reacts, yowling and lashing out in fury and pain, struggling enough that it makes its own wound worse before dislodging the makeshift spear. It's not immediately fatal, but it's definitely not something the cat can ignore.