A California tapir was trudging through the woods, looking for a snack. It was a thick, round animal with a short, fleshy trunk that made it look like someone had crossbred a pig with an anteater.
Most animals had already high-tailed it south, but the tapir was a stubborn loner. Since it wasn't a picky eater, it was sticking it out. It kept its head low, using its toes like a rake to scrape away the snow and mud.
The tapir let out a happy grunt when it uncovered a few fat grubs.
It didn't even bother cleaning them, just gulped down the bugs along with a mouthful of slush.
Back when things were green, these guys lived on shoots and berries. In the winter, they settled for whatever moved—insects, lizards, you name it. They look clunky, but they're actually fast and can climb better than you'd think. Usually, only something built for speed like a cheetah or a cougar stands a chance at catching one.
The tapir had no clue that less than fifty yards away, a half-grown Sabertooth was waiting.
I was buried deep. Most of my body was under the white powder, and only the top of my head was visible. My eyes, glowing like hot coals, didn't leave the tapir for a second.
Crunch... crunch...
The tapir moved closer, its trunk twitching as it sniffed for roots. It was being cautious, scanning for predators, but it completely missed the threat right under its nose. It was actually walking straight toward me because it thought my camouflage branches were a nice little bush to snack on.
I didn't move a muscle even hold my breathe.
50 yards...
30 yards...
10 yards...
5 yards...
The tapir finally paused. Its eyesight wasn't great, and it only realized something was wrong when it was practically on top of me.
Whoosh!!
I exploded out of the pit. Snow flew everywhere as I launched. My pounce was pure muscle memory now—perfect timing, perfect weight distribution.
"Squeak!!"
The tapir's brain probably gone blank. Thinking Where did this tiger come from?
Five yards is nothing. I hit it in less than a second.
Thud!
I slammed into its side, knocking all five hundred pounds of it into the dirt. It was twice my size, but leverage and surprise are hell of a drug. The second it hit the ground, I unhinged my jaw and buried my teeth in its neck.
My three-inch fangs shredded the carotid artery. A geyser of blood sprayed out, hitting me right in the face. The heat of it felt amazing against my frozen fur it was like a shot of pure adrenaline.
The tapir kicked a few times, looking confused and pathetic, before its eyes finally went dull.
[Ding! Host hunted a California tapir. Gene points +25.]
"Finally," I huffed.
I stood up and started dragging the carcass away. I couldn't eat here; this ravine was my new hunting ground, and I didn't want the smell of a kill scaring off the next meal.
I found a spot a safe distance away and started tearing into the organs. They're the most calorie-dense part, and I was starving. I'm totally used to the "raw meat" thing now. When you're trying not to die, manners don't really matter.
But mid-bite, my ears twitched.
I swallowed a chunk of meat and looked up, listening. Someone was coming. Fast. The footsteps were light, almost silent, but I caught them.
In this weather, a fresh kill is basically a flare gun for every hungry predator in the area. Someone wanted my lunch.
I stopped eating and let my claws slide out. I stayed low, watching the brush.
"Roar!!"
I gave a sharp, vibrating warning growl.
Back off.
It didn't work. If anything, the intruder sped up. It burst through the treeline and skidded to a halt right in front of me.
My pupils shrunk to slits. This wasn't some scavenger. It was a full-grown Mountain Lion.