The Lost Canaries

Chapter 2: The City That Never Speaks

CHAPTER TWO – JAMES

THE CITY THAT NEVER SPEAKS

I lean against the edge of the windy rooftop, peering down through the darkness at the crowds moving frantically along the Chicago riverfront. Everyone is sticking close together. Parents, their eyes triple-checking each alleyway, carry their toddlers home. Police patrols march along the adjacent avenues, ready to enforce the new nationwide lockdown going live within the hour. No one will want to be out after dark anyway.

Bradley Buchanan, a strapping, balding man with a chiseled jawline, stands next to me along the railing. "Surprised President Bessemer actually went through with the lockdown..." Bradley's deep-set brown eyes scan the streets below for security threats. His protective figure towers over me. The yellow canary stitched into his camouflage Miners' uniform appears to be flying through trees, hopefully someplace peaceful, somewhere far from here....

"I guess the abduction rates were finally too high," I reply. "I doubt people will be able to stand being at home for long. Just my luck that my one-time visit home from CANARY Headquarters was scheduled the same night as the lockdown..." I dread the national depression about to sink in, with millions separated from loved ones as we all wait out this never-ending wave. A wave that has been brewing within the fabric of American society since before I was even born.

"Sorry your return to the outside world wasn't as expected." Bradley claps me on the back. "Also... Stripe General Maddox wanted me to remind you that we need to be up early tomorrow for the flight back to CANARY. Mandatory training session with the Miners."

I try not to roll my eyes, but then I catch myself. The early wake-up tomorrow is for him. Your training against the Red Doves is for him, I try to convince myself. My father's brainwashed eyes, begging for me to rescue him, reach out to me in the darkness, and the discipline of duty pulls me in once more.

I strum my fingers against the railing and scribble words on its surface, unable to stop until my breathing steadies. I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out a Prozac pill. My obsessive-compulsive mind remains just as restless as the trembling city around me. The thought of writing in the CANARY library upon our return eases my OCD symptoms, but training remains my unfortunate priority.

I peer at the horizon over Lake Michigan and sigh. "Three years at CANARY, and you forget how much has changed out here. When I came to the city as a kid, Chicago was half this size."

The sprawling urban landscape stretches for miles. A ground full of stars blinks up at us from the historic city center, but the lights from the new neighborhoods in the west and south shine the brightest. A Hover Train slithers between the skyscrapers a few blocks east, dropping off last-minute passengers at their homes. Electric ride-sharing vehicles screech along the avenue below as hordes of civilians scurry for shelter. But the land beyond the outskirts of the city, where nothing grows, remains sunk in shadows.

"Let's grab a drink before lockdown starts," I urge the general.

We stroll over to the Waterfront 18 bar on the opposite side of the roof. The restaurant is empty, and the bartender is cleaning glasses out of boredom.

"I'm surprised more people aren't out for our last night of freedom. 8/23/2040 is one for the history books!" Bradley says to the bartender with a flashing grin.

"No one wants to drink these days, pal." The bartender frowns. "Can't afford to let your guard down in public. The Red Doves' Pluckers could cart you off to the Hatch House before you even knew what hit 'cha." The bartender checks my ID.

"I thought my first legal drink would be under slightly different circumstances." I crack a smile. Bradley titters overenthusiastically in the dim of the rooftop. Humor might be the only way to face the coming days.