The Murder

A murder of crows used to mean something else. The order to kill them was given on a Tuesday. We thought it would be enough. Instead, the insects came back first.

The term used most widely in the papers, reports, and news was a culling. The environmental agencies called it a massacre.

The avian flu strain had been one of the deadliest in recent history. It had been isolated, at least initially, to crows. Why only crows was anyone’s guess, but they were the unlucky hosts the virus had chosen. They had been dropping left and right, and scientists were becoming increasingly worried about cross-species transmission. We had seen it happen before, with other species. Rats. Chimps. Bats. Cattle, among others. The list wasn’t long, but it was long enough. It hadn’t happened here yet, but the disease’s increasing mutations were forming at an alarming enough rate that it felt inevitable.

The decision had been unanimous, even though nobody wanted to do it. They were still birds, after all. But we concurred it had to be done. It had seemed like a very simple and easy decision to protect us. The crows were causing the problem. Get rid of the problem. We had all watched the same presentations, read the same reports, and listened to the same experts. Somehow, it made the whole thing feel more manageable.

I was there when the votes were cast. I agreed and raised my hand like everyone else at the table. It felt like the necessary thing to do. When we left, we felt good about ourselves—saving humanity by raising our hands like we were back in a kindergarten consensus circle.

The crows’ calls and echoing song slowly vanished from the sky and instead were replaced by the sounds of the sirens that meant the dispersers were coming. People were told it would only impact the crows, but as a precaution, to stay inside. We had been assured that the method had been tested, was safe, and at most would only lead to a minor reaction if breathed in shortly after dispersal. That was true. Those who didn’t believe the warnings at first quickly learned to listen and take the sirens seriously. Some people would watch from behind the safety of windows. I couldn’t.

The black feathers rained from the sky like ash, collecting all over roads, cars, and grass. They were swept away at night, and by the next sunset, the ground was covered in them all over again. This happened over and over again until the very last crow was removed from the ground. The system was thorough. We had made sure of that.

At first, there were still stragglers that hadn’t been eliminated yet—hearing the song in the early morning, like the sounds of a ghost, or seeing the speck of black against the bright blue sky. People would look up and gawk, as if it were the angel of death himself. These moments soon became fewer and farther between, before vanishing as completely as the birds themselves.

The reports reflected it all very cleanly. Regions across the globe were simultaneously and systematically marked, checked, and verified. The numbers and visual confirmations fell exactly as projected, and each continuous update confirmed what we had expected to see. There were no outliers and no deviations left to raise concerns. We had taken all of them—every species of crow, every variation—just to be safe.

For a while, it seemed like it had worked. No more crows were heard across the world, and no new reports were made.

My mother got sick a week later. Then my father. Then my two younger brothers. I stopped counting after that. It didn’t seem to matter how many more there were. Everyone soon began to have similar stories. The disease burned through the cities regardless.

I don’t talk about the vote anymore. I wonder if the others still believed in that consensus circle.

The insects came back first. That much will always be clear. They came back, growing in unchecked numbers, breaking records with every new data check, filling the empty spaces left by the crows. Mosquitoes thrived in what followed. We couldn’t say that they helped spread the virus faster or farther, but there was no way of knowing that they didn’t. Then the crops began to fail, one by one. It happened slowly at first—too slowly for the people to notice. Perhaps, if it had been more dramatic, the alarms would have been raised quicker. The remaining food slowly vanished under their numbers. Eventually, what hadn’t been harvested or ravaged, wilted and rotted in the fields. The feed that was required for the animals became scarce. Then the animals themselves became scarce. The rest all fell apart pretty rapidly after that.

Because it wasn’t just the fields. It was all the storage facilities, the supply lines, and “doomsday” stock. They all emptied faster than the models anticipated and before anything could restore or replace them. What remained became harder to get, harder to afford, harder to keep, and then impossible to maintain. We adapted for a time. But none of it lasted. There are only so many ways to replace something when it vanishes everywhere at once.

Without a proper ecosystem, our food became even scarcer. Diets deteriorated quickly. Attempts at healthy regimens vanished altogether. While the disease continued to claim lives, the analysts said the collapse of the food chain didn’t help those who might have stood a chance. We tried to make more models, counter-models, projections, counter-projections. None of them did any good to change the outcome.

The first human cases were reported after the last of the crows were gone. It didn’t make sense at first—until someone finally mapped the timeline of symptoms and when each one had begun. After that, it might as well have been spelled out in blood.

Whose blood it was would be debated long after. In the end, it didn’t matter.

A murder of crows used to mean something else. Now, it only reminds us of the folly that led to our own.