Author and Columnist Shelly Reuben

Over the past few weeks, Terror Birds had invaded five culturally significant sites within 20 miles of Park Department Headquarters, and turned them all into killing fields. Reports of wildlife massacres, described in newspapers as “disturbing,” accelerated over that period. In response, Special Investigator Clayton Yonder stated, “One innocent creature’s death is ‘disturbing.’ More than one is catastrophic.”

The purpose of the forthcoming battle – to begin and end on Wednesday, November 5th – would be … again quoting the commander of the Campaign to Eliminate the Terror Bird … “To kill all the sons of bitches” (a statement he made privately only to colleagues and friends).

The weather that Wednesday was mild. Perfect for a stroll along the wetlands at the Pickerel Lagoon, for wading in the waves at the Glencoe Beach, or … oh, wait. I forgot (I didn’t really). Those places were now off-limits to civilians, i.e., anyone without a weapon, because … well. You know why.

OPERATION RECLAMATION.

Admittedly, unlike Operations Phantom Fury or Operation Praying Mantis, it doesn’t have a dramatic name. But it is descriptive. Because this war was about exactly that: reclaiming the forests, the wetlands, the gardens, the anywhere-under-the-beautiful-blue-sky polluted by the maniacal bloodlust of Terror Birds. Reclaim and return to those who had lived there peacefully. Reclaim to resume their day-to-day lives without fear of their necks being broken or being impaled on the spikes of a barbed wire fence.

D-DAY. SUNRISE: 7:02 A.M. SUNSET 4:28 P.M.

GLENCOE BEACH. Field Commander: Nigel the tufted titmouse. Weapons Officer: Gunny Hernandez.

6:00 a.m. The Avian Airforce silently gathered around the perimeter of the battlefield. Prior to assembling, Nigel informed Gunny that among other species in the mixed flock, lovebirds, cockatiels, and parrotlets (small parrots) had joined the flight group, and been brought up to speed on their training.

The projected battle ground extended from a 12-foot wall north of the public beach, to an area 1,000 feet south, where huge boulders studded with hawthorn, cedar, and crabapple trees emerged from the lake. Nigel’s plan was to surround that area with approximately 100,000 song birds, lure out any and all Terror Birds, and drive them toward the beach, where they would have nowhere to hide.

7:00 a.m. After four Terror Birds emerged, each was corralled and encircled by a separate tornado of songbirds.

7:15 a.m. From inside the first twister, Daffney, the adorable chickadee with the backward knees, approached the largest of the four Terror Birds. She artfully taunted and distracted it with airborne acrobatics. That done, Byron the dragonfly transformed one of his wings into a laser-like focal point of light, directed it at, and blinded the Terror Birds’ eyes.

7:18 a.m. Daffney and Byron left the first tornado and moved on to confront their enemies in the other three.

7:20 a.m. Gunny Hernandez assumed his position at ground level inside the twister from which Daffney and Byron had departed. He aimed his air rifle upward, shot once, and blew off the Terror Bird’s head.

7:27 a.m. through 7: 55 a.m. Same sequence of events for the second, third, and fourth hybrid-predators at the Glencoe Beach, resulting in fatal headshots to all four.

7:56 a.m. Daffney and Byron flew to the Rock Haven Theater, 2.3 miles away. Minutes later, Nevil, field commander of operations at the Glencoe Beach, directed his medical corps to attend to the wounded. He then ordered all able-bodied fliers to follow him to the Rock Haven Theater. With that single, brilliant, and impulsive resolution, Nevil increased the might of the fighting force at the theater from 100,000 songbirds to 200,000. A decision that would be emulated by all field commanders after completing their engagements.

Meanwhile, per Clayton Yonder’s instructions, Gunny Hernandez stayed behind to collect every last iota of dead Terror Bird and its DNA – “Don’t overlook a single feather, bone fragment, or drop of blood.” – and throw it all into the plastic-lined bed of his Park Department pickup truck.

ROCK HAVEN THEATER. Field Commander: Stella the goldfinch. Weapons Officer Jules Landau.

8:00 a.m. The Avian Airforce surrounded the woodland adjacent the theater’s outdoor pavilion. Select songbirds fluttered clumsily and conspicuously in open areas to attract the enemy’s attention. In response, two Terror Birds emerged from a canopy of maple trees. Only two.

8:05 a.m. Each individual Terror Bird was surrounded by 100,000 songbirds instantly assuming tornado configurations.

8:07 a.m. – 9:00 a.m. Similar sequence of events as were employed at the Glencoe Beach: Attract. Songbirds drew Terror Birds out of their hiding place. Distract: Daffney taunted, teased, and performed dazzling acrobatics. Refract: Byron blinded each Terror Bird with searing spears of light. Attack: Jules Landau, entrusted by Clayton Yonder with a powerful Remington shotgun, blew both predators out of the sky. Cleanup: Gunny Hernandez disposed of all Terror Bird remains.

10:00 a.m. – 11:30 a.m. Kings County Zoo and the Southland Elementary School:

KINGS COUNTY ZOO. Survivors of the two previous encounters joined Field Commander Gwyndolyn the tufted titmouse on the battlefield, thus expanding her invading troops from the anticipated 100,000 to 300,000. The zoo, home to small animals like titi monkeys, red pandas, and sloths, and bordered by a dense promenade of cherry trees, was a perfect killing ground for Terror Birds. After several dozen songbirds presented themselves as vulnerable prey, no less than seven flew out of their hiding places. Followed first by Daffney and Byron doing their thing, and Marcus Landau, wielding another Remington shotgun … their fates were sealed.

SOUTHLAND ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. Rochester the goldfinch commanded the Avian Airforce at my old alma mater. I stood by for a grand finale of bullets to the Terror Birds’ heads. Only three had been hiding in the woods to the east of the school. For all, the encounter ended badly.

THE PICKERELL LAGOON.

11:35 a.m. – 2:45 p.m.

Everything that could go wrong did go wrong at the Pickerell Lagoon. Fortunately, by then, our attack force of songbirds had grown – less casualties – to about 500,000. Speaking of which, “casualty” is the worst possible word to describe victims of terrorism, as there is nothing casual about being murdered or maimed while defending one’s life, liberty, and home. Sorry about the personal digression, but that term has always bothered me.

The “Damn-It-To-Hell” factor of this last battle came into play within seconds of our arrival. Just as Archie the Giant Chickadee, field commander of the operation (Clay was the weapons officer) flew over the gate into the Pickerell Lagoon, a gargantuan Terror Bird – twice the size of the others we had seen – zoomed out of a copse of arborvitae trees. A tip of its wing sideswiped Archie. He literally tumbled out of the air and hit the ground, stunned, but otherwise uninjured. However, in the two minutes it took him to regain his bearings, the entire synchroneity of our previously successful operations fell to ruins.

Temporarily without a leader and suddenly confronted by 15 Terror Birds, all of whom had emerged from their hiding places at once, our enormous mixed-flock – determined to keep the enemy contained, but knowing it would be impossible to entrap each in its own tornado – created one single, enormous cyclone of songbirds to encompass the entire 894-acre lagoon.

Attract? Hardly. Instead of attracting Terror Birds, our first contact was more of a collision. Distract? Fifteen fierce, homicidal enemies at once? That was beyond even the super powers of Daffney, the greatest backward-kneed chickadee in the world. Refract? Impossible. Byron could barely manipulate his wings in the confusion, let alone take aim.

So, it was left to us.

Special Investigator Hot Shot Yonder. Retired Marine Gunny Sergent Noah Hernandez. And me.

We arrived at the same time as Archie. We witnessed him being flung out of the sky. We observed our Avian Airforce assuming a cyclone configuration. And we knew it would not work. Striding through the lagoon’s entry gate, Clayton Yonder looked at me; he looked past me at Gunny Hernandez.

He jerked his chin up at the sky three times. First, indicating himself. Then me. Then Gunny. We understood him perfectly. Left. Center. Right. Fifteen birds. Clay would take the five to his left. I would take the five directly overhead. Gunny would take the five to our right.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

All head shots. In less than 60 seconds, it was done.

Rochester, Stella, Nigel and Gwyndolyn led 500,000 plus or minus battered and bruised members of our mixed flock from the lagoon to the meadow behind Park Department headquarters: Bird medics stayed behind to care for the wounded and, I assumed, do what had to be done for the dead. Byron, not unexpectedly, given all he had done and endured on that hectic and horrible day, injured a wing, and was bundled off to the veterinary hospital.

By then, Jules Landau (Clay’s boss) and his brother Marcus had joined us at the Pickerel Lagoon. With their help, we dragged 15 despicable corpses from where they had hit the ground to the back of Gunny’s truck, obediently collecting every last feather, fiber, and fragment to be found. It took us over two hours.

When we finally finished, Jules and Marcus left, feeling the need to return immediately to headquarters to contain … well, I’ll tell you about that later. Gunny drove off in his truck with instructions from Clay to park in the maintenance garage, lock the door behind himself, and guard the carcasses until he (Clay) arrived.

Which left just the three of us. Me. Clay. And Archie.

We were exhausted. I was leaning against the front bumper of Clay’s car. Archie was perched on the hood. And Clay was sitting on a log about six-feet away. It was one of those moments when, if any of us smoked cigarettes, we would be lighting up, fatiguedly (is that a word?) inhaling deeply, and then, with great satisfaction, exhaling long streams of smoke.

But none of us did. So, none of us did.

Just then, as I was fantasizing about taking a deep drag on my nonexistent cigarette, Archie emitted an alarming stream of dee-dee-dees. Clay and I both turned toward the Giant Chickadee at once.

What we saw on his face was a mask of unmitigated distress. And when we heard the words that he uttered, we became distressed, too.

What Archie said was, “Where is Daffney?”

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