The instant I realized that Archie was among the missing, my hand tightened around Clay’s .38 revolver. I rushed past him, dashed down the short corridor inside the firing range, and ran for his car.

Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, Clay was just inches behind me.

When we had arrived at the shooting range about 30 minutes earlier, he’d parked in a diagonal space immediately outside the building, which was separated from the asphalt by a six-foot strip of grass. A large window opposite the car opened into a narrow corridor with several benches on which shooters could leave their coats, ammo bags, coffee cups, and so on. The window was open at the time, and we had told Archie that if he was careful, he could pop in and out of the car from time to time to watch the action.

Stupid us. As if Archie ever listened to anything we said and/or adhered to any limits we set on his freedom.

The instant I got out the door, I saw him perched on the roof of Clay’s car, his head leaning forward and peering through the range’s window toward the booth where, seconds before, I had been shooting. Archie looked a little bewildered at not seeing me there, and was concentrating so intently that he was completely oblivious to the menace … oh, God. It was terrifying … zeroing in on him from the sky.

Because, that’s what it was. Menace. One of them. Maybe the same one we had seen at the MRI Clinic. Maybe one of its offspring. But I saw a flicker of movement about 50 feet overhead, zooming in so quickly, I could not follow it with my eye. However, my right hand – the one holding the revolver – without informing me of its intentions, began to shoot so fast and furious, that I didn’t notice when all five rounds were gone … and Clay was following up with 15 rounds from his Glock.

My head was numb from the explosions in my ears.

My lungs were raw from massive inhalations of gun powder residue.

And I was terrified we had both missed the Terror Bird … hurtling toward the Giant Chickadee like a ballistic missile … and that Archie was no more

After the Commander of the Campaign to Eliminate the Terror Bird (Clayton Yonder) had discharged his last bullet, I staggered back over that little slice of lawn, stumbled against the wall of the shooting range, and sank to the ground. Clay, unflummoxed, as always, strode toward a huge pile of bloody gray, white, and black feathers not six-feet from the front bumper of his car.

Huh? What?

My brain clamored and my head throbbed until I heard faint “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” sounds repeated over and over again. I looked up and realized that Archie was still perched on top of Clay’s car. Other than his feathers being ruffled, which aways happens when he is in danger, and that he was twice his usual size, he looked so safe and normal, I could have cried with relief.

“Archie!” I shouted, and scrambled to my feet.

Later, after the corpse of that particular avian assassin had been carted off by the Park Department’s forensic team to their laboratory … temporarily serving as a morgue … I was able to examine its repulsive remains. I did everything I could not to observe too closely, because the monstrous apparition was even more ghastly in death than it had been in life. And when Clay later summarized the autopsy report for me, I wasn’t really surprised at the findings.

One bullet from Clay’s .38 S & W revolver – the gun that I’d used – had smashed into the Terror Bird’s head. Four more were lodged in its thick neck. All 15 rounds from Clay’s Glock had hit dead center in its now exploded, eviscerated, and disintegrated chest.

Just deserts.

As Clay made his report to his superior officer, Archie and I waited in his car. The entire time – it didn’t take long – we huddled in the front seat, Archie literally burrowing his sweet, fluffy, feathered body under my arm, and every few seconds, shuddering either with fear or relief.

As always when I am distressed, my go-to remedy is to find an ice cream parlor and inhale a banana split or a three-scoop sundae. But I knew our priority had to be getting Archie home. Where better for my Giant Chickadee to have a nice, stress-relieving nervous breakdown? … Or whatever the equivalent is for a bird who has barely survived extermination and needs a safe place to wind down.

After he reestablished himself on his fireplace mantel and assured us that he was all right, Clay and I retreated to the kitchen. I was about to make us sandwiches when he asked, “Have you ever had a frittata?”

I thought about that for half-a-second. Then I said, dubiously, “I don’t think so.”

“Sit down. Relax. My turn to take care of you.” He opened the refrigerator, and peered at the shelves. “Where are your eggs?”

“Middle shelf. Behind the basket of apples.”

He rooted around, located the eggs and pulled them out. He continued to explore until he had also found shaved parmesan cheese, red peppers, onions, turkey bacon, milk, and butter. Half an hour later (a frittata, I learned, has to be baked in the oven until the contents have risen, like a fluffy French soufflé), we ate. Upon swallowing my last (delicious) bite, Clay began to recapitulate our interaction with the Terror Bird. And I began to wonder. “Why?”

Did Clay think I would forget what had transpired less than an hour earlier?

Did he believe that I failed to comprehend the magnitude of what I … what WE … had achieved?

Did he …

But no. After he finished his verbal review and we had cleaned up the dishes, he motioned me to the dining room. Then he took out his ever-present notepad, sat beside me, and wrote down five names. He pushed the pad in front of me.

“Do you know what that represents?”

I looked at the list. The first name was his. The second was mine. The third was Jules Landau, Clay’s boss in the Division of Criminal Investigation. The fourth was Marcus Landau, Jules’ brother and head of the Protests and Special Events Division at the Park Department. And the fifth was Noah Fernandez. That one stumped me. Then I remembered that Noah was Clay’s friend, the retired marine now in charge of our goldfinches (Rochester and Stella) and titmouses (Nigel and Gwendolyn) at bird bootcamp, teaching them what they had to know about Terror Bird warfare.

“Okay,” I said. “Five names. You. Our fearless leader. Me…”

Clay interrupted, smiled, and said, “Annie Oakley.”

I laughed, and continued to read off the list. But before I could articulate another syllable, I crossed my arms on the table in front of me (they seemed to have a will of their own), and my head flopped down to rest on them.

“I’m tired, Clay,” I said.

“You have every right to be.”

I jutted my chin toward his list. “What does that mean?”

But before he could answer – I’m not used to going to a shooting range, firing off twenty-five bullets, and killing an arch enemy, all in one afternoon – I fell asleep.

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