John Ringo: Unto the Breach

“Wait. Did you say three nukes?!”

The tiger propped himself up, hips sprawled to the side, and looked down into the valley.

He’d recently caught a feral pig and was feeling pretty happy. His belly was full and while there weren’t any female tigers around, hey, things changed. This area seemed to be simply crawling with pigs and deer, most of whom had forgotten all about tigers. He’d stay awhile.

He lumbered back to his feet and stretched in the dying sun then raised his head to the purpling sky. He coughed a couple of times and then tried out the roar. But his throat still wasn’t full grown, didn’t have the broadness of a mature male. All that came out was a half-hearted bellow. It was lost on the wind, carried away into the dusk.

Well, there were other days. He turned away from the valley and descended into the darkness of the ravine. It was time to find someplace to lay up for the coming winter. It was going to be a cold one. But spring would come around again. He could feel it in his bones.

Above the tiger, the ravens soared.