The attack didn’t look like a nature documentary. It was a blur of violence so fast my brain barely registered it. The grass exploded, and a mottled, muscular cable shot out of the mud.
It was a Rock Python, easily fifteen feet long, and it had locked onto the lioness’s neck before she could even lift her head. The sound of the impact was a wet thud that carried all the way to our vehicle. The male lion roared—a sound that usually shakes the earth—but here, it was useless. He swiped at the snake, but there was nothing to hit. The python was already wrapping its coils around the female’s chest.
“He’s going to crush the cubs,” Michael said, his hand gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. We were witnessing a slow, suffocating execution.
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