Contrary to popular belief and hearsay, the crows had nothing to do with it.
Or at least that's what the Ecologists kept insisting.
Eventually the word did spread to everyone else, filtered through rumors and word-of-mouth, just as all information does in the Zone. However this took time to find support among the stalkers.
One could understand why.
Why?
Because it contradicted what stalkers saw with their own eyes. And stalkers are a species of humanity that did not believe in anything that they did not see or experience firsthand. At best it would be treated with optimistic skepticism.
After all, it was true: almost all remaining wildlife in Zone was mutated.
The pigs turned into flesh, boars became scarier boars, and the dogs, don't even get started on the dogs! There was a whole veritable family tree of them here: pesudodogs, psydogs, and blind dogs. All of these creatures mutated as a result of the change in the Zone's environment after the Second Disaster.
All the wildlife that didn't flee or die, they evolved into the mutants of today.
Except the crows.
The crows remained unchanged.
Strange as it might sound, these birds are one of the few constants of the Zone, ever since the First Disaster in 1986. All of the other native species of birds were either long gone or rotting in the irradiated dirt as fertilizer. But the crows remained – and to contrary of extinction, they grew and multiplied.
The roots of the myth originated from the early days of the stalker phenomena. While these early pioneers certainly did not lack in cunning, bravery or greed, the strange alienation of the Zone brought out the irrational side of human nature.
This translated into strong superstitions that, at times, bordered on paranoia.
Certainly, it was difficult to not think this way when any stalker can – at any moment, anywhere in the Zone – often simply look up and realize that he is not alone. Behold! Up in the trees, there were likely several black crows perched on every other branch. And they would at this stranger in the Zone with great interest.
Soon, the sight of black crows scattering into the sky became a terrible omen to any stalker.
It meant that someone – or something – had disturbed them.
And this belief was only reinforced when more weapons found their way into the Zone. It was observed that the concert of heavy firefights did not disturb these birds. Not unless one was shooting at them directly.
Now imagine this:
A stalker is out in the wild, minding his own business. Perhaps he is searching a known anomaly field for artifacts. Perhaps he is a loyal member of his faction, patrolling their territory to deter enemy encroachment. Or perhaps he is a opportunistic hunter waiting to ambush another less fortunate soul. The list goes.
Everything is peaceful and quiet, save some stray, occasional gunfire in the distance. Nothing noteworthy.
And then, suddenly and without warning, a giant wave of crow rises from the treetops. They all scream out in a chilling chorus, scattering in every direction.
One can imagine what impression this scene will leave on an honest stalker.
Of course, the Ecologists disagreed with this. For years they insisted that the crows had nothing to do with it. They kept repeating scientific principles and empirical observations – after all, the other mutants in the Zone didn't react in the same way. So why should the crows be any different?
The bright eggheads in their red chemical suits argued and argued, but nobody bothered much to listen. It seems like the entire point of the matter was lost on these men of science.
This can be observed by simply to any honest stalker sitting at the 500 Rads bar. Try explaining the entire concept to some tired fellow four shots of vodka into his session.
The reaction will always be the same:
"So? Who the fuck cares why? As long as they still warn me the same, I couldn't give a rodent's arse less about why!"
"Come on, you louse! Get in here!"
Wolf's voice rang out across the village, perhaps even echoing through the pine forest to reach the lonely Ukrainian Army outpost in the distance. But there was no need to worry – they were too occupied to care. Just like the Loners scrambling over their feet to reach the safety of the village.
In fact, both the soldiers and stalkers were worried about the same thing: the reddening sky creeping in from the distance.
The stalkers had realized it sooner than their counterparts in the military. After all, their colleagues closer to center had sent the warning. By the time the outpost's siren alarm started to blare, it was probably too late.
In fact, one could argue that by the time they could see the flock of crows scattering into the sky, it was already too late.
But the soldiers – mostly young teenage conscripts – didn't need to go far for cover. They simply needed to step inside the barracks and hop down the stairs into the safety of the concrete basement.
The Loners out in the wild did not have this luxury.
Just as usual, a mass notification signal went off almost simultaneously in PDAs all across the Zone. And every stalker knew by heart what the eerie 'beep' meant. And their legs did not need any further instructions to start moving on their own.
"Get the fuck over here! Run, you fuckers! Run!"
Wolf's voice rang out across the clearing. But by the time it reached the ears of the rookies, his words were nothing more than faint whispers against the screaming sky. Any shout of scream, no matter how spirited, could only pale against the oncoming might of the Emission.
They ran and ran.
But no matter how much their legs moved, it seemed like the field just stretched into the distance, without end. Wolf's figure standing outside the shed seemed to be eons away.
Too late.
Wolf stared at the darting shapes making their way across the field of reeds. The red sky casted a black shadow over them. In his heart, he already knew. It was a familiar sight. He himself had been in the same spot many times before, making the same mad dash to a building – any building – within sight.
Wolf looked on until the very last moment. After all, someone deserved to see this. Someone deserved to remember them.
In the end, it was his body that convinced his mind. He could feel the droning buzz seeping into the side of his head with each pass moment. The light became blinding. The first rumbling of earth came creeping in.
Wolf cast one last look at them.
Some were still running. Others had given up.
The only thought that formed on his mind was: they only have Makarov pistols on them.
Which was a good thing. It'll be less hassle later. And that was it: within the span of several minutes, they turned from human beings into…something else in his mind. And there was no pressing guilt or conflicted debate – just simple acceptance.
It wasn't the first time.
And it won't be the last.
The old stalker just shook his head, closed the door, and went down into the basement.
Today, he lives. Tomorrow, he may be on the other side, standing in the fields with his back to the incoming storm. Or he might not. Tomorrow...well, let's see.
And so it goes.
Another day, another emission.
Here's what the Ecologists have to say about crows and emissions:
Contrary to popular belief among the stalkers, crows are not able to sense incoming emissions. Instead, the reason why large flocks of crows can often be seen flying in the sky before one is due to much more mundane reasons.
Instead of detecting incoming emissions via some purported susceptibility to pyswaves or supernatural senses, crows are simply reacting to the seismic shifts in the earth. However, it is important to note that the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone does not lie on any known tectonic plates. Thus is believed that seismic activity is attributed to the Zone's anomalous environment.
To put it in laymen's terms: crows take flight from the tree branches due to the minor earthquakes that precedes each emission. It has nothing to do with popular superstition originating from folklore about crows' role as the harbinger of doom.
This was proven conclusively by Professor A. Sahkarov's experiment No.231e on March 9th, 2010.
The experiment consisted of two crows captured indigenously from the Zone. Crow A was placed on top of a tree branch. Crow B was locked in a metal box suspended in the air with the help of a Gravi artifact. Both crows were held securely in place via metal wires.
The objective of the experiment was to test the reaction of crows to an incoming emission. As expected, Crow A displayed behavior of panic and attempted to flee once the first vibrations reached the tree stump. Meanwhile Crow B showed no signs of discomfort.
The results of this experiment are in line with current hypotheses regarding wildlife behavior in the Exclusion Zone. Just like mutants such as fleshes and mutated canids, crows are unaffected by the psywave from emissions.
One possible explanation of this behavior pattern can be attributed to the complexity and intelligence of neural functions of the subject. Unlike humans, organisms of lower mental capacity such as animals do not recognize nor are they affected by the nature of Emissions in the Zone. It would seem that a certain level of mental capacity must be present in order for the emitted psywave to induce a state of catatonic inertness. Such as the state observed in so-called 'zombies'.
As a matter of fact, experiments conducted have shown that psywaves may even have limited rejuvenating effects on certain comatose organisms with severely reduced mental capacities.
Observations have been of instances where a braindead animal left out during an emission will often regain consciousness and cognitive functions, albeit in a significantly reduced form…
Cold.
Temperature: approximately degrees 20C. High humidity. Damp. Possibly underground. Light, thin layer of fabric on torso. Polyester-cotton military jacket covering over top - summer cut, tiger stripe pattern in urban color scheme. No footwear. Bare feet.
Cold.
Losing body heat from chest. Need warm clothing. Soon.
Assessing location.
Lying on leather couch in neglected condition. Mild dust particle in air. Unevenly heated surroundings. Yellow florescent lightbulbs. Concrete walls. Judging from damp humidity – underground.
Location: underground bunker.
Pistol in hand.
Double action SIG Sauer P226(8) chambered in 9x19mm Parabellum. No round in chamber. Magazine loaded. Worn fore grip. Used firearm, but in operational condition.
Satisfactory.
He quietly watched her from a distance.
Her thin fingers deftly manipulated the pistol's frame, getting a feel for its condition and checking the various mechanisms. They moved about with a experienced precision that bordered on boredom. It was as if she's been doing this her entire life.
The sight of a young girl sitting in Sidrovich's worn-out leather sofa, with an oversized camouflage jacket covering her chest as she mechanically checked the pistol a in her hand…
Simply surreal.
Finally, Master spoke up.
"How are you feeling?"
Contact.
Caucasian male, age: late forties, 2 meters at 3'o clock. Greying hair, slight stubble, green eyes. No distinguishing characteristics. Dressed in unknown form of body armor, consisting of chest piece, grey coveralls and array of tubes.
Walther P99 pistol in thigh holster.
Prepare for –
"There's no need for that."
His words had no effect. She still racked the slide back, chambering a fresh round into the pistol. Master recognized the glint forming in her gaze as she slowly looked him over. Her finger was already resting on the trigger guard. Good trigger discipline.
It wasn't pointed at him – not yet. It was held in a low ready position, with the side of her bare shoulders facing him.
He would pull his out pistol from his holster, but that could cause an accident. It also unnerved him that a part of him did not like the idea of being alone with her without a weapon.
Just a girl…
Instead, Master slowly raised his hands in the air.
"No need for that," he repeated, "not looking for a fight here."
She accepted his words, but her hands remained vigilant. At least she lowered the pistol onto her lap. The girl continued to observe him with steady eyes.
"So…what's your name?"
She just stared at him.
"Where are you from?"
His questions produced no effect on her. The words held no meaning. Instead, her eyes began to slowly study the surroundings of the bunker walls, taking in all the details.
He grunted softly and leaned back into his chair.
For a moment, Master almost forgot about the emission.
It wasn't until the final wave rumbled over the concrete walls did he remember about the passing psystorm. Even here, down in the safety of the bunker beneath 3 feet of earth, he could still feel his skull echoing with each shockwave. The unpleasant buzz was making the rounds in his ears again.
Damned emissions.
But the girl didn't seem to care the slightest about such trivial things.
So the two of them simply sat there, with the smoggy silence hanging in the air, waiting for the emission to pass. There was only the Zone's subdued wail of fire and noise to keep them company.
For him, new questions formed with each moment. Master did not like the possible range of answers. Nothing good can come of them. After all, the Zone did not like to share its secrets – and when it did, nobody liked the answers.
As for her, she… simply existed.
Right here and now, sitting on the leather couch in an underground bunker was the entirety of her collective knowledge. Every passing moment was a new experience.
The new experience of being alive.
Finally, the storm passed. And the silence between the two of them did not remain for long. It was graciously interrupted by the sound of clumsy feet shuffling across the concrete floor and clinking of glassware.
"Finally! Those damned things, always gives me a fucking headache. Master! Where are you?"
Sidrovich's booming voice came echoing from behind the door. Barely a moment later, it swung open and the trader appeared in the doorway with a bottle of vodka in one hand. In his other hand held two drinking glasses.
"There you are. Come, let's have a drink. It's bad luck to drink alone."
Master's gaze slowly shifted to trader, then back at the girl. It took Sidrovich a moment to realize her presence.
He didn't bat an eye.
"Ah-ha! So the mystery girl is alive after all! Tell me, how are you feeling? And for god's sake, what are you doing with that gun? That's nothing a child should be –"
He began hobbling towards her.
"Dima, don't –"
Sidrovich was met with a full locked and loaded P226 pointed directly at his forehead.
She even pulled back the hammer in preparation, to reduce the double action trigger's pull length and weight.
The trader made a terrible scowl.
"Fine! Fine! I get it, every stalker's a cowboy with a machine gun now, is it? Everyone needs to pack some real heat in the Zone! Damn, it's like a fucking warzone out here. Keep that damned peashooter if you want."
The trader shook his head and turned back to his friend. Then he laid out the bottle and glasses on the table between them with experienced hands. A fresh drink was poured out for both of them.
The girl lowered her pistol. She watched on silently.
Master and Sidrovich exchanged some quiet glances but did not make any gesture to take notice of her. Instead, they turned to each other and began talking – as if the girl wasn't there.
"So, how were the boys? Did they all get in?"
Sidrvoch took a sip. The burning vodka soothed over his throat, but the stinging flare in his nose didn't go away.
"Bah…not good. Some of 'em were caught near the stone crusher. Too far away. What's the matter with these blowouts these days? This one didn't even have a real warning. I thought we weren't due for another one for a couple days?"
Master swirled his glass, staring at the orange florescent light dancing in the vodka.
"So they say. On my way back out I heard from them eggheads that rhythm is getting faster now. The PDA network will need to update their schedule."
The two tired, old men just sighed in unison. Such was the fate of laying with a cruel mistress.
"How's it outside?"
"I took a peek from the periscope. It's subsiding now. In an hour or so we'll be able to go out."
"I suppose we'll need to clean up the boys who didn't make it?"
Sidrovich's gaze darkened. He took a large swig from his glass, emptied it in one gulp, and banged the glass onto the table. But when he did speak again, his voice was low. Quiet, almost.
"Yes…we'll have to. Wolf will have to gather some of the rookies. Best hunt them down before they wander off too far."
"What were they carrying?"
"Well, I don't know who exactly is out there. But it won't be much, just some PMs and shotguns."
Silence, again. But this time there was no shaking earth or shrill screams to fill in the void. Only the weight of their Zone remained, pressing down on their battered shoulders.
The two raised a toast.
"To the cruel mistress!"
"To the bitch we all love, ay!"
They drank their toast down heartily, for all the ones who couldn't be here with them. One day, someone will drink to them as well. Then some day someone else will drink for all of them. So the wheel turns.
But that's the future.
Right now, they are here.
Master turned to the girl.
"Want some?"
She stared at the clear liquid swirling in the glass. Her eyes burned with something he vaguely recognized but could not name. It reminded him of…
"Hey! What're on earth are you thinking?"
Sidrovich pulled his hand away. Master nodded apologetically.
"Right, right. She's just a child –"
"– do you know how expensive that bottle is? Real Finnish stuff! I'm not giving out free samples here. If you're going to do that then I'm going to share anymore with you! Do you think I am the fucking golden hen or something?"
"You greedy son of a…"
"What? You think I run a charity or something here? Sod off!"
The girl continued staring at them, not making a peep. But she hanged onto their every word. Master noticed that she had decocked the hammer and her finger was no longer on the trigger guard. The pistol was still in her hands, but it was now on her lap.
He pointed at her other hand.
"Say, do you know where you got that?"
The girl looked down.
Plant.
Helianthus family – subspecies unknown. Petals bent, florets crumbled. Leaves beginning to wilt. Stem losing color due to loss of water content.
Sunflower.
Scent is faint. Dampened, but still present. What scent? Words, words, words. There is a scent. But how to…? Remember. Knows already. Need to remember the words. So simple, yet so difficult. But how?
Words for the mute. Colors for the blind. Music for the deaf. How? How to –
Sweet.
Sweet but bitter. Faint but distinctive. Faint scent of summer. Which summer? Bright summer day with no clouds, in a field of sunflowers that stretches to the horizon. Scent of grass, but sweet. Scent of buzzing bees and pollen. Scent the faint morning dew.
Scent of flowers.
Flowers?
What is the scent of flowers?
Next time, need to ask –
"Here."
She accepted the glass with quivering hands. Both her hands. Her face faced down at the drink in her palms, but her eyes stared of into distance somewhere else. The girl's eyes blinked and blinked and blinked = she did not understand.
She did not understand the tears on her cheek.
Once, perhaps. But no more.
Sidrovich and Master quietly shared her silence. They did not interfere – neither their place nor something they understood.
If she doesn't share, then they don't ask.
The girl sniffed and drank the glass in one go. She came up, coughing and spitting, snot forming at her nose. The tears were flowing freely now. The glass slipped from her hands. It feel onto the carpet with a soft thud.
The girl's shoulders crumbled and she bent over, clutching the sunflower close to her chest – desperately trying to cling onto the faint scent of a past she never knew.
Master wiped her face with the sleeve of his sunrise suit. Sidrovich spread out a sleeping bag on the couch. She was gently lowered into her bed, her hands gripping her pistol and sunflower, and a blanket was dug out and layered snugly over her chest.
They let the girl be.
She curled into a tight ball under the blankets and softly wept and wept.
