The male boar didn't have brakes. I stepped aside, watching his heavy frame skid through the dirt one last time. He hit the ground hard, blood gushing from the hole in his neck.
He didn't try to get up again. He just lay there, eyes fixed on the treeline where his family had vanished. He'd done his job. He bought them the seconds they needed to escape, and now he was just waiting for the lights to go out.
I stood there for a second, feeling a strange flicker of respect. This pig was a better husband and father than half the people I knew in my old life. But respect doesn't fill a stomach or pay for healing points.
I lunged back onto him, burying my sabers deeper into the wound to finish it quickly. No point in making him suffer more than necessary.
[Ding! Host hunted a Flat-headed Peccary. Gene Points +25.]
I let go and hopped off the carcass. Twenty-five points.
Looking down at the kill, I realized how much I'd changed. Two months ago, I ran into a boar this size and it took me thirty minutes of playing dirty—nipping at his heels and tearing at his rear—just to wear him down. Today? I shut him down in three minutes of head-on combat. My power spike since turning one was no joke.
I started eating, tearing into the warm organs first. But as I chewed, I looked at the massive pile of leftover meat. Finding prey by wandering around was a massive waste of time and energy.
"You're already dead, buddy," I thought, looking at the boar's glazed eyes. "Why don't you help me out one last time?"
In the Pleistocene, everyone has a nose for blood. Scavengers are the best at it—they can pinpoint a kill from miles away and track the scent like a biological GPS.
The fresh blood from the boar was a high-frequency signal broadcasted straight into the sky. It didn't take long for the cleanup crew to arrive. Two California Condors began circling overhead, their massive wingspans casting shadows over the grass.
These guys are the professional looters of the Americas.
They aren't as big as Teratorns, but they're survivors. They're the type to sit on a branch and watch a fight, waiting for the winner to leave so they can pick the bones clean.
"Caw! Caw!"
They were cautious. They landed on a nearby tree first, staring at the boar. They were looking for any sign of life—a twitch of an ear, the rise and fall of a chest. They sat there for thirty minutes, perfectly still, making sure the meat wasn't going to bite back.
If they weren't starving, they might have waited all day. But these two were desperate.
One of them finally hopped down, flapping its wings and landing a few yards away. It hissed, its naked head bobbing as it took a few tentative steps toward the carcass. The second one followed, both of them keeping their wings spread so they could take off at the first sign of trouble.
They reached the boar. One of them reached out with its hooked beak, pecked the carcass hard, and jumped back immediately.
Nothing. The boar stayed as still as a rock.
Satisfied, they finally dropped their guard. They folded their wings and buried their heads into the open wound, tearing at the soft tissue.
A shadow exploded out of the nearby brush.
I was moving like a blur. The condors' eyes went wide with pure terror. They tried to snap their wings open, but I was already on them.
BAM!
I hit them both before they could get two feet off the ground. I wasn't using my teeth yet—I used my paws. I swiped one out of the air and pinned the second one to the dirt in a single attack.
"CAW!!"
They thrashed, trying to peck at my face with those razor-sharp beaks.
I hammered them with a heavy left-right combo, dazing them instantly. One of the birds went limp under my paw, and I leaned down, driving my sabers through its neck.
The bird's scream cut off with a wet gurgle. As the life faded out of it, all it saw was my cold, yellow eyes staring back.
"Thanks for the points, Guys."