The Prehistoric Future

Loud roars echo behind you as you sprint through the overgrown streets.

Your footsteps thump hard against the old road as you hear the growls at your heels, but you didn’t dare turn back. Your rifle swings on your shoulder but this isn’t the time to take it out. Not with the creature this close.

You duck under the descending, thorny branches of an overgrown tree and move without haste - something the creature chasing you didnt care to mimic as it sprinted on all fours into the spiky bramble.

You exit the bush and finally risk your first glance back - the furry mammal is roaring and tearing against the vines. Held, but you could see it breaking free.

“Fuck,” you breathe as you turn and run further down the road. Your eyes dart to the left. Before the bombs, this would have been a pleasant suburb. But five years after the mists had changed that. Massive trees and vines grew across the ground; into houses and into chimneys. You can hear the chitter of carnivorous monkeys above, but you can’t be fucked with them right now. The cat is after you again.

You skid left toward a house; ignoring the front door blocked by a thick root and instead slam against the tall fence door.

Bang. Nothing. Locked. Shit.

You scramble to your hip for your handgun and nearly lose your grip, but ha, its still in your hand. You aim at the handle and fire, once, twice, sending a fresh wave of excited cheers through the monkeys above.

You slam your shoulder into the broken door and barrel through just as the creature leaps at you.

You curse and scramble back on your ass, watching it flail and roar and reach for you, hunger in its dark eyes - but it's stuck. It's too wide, and its body is jammed between the house and the thick fence on its left.

It nicks your forearm with the tip of its claw and you curse at it, scrambling further back and finally pulling your rifle off your shoulder. The old thing is rickety, held together with tape and prayers by this point, but it does the job as you point it at the creature’s head and fire.

Bang. Bang. Fuck, still moving. Bang.

The third shot finally stills the damn thing and it slumps, a furious look still etched into its maw. You breathe heavily and stand, looking at your kill properly for the first time since you saw its beady eyes staring at you from the brush.

A sabretooth. Not even that old, by the looks of it, but still thrice your size. Gleaming, massive canines catch the light and you kick it in the forehead, gritting your teeth.

“Fuck you,” you spit. The tiger, thankfully, isn’t offended enough to respond.

The chitters in the trees above get louder and you curse. You aim your rifle up and move back to the yard of the house. Small. Modest. Pink flamingo next to a brown, algae filled pool. A single wooden door on the porch, unhindered by vines or roots.

Perfect.

You return to the tiger and jump around it, whipping out your machete and begin hacking at the leg. It’s messy work, without any care, but you don’t care. The scavengers would be after the creature soon, and you weren’t in the mood to fight over dinner with a hundred clawed monkeys. Eventually the leg flops wetly to the ground and you heft it over your shoulder, sprinting to the porch door and wrenching it open.