IT COULD HAVE BEEN different. Had Corbin’s g*n not jammed, nor Red been at the end of his clip, or even had it been anything other than the oversized cat that was so rapidly closing in upon them, they might have stood their ground. As it was, they’d turned and run like madmen for the Shambhala, where they were fortunate enough to arrive at the very section of fence previously damaged by the smilodon—and thus did not have to contend with the concertina wire which would otherwise have made passage impossible. And yet one thing was clear as they shouldered their rifles and began to ascend—and that was that the cat was coming. It was coming fast. Nor were the sounds of its footfalls and heavy breathing the only evidence of its approach, for as Red crested the fence—losing his rifle in the proc
