Okay. So, as things stood in my living room on that Saturday morning, our bellies were full of bagels, but we were dreading what other information Clayton Yonder (my boyfriend) was going to convey about the creature that I’d seen flying above the MRI clinic, and whose feather I had given him.

Turns out, as I mentioned before, that the Avian Slaughter Task Force positively identified half of its DNA as coming from a shrike, described by the National Audubon Society a black-masked “butcherbird” packing “more fierceness ounce-for-ounce than any other bird in the country.”

As to the other half… Clay held out a photo we had never seen before. It was almost identical to the creature that I’d drawn from memory, and whose image now graced WANTED posters being distributed by the Park Service police.

The “we” I’m talking about consisted of me, sitting in an armchair across from Clayton Yonder, and our bird and bug buddies, Archie the Giant Chickadee being most prominent. The rest of our group was made up of Rochester and Stella, the pretty goldfinches, Nigel and Gwendolyn, the equally attractive titmouses, Florence, the teeny, tiny swan, and our newest adorable member … Daffney with the backward knees. Byron the Dragonfly, who neither twittered nor talked, amiably flew circles around us, and was always on his own when it came to catching dinner.

Before Clay continued his Task Force report, I popped out of my chair to make a fresh pot of coffee. Soon, with a hot mug of java in his hand, he jutted his chin toward the photo he was still holding and said, “This is a secretary bird.”

We directed our eyes to the picture. He handed it to me. I studied it for a moment, and then laid it down on the coffee table.

“Our Task Force scientists concluded that elements of the secretary bird’s DNA are a perfect match for the second half of the hybrid feather that you gave me.” He took a sip of coffee. “But before I go on, I want to make sure you know what I’m talking about when I use the word ‘hybrid’.”

In response, the birds twittered excitedly among themselves. After a few seconds, they grew silent, and Archie, apparently speaking for them all, said, “Nope. None of us have a clue.”

Clay looked at me.

“I’m as ignorant as they are. Except … maybe … is a mule a hybrid?”

“Yes,” Special Investigator Boyfriend nodded. “A mule is the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse.”

He pulled a small flip pad out of a shirt pocket. “I made notes about other hybrid species.” He began to read. “Wolfdogs are half dog and half wolf; beefalos are half cow and half buffalo; Savannah cats are a cross between a serval and a domestical cat.” He looked up from his notes. His voice changed and became almost darkly softer. “And then we have killer bees.”

“Killer bees?”

“Yep.” He returned his notebook to his pocket. “Killer bees were created in the 1950s by idiot scientists in Brazil who crossbred honeybees with African bees. They rationalized that the new species would produce more honey. Instead, they unleashed venomous predators on the world that destroy other bee colonies, swarm farm animals, and attack human beings.”

I dropped my elbows to my knees, cupped my chin with my hands, and stared a question at Clay.

“Can hybrids have babies?”

“Some can reproduce. Some can’t. Mules cannot. Killer bees can.” He reached for his binder, and from a pocket in its cover, removed my WANTED poster drawing. “We know that this one can.”

He laid it on top of the photograph of the secretary bird. He cupped a hand around his coffee mug, lifted it to his lips, and took another sip. After he returned the mug to the table, he asked, “Does anyone here want to take a break before I tell you the rest?”

Without even making eye contact, we all shook our heads.

“Okay, then.” He dug out the photo that he had shown us earlier – the one that was similar to, but not an exact match for, my drawing.

“This secretary bird,” he began, “is found exclusively in the sub-Saharan desert of South Africa, which, you may recall, is also the home of the brush shrike. Supposedly, it got its name in the 1800s, when a European, seeing one for the first time, commented that its feathers resembled the goose-quill pens male secretaries often tucked behind their ears."

I laughed. “I do that, too. But all of my pens are ballpoints.”

Clay turned toward me, winked, and resumed.

“These birds are over four-feet tall, have long, strong legs, and huge vise-like claws. They are voracious and carnivorous. They strike their prey with their beaks or they stomp them to death A 20-foot Burmese python wouldn’t be much of a challenge for one, except that a secretary bird has never been sighted outside of Africa or in the Everglades.”

I frowned. “But I saw one here when…” I dropped a finger to the image on the WANTED poster.

Clay shook his head. “Your predator may resemble a secretary bird, however, like the killer bee, it is a lab-created hybrid, both halves of which, as I said before – the shrike and the secretary bird – originated in sub-Saharan Africa.”

How did they…” I began thoughtfully,

“Get here?” Clay finished my sentence. “Smuggled in by human traffickers, like other deadly species. Then transported to Gossamer Gardens to breed, multiply, and begin their deadly transcontinental rampage.”

Archie the Giant Chickadee hopped from the coffee table to my knees. He looked right into Clay’s eyes. His body was shaking, and his feathers were ruffled in the way that they get when he’s afraid.

Special Investigator Clayton Yonder reached out and gently stroked Archie’s plumage. The calming gesture worked, and within seconds my little buddy’s size had shrunk by half, and he was pushing his whole body against Clay’s palm, the way that a dog does when it wants its head to be scratched.

After Clay removed his hand, Archie abandoned my knees and flew back to his fireplace mantel.

“We don’t know how many there are,” Clay continued. “We destroyed dozens of their nests in Gossamer Gardens, and we’re pretty sure that they’ve abandoned Somerset County and moved to our area, where…” His eyes met mine, “you were fortunate enough to make that first sighting.”

“Lucky me,” I grunted.

“Actually, it was lucky for all of us.”

“Why?”

“Because we believe that we identified them soon enough to stop them.”

“Seriously?” I asked, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice.

“Short answer. Yes. Example: The Orkney Islands off Scotland’s coast were invaded by stoats. Stoats are omnivorous weasels that breed rapidly; they decimated indigenous birds and wildlife almost to extinction before Scottish authorities eliminated all 6,500.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Clay lifted a finger to hush me.

“Also, murder hornets from Asia. They were annihilating the honey bee population in Washington state until our Department of Agriculture wiped them out. Same for the Queensland fruit flies that invaded California. They’re gone now, too.”

Clay picked up the WANTED poster and again studied my drawing. “And this … this …” He began.

I hijacked his thought.

“This hybrid executioner?” I interjected. “This slaughterer of songbirds … this ruthless assassin … this marauding terror bird … this…”

Clay bolted upright in his chair.

“That’s it!” He exclaimed. “That’s what it is. That’s what it does. And that’s what we’ll call it.”

“Huh? What?” I articulated. Less than eloquently.

“The Terror Bird.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.