Hyenas
In the prehistoric world, when people think of hyenas, they usually picture the monsters from Eurasia—Pachycrocuta brevirostris. Those things were the size of lions, weighing over 300kg.
But the ones standing in front of us were the North American branch: the Chasmaporthetes, or "Hunting Hyenas."
They weren't as massive as their cousins across the ocean, but they were built differently. Instead of the sloped back and short legs of a modern spotted hyena, these guys had long, lean limbs built for sprinting. They ran like cheetahs but bit like industrial rock crushers.
In the power rankings of North America, they were currently being bullied into extinction by the rise of Dire Wolf packs. Their survival space was shrinking, which only made them more desperate—and a desperate hyena is a nightmare on four legs.
These street punks weighed about 50kg to 60kg each. Alone, a cougar or a lone sabertooth could snap them like a dry twig. But there weren't just one or two. There were twenty.
"Ah-hoo! Ah-hoo!"
The pack started cackling, a sound that grated on my nerves like sandpaper on a wound. They were circling, testing the air, their eyes locked on the half-eaten elk.
"ROAR!!"
Dad wasn't having it. He let out a bone-shaking tiger quest that basically said, "I'm the king here, you overgrown mutts."
Usually, that's enough to send scavengers packing. But the "Hyena Queen"—a massive, dark-furred female at the front—just let out a sharp yip. The pack didn't back off. They started to fan out into a semi-circle, flanking us from three sides and leaving only the path behind us open.
Mom and Dad started backstepping, shielding Zack, Zoe, and me. It was a tactical retreat. They were willing to leave the rest of the elk behind; a few pounds of meat wasn't worth risking their kids' lives.
"Fine," I thought, matching their pace. "Take the scraps and let us go."
But hyenas are greedy bastards. Seeing us back away didn't satisfy them—it emboldened them. They swarmed the carcass, but their eyes stayed glued to us. Specifically, they were looking at the three of us "snacks" behind the adults. They realized Mom and Dad were being protective, and they decided to push their luck.
The air got thick. The smell of elk blood mixed with the foul, musky scent of the pack.
"You guys really don't know when to quit, do you?" I felt a snarl ripping through my chest. The modern man in me knew we should leave, but the Sabertooth in me was feeling seriously insulted.
Snap!
The standoff broke. A hyena on our left flank suddenly lunged, aiming its bone-crushing jaws straight for Zoe's throat.
"ROAR!"
I was ready. I'm not the helpless cub I was back in the mountains. I'm almost a year old, 1.5 meters long, and pushing 60kg. I'm literally bigger than the average adult hyena in this pack.
As the hyena lunged, I reared up on my hind legs and brought my front paw down in a massive, sweeping hook.
My claws caught him right across the snout. He let out a pained yelp, but I didn't give him a second to breathe. I went full-on Mike Tyson, hammering his face with a lightning-fast five-hit combo.
Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!
I left five deep, bloody furrows across his ugly mug. He backed off, his head spinning and his brain probably rattling against his skull like a marble in a tin can.
"ROAR!!"
Mom saw the hit and went nuclear.She launched her entire weight into the stunned hyena, bringing her massive paw down like a sledgehammer.
CRACK
I heard the sound of ribs shattering. It was a sickening, wet noise. The hyena hit the dirt, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Mom's hit had to be carrying a ton of force—that guy was basically a rug now.
Seeing Mom go beast mode gave me a second wind. I bared my fangs, my eyes glowing with a dark, predatory heat.
But the pack didn't scatter. Seeing one of their own get pulverized didn't scare them—it drove them into a frenzy. The cackling stopped, replaced by a low, collective growl as the remaining nineteen hyenas all charged at once.
"Well, James," I thought, bracing for the impact. "I guess we're doing this the hard way."