Survival Instincts

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THE FIRST SIGN THAT New York City would be special was the zebra. It pushed through the shrubbery and onto the sun-flooded interstate no more than thirty feet from Lynn. Its hooves clicked on the cracked asphalt as it weaved its way leisurely through the thick throng of rusted car skeletons.

Lynn stopped.

Skeever, at her heels, did too.

At least for now, the zebra didn’t notice them. It plucked at a tuft of grass with nimble lips.

Lynn blinked consciously, wondering if the animal would go away if she did. It didn’t. If this animal was what she thought it was, she was staring at an Old-World relic. The striped horses had been kept in carefully constructed habitats in the hearts of cities. Lynn realized she should probably have felt awed by the experience, but her only thought was dinner. She quietly reached down to her belt and undid the leather strap that held her tomahawk in place.

Skeever growled. His ears had turned back, and he bared his teeth.

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