With the exception of Gunny Hernandez, none of the members and/or leaders of the Avian Slaughter Task Force had backgrounds in the military.

Prior to Special Investigator Clayton Yonder coming to the Park Department, he was a homicide detective. For my part, I have always been a writer. I write murder mysteries and I write a newspaper column. But I have never written about war, and I was never a soldier.

Then we have all of our bird and bug friends. Before the invasion of the Terror Bird, Archie the Giant Chickadee spent his time eating beetles and berries, soaring ecstatically from tree-to-tree on beautiful spring days, shivering and trying to conserve heat and energy during brutal winters, and hoping to one day fall in love. Which he so happily did when he met Daffney, our adorable chickadee with the backward knees.

Regarding Rochester and Stella (goldfinches) and Nigel and Gwendolyn (tufted titmouses), before we all faced annihilation, they dined al fresco in the woods behind the MRI clinic; twittered cheerfully among themselves, and got pleasure out of being alive. And Byron … well, he just enjoyed munching on mosquitos, moths, and midges, darting in and out among waterside reeds, and living his best helicopter-bug life.

Before the mishap that made our dear Florence as small as a tea cup, she liked to paddle around in the pond behind the MRI clinic. Now, after having so desperately wanted to enlist in bird bootcamp, she has to settle for being the innocent civilian at home for whom the rest of us fight.

One thing about our not having military backgrounds is that none of us had any idea about what we were supposed to do the day before we went to battle. After we had spent that morning shooting at CPR dummies and avoiding high-pressure water jets, Gunny Hernandez sent us home, saying “You’re as trained as you’re ever going to be. Get some rest.”

So that’s we were. In my house. And while I was thinking that we probably should be biting our nails and anxiously checking the Internet for accounts of new songbird slaughters, we were doing anything but. Rochester, Stella, Nigel and Gwendolyn were asleep, nested in their soft towels in my garage. Byron was clinging upside-down to a willow branch in his water bucket, in the torpor that, for a dragonfly, resembles sleep. Florence was drowsing on her blue velvet pillow. And Daffney with the backward knees was snuggled under one of Archie’s wings on the fireplace mantel. Both also asleep. Which left only two humans to be accounted for. Me and Clay.

You already know that I adore the man. He is so … so … complete. I love to watch him think. I love to watch him interact with our bird and bug buddies. I love to watch him give press conferences and shoot fake-bullets into insufferable rioters. I love to watch the shadow on his jaw progress from first shave to late night stubble. I love to look at his calloused man’s hands smear cream cheese on a bagel.

Oh, dear. I sound exactly like a love-sick puppy, don’t I? So certainly, by now, you will be able to envision the two of us, jammed side-by-side in my big, comfy, sink-in-to reading chair in front of the fireplace. After a few minutes of benign immobility, I asked Clay, “Um. What about tomorrow? How is it going to … to …” I struggled to find the right word.

“Proceed?” He volunteered, tightening his arm around my shoulders.

“Uh huh.”

Clay turned his head. He said, and I can quote exactly, “Attract. Distract. Refract. Attack.”

I responded, less than articulately, “Huh?”

Looking directly at me, Special Investigator Boyfriend began, “There’s a phrase being whispered and shouted about lately. You may have heard it. It goes like this: Songbirds are the world’s canaries.”

I shifted in the chair so that I could watch his eyes as he talked.

“I’ve heard it, Clay, but I’m not sure what it means.”

He paused for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts.

“It originated back when coal was being mined in deep shafts. To protect themselves against toxic gases, miners would lower a canary in a cage down the hole. When the cage was pulled back up, if the canary was dead, they’d know that the shaft was filled with methane, carbon monoxide, or some other deadly gas.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“What is means,” Clay articulated carefully, “is that if carbon monoxide can kill a canary and a coal miner, then a Terror Bird not only can kill songbirds, it can kill the rest of us, too.”

I shivered. Then I crossed my arms and grabbed onto my shoulders, as if to protect myself from an onslaught of who-knew-what. “I get it about the Terror Birds,” I said. “What I don’t understand, though, is who and why. Who hybridized them? Who smuggled them into our country? And why were they set loose to massacre a multitude of innocents?”

Clay sighed. “We don’t know. At least, not yet. All we know is that Terror Birds are weapons, and the individual members of our Avian Airforce are miniscule by comparison. Most less than half-an-ounce. So, the answer to your question about how we proceed is this: We do so with as much force and cunning, and from as much distance as possible. Ergo, our battle plan. Attract. Distract. Refract. Attack. Which requires absolutely no physical contact.” Clay studied my face for a few seconds. “Are you following me?”

“Sort of.”

“I’ll break it down for you,” he said. “We’ll start with ‘attract.’ That’s exclusively the job of our Avian Airforce. First, it will breach the perimeter of the battleground … the areas that Terror Birds already have overtaken. They’ll do whatever they have to do to attract the enemy’s attention. As soon as a Terror Bird responds, all 100,000 songbirds will surround it.” Clay lifted an arm and made a stirring motion with his hand, “…and imprison it within a swirling vortex made up by the entire flock.”

My eyes began to shine with understanding. “Okay. I get it. That’s ‘attract.’ What about ‘distract’?”

“Distracting the Terror Bird is Daffney’s job. She’ll be waiting for it within the vortex. She’ll fly out of range of its beak, but right up at its face and start to act crazy. Somersaulting. Flipping, darting, dashing, and distracting it sufficiently for Byron to take over and do his thing.”

“Which is…?”

“To refract sunlight. He’s been training all week. He’ll curve a wing into a lens, concentrate rays of sunlight into a single focal point, and blast a blistering dagger of light up to scorch the Terror Bird’s eyes.”

“Wow,” I breathed out. Awed and astonished by the audacity of the plan. “Then what?”

“Then Daffney and Byron move on to the next killing ground. And we move to the last phase of the operation: ‘Attack.’ That’s you, me, Jules, Marcus, and Gunny Hernandez. We each go to our designated battleground: Pickerel Lagoons. Glencoe Beach. Rock Haven Theater. Kings County Zoo. And you, my Beloved,” he momentarily cupped my chin in his right hand and smiled sweetly into my eyes, “To the Southland Elementary School.”

“Where we…?”

“Insert ourselves in the center of a 100,000-strong, mutinous songbird-tornado, and armed with the weapon of our choice, take aim at and shoot those bloodthirsty, blind, bastards out of the sky. Bang. Bang. They’re dead. May they rot in hell.”

I disentangled myself from Clay’s arm, leaned forward in the chair, and asked, “How many Terror Birds do you think are at each location?”

“Maybe one. Maybe half-a-dozen.”

“What if there are more than one, and what if they all emerge at once?”

“Our Avian Airforce has been trained for that eventuality.”

“How about Daffney and Byron? Your plan seems to depend on each being in five places at the same time.”

“They’re smart and fast. They’ll know where to go and what to do as the situation presents itself.”

“But … But …” I cried out in dismay, “That’s impossible!”

Clay looked me dead in the eye. Pursed his lips. And said, “I know. War is hell.”

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