A bit of reflected light caught Mills’ eye. Casting a glance at the ground, she saw her purse, a one-of-a-kind black clutch. Falling to her knees, she popped it open. Her pulse slowed a bit as she caught sight of her satphone.
She pressed a button and the screen came to life. The battery was low, less than ten percent of full power. Wasting no time, she initiated a call to her bestest bestie, Rachel Crossing, and lifted the device to her ear. A slow frown creased her face. She tried another bestie. And then another one.
“Where’d you go?” Toland called out.
Ignoring him, Mills tried to make another call. But the battery died and the screen faded to black. Frustrated, she threw the satphone into the muck and climbed to her feet.
Right away, she spied two women standing with Toland in the deep grass. The first woman, at least from the chest-up, was a hot mess. She wore a baggy green sweatshirt, no accessories, and not even a touch of lipstick. Her hair, clipped close to her scalp, was dyed canary yellow.
The second woman was older, in her mid-forties, and gave off the vibe of an overworked businesswoman. She wore a cheap blue jacket, likely part of a pantsuit, and a bobbed hair cut. Her makeup — pale red lipstick and severe eyeliner — was boresville.
“My phone didn’t work.” Mills felt her jaw begin to quiver. “All I got was static.”
“That’s not surprising.” The businesswoman glanced over both shoulders. “From the looks of it, we’re a long way from the nearest cell tower.”
“This isn’t some cheap smartphone,” Mills retorted. “It’s a satphone. It gets coverage anywhere on Earth.”
The businesswoman arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got a satphone?”
“Of course.”
“That’s interesting.” Toland stroked his jaw. “My phone’s acting funny too.”
Mills cocked her head. “How so?”
“I can’t call anyone. Can’t email or text either. Plus, the date and time are all messed up.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “It thinks we’re in a different century.”
“Which one?”
“One that won’t happen for about 4,000 years.”
Mills didn’t know what to say.
“I know you.” The hot mess’ eyes widened. “You’re Bailey Mills.”
“That’s right.” Mills offered her a sweet smile. “I’m glad at least one of you knows who I am.”
“Yeah, I know you alright. I despise you.”
Mills’ smile faded.
“Enough.” Toland waved at the hot mess and the businesswoman in turn. “This is Tricia Elliott and Randi Skolnick. Ladies, this is Bailey Mills. Apparently, she’s famous if you care about that sort of thing.”
A low growl rang out.
Mills’ spine turned to jelly and she rotated in a quarter-circle. Some dense berry bushes occupied one edge of the clearing. The bushes rustled as if a breeze had caught hold of them.
But there was no breeze.
Another growl filled the still air.
Mills took a step backward.
The bushes rustled again and she saw an animal, shrouded in green leaves, little red berries, and shadows. Its shoulders were roughly four feet off the ground. Its body was five to six feet long. It possessed a stubby tail, high shoulder blades, and short, powerful limbs.
Mills backed up farther, joining the others in a tight group.
“What is that thing?” Elliott whispered.
“I think it’s a cougar,” Toland replied tightly.
“Are cougars dangerous?” Mills asked.
“Of course, they’re dangerous, you dolt. Cougar is another name for a mountain lion.”
The bushes parted before Mills could reply. The creature emerged. Paws stomped on wet leaves, crushing them underfoot. Its body curled and curved, pulsating with life. Its head turned. Its jaw lifted upward. A roar filled the pale night sky.
Mills wanted to rub her eyes, to erase the terrifying vision before her. But she couldn’t even blink.
“That’s no cougar,” Toland whispered as the group ducked their heads beneath the tall grass. “It’s a… hell, I don’t know what it is.”
“I know what it is.”
Mills’ eyes flitted in the direction of this new voice, a low-pitched smooth sort. She saw a man in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven and wore stylish eyeglasses. His outfit, skinny jeans and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon T-Rex complaining about short arms, screamed hipster.
“Well, what is it?” she mouthed.
“I’ve only seen something like it once before.” The hipster stared at the creature’s long, curving teeth. “But not in the wild.”
“Where then?”
“In a museum. Those teeth are a dead giveaway. They could only belong to a Smilodon fatalis.”
Mills shivered at the name.
“In other words, it’s a saber-toothed tiger.” The hipster’s voice rang cold. “And it’s been extinct for more than 10,000 years.”
Chapter 2
The sudden cry, brimming with terror and anguish, reverberated through the steel and concrete canyon. It was the cry of the helpless, the cry of the pathetic. The cry of a creature who’d nearly run out of options, nearly run out of time.
It was the cry of fleeing prey.
Zach Caplan halted at the corner of 73rd Street and York Avenue. His eyes closed over. His head tilted skyward and he perked his ears. The cry had rung out from half a block away, filling his brain with its strangely pleasing resonance. There was something horribly wonderful about the cry of prey, about the roar of a pursuing predator. Horrible because of death’s finality. Wonderful because death, in so many ways, fostered new life. For the first time in forever, Caplan felt at home.
Another cry — the cry of now-hopelessly cornered prey — rang out. Caplan’s fingers, thick and heavily calloused, curled tightly around the rungs of several cotton tote bags, stuffed with canned goods, peanut butter, apples, and other items from his weekly late-night shopping trip to Jerry’s Emporium. The cry belonged to a man, heavily wounded by time’s arrow. A man who once might’ve bested the predator — most likely a mugger — that now accosted him.
But a man who now stood no chance.
Caplan’s eyelids snapped open. A tall brick building, grayish from years of neglect, filled his line of sight. Five stories up, he saw a familiar window, caked with dirt and dust. A tiny light behind the window called out to him, begging him to ignore the cries. Begging him to do what he always did on nights like this one, namely drag his groceries up several flights of cracked stairs to his sorry excuse for an apartment. To eat a late-night snack in front of his old television. To grab a few restless hours of sleep on his lumpy, threadbare couch. To dream of a do-over, of a chance to get things right this time.
A third cry, far more desperate than the first two, filled the air. Caplan had heard that same cry thousands of times in his life. It was a final grasping of straws, a last-ditch call for help. In less than a minute, it would be over. The mugger, suddenly richer, would flee the scene. At best, the old man would lose his valuables.
At worst, he’d lose his life.
Caplan’s face grew piping hot. Yes, this was how nature worked. The strong and the smart survived, the weak and the stupid died. But it wasn’t right. It hadn’t been right five months ago. It certainly wasn’t right now.
His fingers uncurled. The cotton bags dropped to the sidewalk, crashing against the concrete. Spinning toward 73rd Street, he broke into a mad dash.
His powerful arms pumped like pistons. His breaths came in short, brief bursts as his long legs carried him down the sidewalk. He didn’t look like a runner. But similar to the antelope, he possessed quiet, deceptive speed.