2.
 One weekend, Jack had gone on vacation. He’d left Lucy at the office, with the cage door safely closed and her faded, garden-vegetables kitchen towel draped over the cage. He’d adjusted nearby vertical blinds to keep her calm. Between his eighth beer at the ski lodge on Saturday night, and his Sunday morning hangover, he realized he’d forgotten to give Lucy fresh water and seeds. Sunday evening, on his way home, he rushed to the office. He found Director’s door open and her light on, in an otherwise dark, deserted building. Amid soft music, her keyboard clicked. “Mr. Martin?” She did not look up.
He dutifully popped his head into her doorway. “Yes, Director.”
“I figured it might be you. Go home and enjoy the rest of your weekend.” She was, as always, immaculately made up—short dark hair tinged with frosty highlights. Her jewelry just jingled, and did not jangle. Her fingers were short and showed her age, 50, but she was still attractive. Her large fingernails were ever candy-apple red, like convertibles driven by men in midlife crisis. Her keyboard clickety-clicked, thoughtfully, and did not clackety-clatter.
“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.” As Jack walked among darkened cubicles and half-closed blinds, red air traffic control lights winked far away. He listened by the cage. Lucy cooed in her sleep. He lifted the towel to peek in dim light. Her water and seed dishes had just been freshly cleaned and refilled.
As Lucy shrieked, the building swayed.
“Earthquake?” People clung to cubicle walls as the building rocked. It was over in seconds, followed by stunned silence. Meerkat heads rose above cubicles to eyeball each other.
Lucy grew still, with a few last, fretful twitches. Bird down drifted in the air. Jack cupped her protectively. She fretted between his palms, peering over Jack’s thumb.
“Look, something is burning over there,” said a fortyish, knife-slender Asian woman, pointing to the city’s western horizon.
Jack walked to a window. Amid sunshine, a pall hung over the city. A pillar of smoke leaned with the wind. Distant harbor water glistened near Mussel Beach, where gray Navy ships loomed. Smoky sunlight illumined rooftop edges along the Metro City skyline.
“Lucy! There’s only one plume of smoke! This was no earthquake. It was a hit.” Distant flames puffed orange and black amid a confetti of paper rising on hot, turbulent air.
Minutes passed.
Soon, big blaring fire trucks, trailing U.S. flags, throttled by, down on Broadway. Their keening sirens wailed like the bereaved city itself. They speeded on heavy tires that tore asphalt. Horns blared, again and again, to clear the streets.
Horror! roared throaty fire engine klaxons. Horror!
Director’s door opened. Her coiffured head leaned out. Small, freckled hand gripped the knob. “Someone took out a Federal office building in Metro City West.”
“Who did it?” someone asked.
“Don’t know yet.” Director showed her steeliest Hot-Shit-Suit face. Her voice was edgy: “Stay at your desks. I may have to send you all home, but there are traffic problems just now.”
“What if they blow us up?” a panicky analyst said.
“Mr. Wilson, keep your shirt on and your powder dry. We are safe, if for no other reason than I say so.” She slammed her door shut. To her staff, she was hardly ever wrong. Her determination seemed like a protective shield around the building.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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