The Lost Canaries

The Lost Canaries Prologue

CHAPTER ONE – JAMES

PLUCKED IN PLAIN SIGHT

Only the shadows would dare be outside this late, where the Red Doves could snatch me any second. As I stand alone beside my parked car, I peek along the empty midnight avenue snaking through the neighborhood. Beside the road in the distance, a lamp post shines like a lighthouse, beckoning me to return home from sea. The houses beside the road remain quiet, as if the residents are afraid to move or even switch on a light for fear of attracting the Doves. Icy wind drifts along the pavement as I let out a shaky breath. Out here, I cannot escape the feeling that a sniper's scope, hidden somewhere in the impenetrable gloom, has locked onto my head, seconds away from dealing a death blow. None of the neighbors would even know I was taken, as they have all hunkered down for another long night. I am stranded on a lifeboat, cast out into a sea so dark I can barely see the waves churning around me.

In the reflection of my windshield, I see my frightened reflection: an ashen face, a pair of sea-green eyes divided by a widow's peak, and a scrawny build. I shift my gaze to the intersection twenty feet to my left and find my father's car approaching. He parks behind my car, and when he exits his vehicle, his panicked hazel eyes start scanning the street.

My father is a slender man with thinning gray hair, and his face has drained of color into a pasty white. He still wears his button-up shirt and pressed slacks; he must have been at the kitchen table working late again. As he approaches, Dad's head swivels from the church on the far side of the road to the wooded area behind me. "We shouldn't be out of the house this late, James. The Doves could be flying around," he whispers.

"America's a big country. Their Pluckers are probably hunting someplace else tonight," I try to reassure myself. "I knew you'd come... even this late. Thanks, Dad."

He flashes a reserved smile. "Of course. But I'm still not trying to become a Wind Rider by the end of the night. Brainwashed terrorist is not on my list of ideal job titles." Toolbox clutched in hand, Dad pops open the hood of my car. "What's the problem?"

"Engine won't start."

My father begins fiddling with the inner mechanics of the car. His hazel eyes hold a steady focus as he analyzes all the parts under the hood. His deft hands sift through the metal contraptions. Dad always had a more grounded, practical intelligence than me. For a few minutes, my father slips into silence as he works in the shadows.

Meanwhile, I start scribbling words on my thigh and tapping my toes as my hyperactive, whirring mind quickly grows restless with just standing here. I whip out my phone and scroll through drafts of my writing, which settles my rattling appendages. As the unexplainable thoughts subside, I feel freed from my own brain, if only for a moment. I rub the callous on the outside of my right pinky that had formed from the hours pressed to paper, and the looming threat of the Red Doves fades to background noise.

"James, did you refill your engine oil? I kept reminding you to always have enough so this didn't happen," Dad says, suppressed irritation seeping into his voice. "You're a smart kid, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Uh... I might've refilled it...." I reply, eyes glued to my writing, mind a million miles away.

My father snaps his fingers in front of my face. "James! Are you even here? Can you listen to me for once?"

I try to escape my manic thoughts and meet my father's eyes. "I think I refilled the oil. Can you just figure this out so we can go home?"

Dad locks his jaw and, suddenly, he slams the hood shut. "Fine. You figure this out yourself. That's the only thing you can focus on anyway. So unappreciative..."

Shocked at his uncharacteristically tempered tone, I step back from my father. He scoops up his toolbox and clambers back down the road toward his car. My eyes linger on Dad for a moment; should I tell him—or anyone—about my thoughts? Explain to him that I think something is wrong with my brain and I didn't mean to ignore him?

But then I shake my head and turn my back to hide the crimson flushing my cheeks. I hear Dad fumbling for his car keys behind me.

Then a bloodcurdling scream shatters the silent night.

I spin around. Three burly men, clad in the infamous black uniforms of the Pluckers, are trying to wrestle Dad to the pavement beside his car. My father swings his toolbox and knocks one of the assailants in the side of the head. But another Plucker sweeps Dad's legs with some sort of club, sending him to the ground. Dad thrashes his fists up at his attackers. But then a Plucker digs his boot into Dad's left arm. A bone cracks. My father shrieks. The other two Pluckers flip him over and force his hands into cuffs behind his back. My father flails his legs in desperation like a fish trapped out of water as he tries to wrench free from his abductors' grasp. One of the Pluckers readies a syringe filled with sky-blue liquid. The other Plucker turns his beady eyes toward me. His lips curl with delight....

And my first instinct is to bolt into the forest beside the road, leaving my father to a fate worse than death.

I scurry into the shelter of the woods, crashing through thickets and shrubs as I scramble to escape. A few feet beyond the tree line, I crouch beside a rock to find a view of the street. The Pluckers still have Dad pinned to the pavement. Beads of sweat crawl down his face, and ribbons of blood gush from his nose.

Bright orbs materialize down the street as another vehicle approaches. If the Pluckers pile Dad into that car, the deed is done. My father calls for me, his neck muscles protruding in desperation, "James! James! Where are you?! Help me!"

But my feet remain planted in the shadows.

"Quiet!" A Plucker positions the syringe needle at Dad's neck. In the glint of the approaching headlights, I spot a scarlet armband on the Pluckers' uniforms reading "1/6/2021." The Plucker with the syringe chuckles. "Welcome to the Red Doves' overthrow, comrade. You'll be just as pissed off as the rest of us once Tourtombee enlightens you at the Hatch House. We'll be marching on D.C. in no time." He inserts the syringe into my father's neck, and Dad's final cries are replaced by the wind as he loses consciousness.

Two Pluckers pile my father's limp body into their car as the third narrows his eyes at the forest, where I remain hidden. "What about the other one?" he growls. But then police sirens screech in the distance, and the Plucker retreats back toward his car.

Adrenaline shoots through me, and I launch into a sprint in the opposite direction. With my mind strangely devoid of thoughts, my only priority is my own survival. One step in front of the other. As far away from this haunted place as possible. The world outside my own needs has finally forced its way onto my radar.

I would spend the rest of my life trying to retrace those steps back to my father, but I would have to defeat the most infamous terrorist organization in American history to finally give Dad the least bit of attention....