Mom and Dad weren't interested in a victory lap after the "Crocodile Kingdom." We didn't have time to sightsee or even properly catch our breath. If we didn't find calories before the sun hit the horizon, we'd be too weak to hunt anything bigger than a grasshopper.
The Mississippi Plains were basically a giant prehistoric buffet. Everywhere you looked, something was made of protein. We just had to pick a menu item. Mom and Dad quickly zeroed in on a group of North American Elk grabbing a drink at a nearby spring.
These guys aren't as massive as the Stag-Moose I ran into before, but they're no joke—over two meters long and weighing about 600 pounds. One of these would be a feast. Plus, elk are generally "polite" meaning they don't try to gore you as often and they travel in small, manageable groups during the winter.
This group only had six members. Two calves and four adults.
"I've heard elk meat is great for boosting vitality and kidney health in some cultures," I thought.
"Considering a bison just tried to merge my ribs with my spine, I could use the boost."
Initially, we eyed the calves, but the adults kept them boxed in like a secret service detail. If we charged them, we'd be dealing with a lot of angry hooves. So, we looked for the weakest link.
We found him: an elderly bull, kicked to the fringe of the herd. In the wild, respecting your elders isn't a thing. If you're old and slow, you're just a liability. This guy had to wait until everyone else finished drinking before he could even get a sip.
The herd moved off, but the old-timer was still finishing his drink. He was officially a straggler.
"Perfect. Sorry, Grandpa, but I haven't eaten in three days."
Dad's muscles coiled under his striped hide, looking like a high-performance engine idling at a red light. Then, he exploded.
Mom, Zack, Zoe, and I fanned out, cutting off the escape routes. It was a full-family hit.
The elk's eyesight was trash, but his ears were sharp. He heard the grass rustle and bolted.
"You think you're fast? You're a minivan trying to outrun a Ferrari, buddy."
Dad was gaining on him fast. Every time the elk tried to swerve, Mom or I would pop out of the grass and roar, forcing him back into Dad's path. His speed dropped, and that was all the opening Dad needed. He launched himself—a textbook hungry tiger pounce—and slammed his 250kg frame into the elk's haunches.
Crunch.
The elk went down, his back legs buckling under Dad's weight. He tried to swing those massive antlers, but Mom was already there, locking onto his throat. I lunged in and clamped my jaws onto his spine. In the Smilodon playbook, you either go for the windpipe or the spinal cord—both are a "game over" screen for the prey.
[Ding! Host participated in hunting a North American Elk. Gene Points +15.]
The sound of that notification was sweeter than any dessert. I didn't care about modern table manners. I started ripping into the meat, the warm blood hitting my tongue and washing away the exhaustion. It was the best meal I'd ever had—partially because it didn't involve almost being eaten by a crocodile.
But the "Southern Sanctuary" wasn't going to let us enjoy our win for long.
A series of cackling, high-pitched yips cut through the air. Mom and Dad snapped their heads up, meat still hanging from their mouths, their eyes narrowing with pure "we've got a problem" energy.
I looked over and my eyes wide open.
Emerging from the tall grass was a crew of over twenty Hyenas. They weren't like that lone cheetah we bullied earlier. This was a full-on gang, from massive adult enforcers to half-grown street punks.
They smelled the fresh kill and they were coming to collect the hunt tax.
"Unbelievable. We just finished robbing a cheetah, and now a professional mugging crew shows up to take our lunch? Karma really works fast in the Pleistocene."