D+37
When the first jaguars began to rain from the sky, it seemed impossible. Most of them did not survive, of course, but the ones that did were insanely tough and really pissed off. Furry Terminators, every one. And the rain of big cats kept going. Still going. Cities buried. Canyons filled. Rivers and lakes clogged and overflowing. Bulldozers, heavy lifting helicopters, incinerators - we can barely keep up with the incoming rate. Jaguar landfills. The oceans rising from dead jaguar displacement and being held back by dikes made of fallen jaguars. Don't dare go outside. You'll never hear the one that gets you. But really, even the fear and the horror have worn off at this point. It's just inevitability now. It'll never end. We can't even tell where they form; somewhere in space, coming in like slow meteors. Already cleared all the satellites out, and the space station. This is the new way of things. Oh, did you hear that? That was one just now, out in the street. Giant wet smacking sound. Hope it's not still alive. Guess I'd better get my flamethrower. Stupid Mayans.