Mom and Dad weren't interested in a victory lap after the "Crocodile Kingdom." We didn't have ti 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, sothing was made of protein. We just had to pick a nu item. Mom and Dad quickly zeroed in on a group of North Arican 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 ters long and weighing about 600 pounds. One of these would be a feast. Plus, elk are generally "polite" aning they don't try to gore you as often and they travel in small, manageable groups during the winter.
This group only had six mbers. Two calves and four adults.
"I've heard elk at is great for boosting vitality and kidney health in so cultures," I thought.
"Considering a bison just tried to rge 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-tir 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 ti 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 slamd his 250kg fra 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 "ga over" screen for the prey.
[Ding! Host participated in hunting a North Arican 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 at, the warm blood hitting my tongue and washing away the exhaustion. It was the best al 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, at still hanging from their mouths, their eyes narrowing with pure "we've got a problem" energy.
I looked over and my eyes wide open.
Erging 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 slled 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."
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