“JESUS, JAMIE, look.”
It was Nigel—catching his breath with his back to the rocks, peering beyond the hedgerow. I followed his gaze to where the cat had begun backing up—crouched low like a puma, swinging its hindquarters. Focused on us like a laser beam.
“Jesus, shoot it!” I snapped, cradling Sam’s head in my arms, unable to do it myself. “Hurry, before it—”
But it was too late—the Smilodon had already launched itself at the moat: clearing it but only barely, snatching the hedgerow in its forepaws, fighting its way up and over.
And then we were pinned: Nigel and Lazaro firing at the Tucker train as I cradled Sam and the Smilodon approached; as the Communications Center exploded and there was a tremendous fireball—which rose, curling, into the clear, blue sky—as the cat hunkered down y
