DEEP IN THE DARKEST, MOST REMOTE PART OF THE Everglades, the full moon hung low over the swamp. The sky looked like spilled ink and the bright moonlight obscured the stars, for now. Spanish moss hung like cobwebs from the cypress and mangrove trees, and the chirping frogs were silent for once.

There was a stranger in their midst.

On a high branch in a twisted mangrove tree, a nest of twigs, grass, and mud was wedged between two branches. It was a big nest, and the other animals of the swamp gave it a wide berth. No birds landed in the tree, no possums or raccoons frolicked nearby. They were afraid of what resided there.

Nails sat atop it, all of her senses alert. Something was coming. An intruder, perhaps out of curiosity, or driven mad by hunger, was somewhere nearby. Nails sniffed the air. It was a snake.

She gave a bellowing call, and her tiny offspring, who were climbing and exploring the branches of the tree, came skittering back to the nest. Like her alligator relatives, she lowered her head, opened her mouth, and the small babies who looked like her in every way climbed inside. She gently closed her jaws and waited.

The python was nearly twenty feet long. It slithered down from a branch above and peered at Nails, its tongue flicking, working the air. The serpent could not figure out what she was exactly, but it had not fed in days. There were still unhatched eggs in the nest, and those would make a tasty meal.

Dr. Catalyst had made a grievous error in his research. His experiments had recombined DNA, resequenced genes, and used a variety of different growth hormones to create the Pterogators. He thought his creatures could never reproduce. But nature is not static. Survival in any species is paramount. And the change in his creatures that began with the subject recovered by Dr. Geaux had continued with Hammer and Nails. Eventually, even a cloned species will adapt, and change. Such instinct is encoded in the DNA of every species. Dr. Catalyst had been sloppy and let his ego and naiveté color his judgment. Now he and the swamp he sought to protect would pay a horrible price.

Nails hissed through her nostrils, but could not open her mouth for fear of losing a baby. With her forepaws she rolled the remaining eggs further beneath her. The snake moved closer.

It reared back, ready to strike, when the nest shook with a violent impact. The snake’s attack died in midair. Hammer arrived. Gliding to the nest from his perch nearby, he landed claws-first on the python, which now twisted upward trying to find a way free from the deadly grasp of the beast holding it.

But it was too late. Hammer’s neck flew back, jaws open, and with one bite, the snake died and went still. Nails hissed through her nostrils, and Hammer glided away to his perch, but not before swallowing a large chunk of meat.

When he was gone, Nails lowered her head to the floor of the nest and opened her mouth. Her babies burst out, momentarily confused and disoriented. They were less than a week old, and already nearly six inches in length. Eight of them survived the first hatching.

Each one hesitated a moment, until the smell of the dead snake reached them. They made small skree skree sounds and clamored across the floor of the nest, crawling onto the carcass of the snake, where they began to methodically devour it.

It was dinnertime.