Imitate. Infiltrate. Eliminate. | SCP-1014 (Part 2)

Sleep doesn't come easily, even with the comforting warmth of Whitlow next to me. We've made a fire using dried out driftwood and a lighter pilfered from the galley. The crackling of the logs eased me into a semi-conscious state, but I can't seem to move past it into deep sleep. After some debate, we've decided to wait for Hague and wake up and discuss it with her instead of just chopping a huge chunk of her leg out. For all we know, the creatures will simply remove themselves after a certain amount of time. While dressing Lundberg's wound, we saw that the space where the removed creature had been was a mess of modelled shredded flesh, but there was no blood in it. Instead, it appeared as if some sort of destructive cauterisation had occurred, leaving the shredded flesh dark and dead, but not bleeding. Fearing that he would wake up and try to cut the other creatures off, we'd trust him up as best we could, with the rest of the rope from the raft. We've left Hague in lying where she passed out, with her damaged fingers bandaged. Thank goodness for the first aid kit someone grabbed before the yacht sank. She's not tied up. Even if we were worried she would do something to herself, we have no more rope. Sying, I sit up and glance at the rocks I placed on the injured creature. They don't seem to have moved. Of course, maybe the creature can dig. If so, it might come after one of us. I have visions of waking up with one of those things on me. No wonder I can't sleep. Then there are the noises from the jungle, with all the excitement earlier. I wasn't paying any attention to the shadow-drenched tropical foliage covering most of the island. Since things have calmed down, I've heard occasional shuffling around us. I was sure it was caused by animals until I glanced up into a nearby tree and saw a firelight reflected off something that looked like glass. As I watched, it seemed to fade into the cover of the thick green leaves at the top of the tree with the faint rustling sound. I can't help but wonder if something has gone terribly wrong, or if this is all part of the experiment. It seems like too much of a coincidence to not be part of the test. And if that's the case, that means whoever is running the test is watching us. Still sitting up, I peer around looking for anything out of the ordinary. A warm, salty breeze stirs the trees that causes the fire to flare brighter, hurting my night vision. Something touches my back and I jerk away from it, turning to see that it's only with love. She smiles. Jumpy are we? You're not? She sits up and presses against me. How about we finish what we started? It's not the most comfortable of places, and certainly not very private. But I'm not about to say no. We kiss, and then we do other things. For a little while, I forget all about this crazy situation, and only focus on Jessica, every little bit of her. When we're done and dressed again, she lies in my arms. For the first time since before I went to prison, I fell asleep, feeling like I'm not alone. I wake up groggy and confused, trying to figure out what I'm hearing. The strange grunting sounds have pulled me awake into the chilly early morning air. The fire is down to embers, and Jessica is no longer next to me. A memory comes to mind. I was lying down with Jessica's head resting on my chest, dosing, when a hissing sound erupted from nearby, like that of a sprayable air freshener, then a sickly sweet smell invaded my nose. I recall trying to open my eyes to sit up, but finding it impossible. Sleep pulled me into its depths. It's the last thing I remember. Whether it was a dream or reality, I have no idea. Sitting up and blinking the sleep away, I peer over to where the grunting sounds are coming from. Without the light from the fire, I can hardly see what's going on. But the sounds of a struggle yanked me fully into alertness. I get to my feet, moving past the spot where Lungberg was last night. He's gone, but I can't focus on that right now, because I see that Hagen and Jessica are locked in a struggle, rolling around on the ground. I rush over to them, rocks and fallen tree parts, stabbing my bare feet. They roll into a tree, ending up with Hagen on top and Jessica on bottom. I kneel and wrap my right arm around Hagen's waist, pulling her off. As I'm hauling her away, intense pain erupts in my arm. I throw Hagen to the ground, only then, seeing that she has the same kitchen knife Lungberg used to goug his leg. A glance at my arm shows the several stab wounds she inflicted. Blood seeps from the deep wounds. Look at Jessica, she's clutching her chest with both hands, trying to stop the bleeding from her wounds. Hagen scrambles to her feet and rushes at me, leading with the knife. She lets loose a torrent of sounds, but they're gibberish. As she approaches, I see her eyes. They're completely bloodshot, burst vessels obscuring every millimeter of the whites. The nonsense words spill out of her mouth. She's gone insane, something is broken in her brain. I backpedal among the trees as she comes toward me, then I juke left. When she takes the bait, adjusting her trajectory, I dart right and close in, swinging my left fist down onto her knife hand, knocking the blade away. Pivoting, I grab her by the back of her head and shove her face first into the nearest tree. The crack her face makes is followed swiftly by the thud of her body falling limply to the ground. I snatch the knife up and run over to the supplies, grabbing the first aid kit. Returning to Jessica, I see that her light brown skin has turned almost yellow with the loss of blood. Her shirt and shorts are soaked in the stuff. Still, I push her hands out of the way and lift her shirt to inspect the wounds. My heart plummets. There are six that I can see, and they all look deep. As I grab bandages and press them over the injuries, I say, Talk to me. What happened? What was that about? I just want to get her talking, and it's the first subject that comes to mind. She's shivering. Her neck tendons stick out as she raises her head to look at her chest. I don't know. Her teeth clatter as she speaks. She was making weird noises when I woke up. I was scared, so I brought the knife. As soon as I got close, she attacked me. I shake my head, trying and failing to put pressure on all the wounds. Jessica's eyelids flicker. Her head inches toward the ground. No, come on. No. Talk to me. What do you want to do when we get back to the world? Le... Le... Le... Her head hits the dirt and her eyes close. She stops shivering. No, no, no, come on. No. I do what little I can think to do, but it's too late. She's gone. Shaking with rage, I glance over at Hagen's unconscious body. The creature is still stuck to her leg, but it's a good inch deep in the flesh. Growing, I move over to the unconscious woman and flip her underwear back. My thoughts collapse under the weight of my fury, leaving only one impulse that I have no choice but to follow. I wrap my hands around Hagen's neck and I squeeze. Her eyes come open, but they're not the bloodshot ones I saw two or three minutes ago. These eyes belong to my stepdad. I squeeze harder. My nearly forgotten wounds trickle blood down my hand and onto her neck. The sight of it and the pain of the wounds only solidifies my rage. Her windpipe collapses under the heels of my palms and I squeeze some more. When I'm sure she's dead and my hands ache from the effort, my fury recedes into the shadowy depths. I thought I had conquered it, but I would never need it again. I was wrong. It's been there the whole time and it will be there until I die. Shame mixes with exhaustion and pain. I sit beside Whitlow's corpse, staring down at her, thinking. Lundberg is gone and he didn't walk off on his own. Using the first aid kit, I bandage my knife wounds, wrapping my forearm in gauze. I take my time, thinking, putting everything I know together. I recall the strange reflection of the fire I saw last night. Like the kind of reflection you'd get off a camera lens. I sit there until the sun chases the shadows from under the trees, an outline of a plan formulating in my mind. But the details of that plan are still fuzzy. Then I get to my feet on numb legs and verify what I saw earlier. Lundberg is gone and with his leg broken, there's no way he left on his own. Even if he did manage to get out of the ropes we bound him with. But there's no discarded rope anywhere around. It can only mean one thing. There are others on this island and I'm going to find them. I walk through the trees for ten yards and paws, listening. Then I do the same thing again and again. Then I turn around and do the same thing in the other direction. After thirty minutes of this, I manage to pinpoint patterns in the jungle sounds. Cameras moving around in the trees like insects, keeping me in their sights. I can't see them, but I know they're there. I walk quickly back to the campsite and go through the supplies, looking for anything I can use. In addition to the two kitchen knives, one of which I've collected from near Whitlow's body, I find an orange flare gun. Resisting the urge to look around for the cameras, I think furiously. There's also food in the supplies, including some fruit and veggies. I glance over my shoulder at the makeshift fire pit, where the remaining embers from last night's fire smolder. A rye smile comes to my face. It's time for breakfast. Ten minutes later, I have a fire going and I'm getting ready to chop up veggies so I can add them to the can of soup from the supplies. I have a flat piece of driftwood with an onion laid out on it. Next to it is a kitchen knife, but it's not the one Hagen used to kill Jessica. This one is smaller and flimsier. It has a white handle. Reaching to my right, I grab a branch with greenery on it that I broke off a tree while gathering wood. I toss it on the fire, pick up the flimsy knife, and lean over the flat plank of driftwood to start cutting the onion. If I'm right about where the cameras are, this should work. It doesn't take long for the branch to catch fire. The moisture in the branch causes thick white smoke, and the gentle breeze blows it toward me, just as I planned. I continue cutting until I can barely see my own hands through the smoke. Then I act quickly, pressing the flat of the blade against the ground and bending the handle until it snaps. I jab the white handle into the ground, as if I've just stabbed the knife into the dirt to leave it there. With the blade palmed in my left hand, I cough, bringing both hands near my mouth. I slip the blade underneath the gauze at my wrist, where I've wrapped my wounds. Although I'm not hungry, I put the onions into the soup, heated up, and heated. Then I gather some supplies, and start my search. At BetweikersCino, stake 20 pounds, and get 150 free spins for new customers. 18 plus, TizenC's apply, bet the responsible way, gambleaware.org. Attention. Attention, rail travelers, platform paces, window gators, and our rest negotiators. Have you heard, the big rail fair for ease is here. Rail fairs have been frozen across England until March 2027 on standard class tickets, including off-peak, anytime, and season tickets. For more information, visit nationalrail.co.uk slash fairs for ease. TizenC's next gluten supply. Two hours into my search, I find the bunker entrance. It's a large two-panel metal door built into the side of a tree covered hill, about three miles from where we came onto the island. It really wasn't hard to find, thanks to the worn footpath leading up to it. Fullyage that had apparently been used to cover the door is now gathered on the sides of the recessed entrance, like they're not trying to hide at all. As I stand, staring at the door, I adjust my grip on the flare gun in my right hand. I carry a pillowcase with various other supplies inside. The knife that killed Jessica is tucked into my back waistband. The door looks closed tight, but I start forward, determined to find a way in. When I'm ten yards away, the sound of a hefty lock disengaging stops my progress. The right side panel swings open, and a man with a rifle steps out. The barrel thickens on me. He's dressed in dark cargo pants, a white short sleeve shirt and black boots. He also has a pistol and a holster on his right hip. Put it down. I don't put the flare gun down. My eyes flick to the open doorway, seeing if there's any backup. You know how inaccurate those things are? What happens if you miss? And that's if you can get your shot off before I get mine. Signing. I tossed the flare gun to the ground. The gunman steps to the side, clearing the way for the next person out. A middle aged black woman in white capri pants and a colorful, short-sleeved blouse. The woman gives me a tight smile as she steps out in her comfortable looking sneakers. Hello, Mr. Eggers. Won't you come inside? We'd like to have a talk with you. I start forward, stopping again when the man tenses and shakes his head. Leave the knife. The woman says. I tense, wondering if she means the one under my bandages. After a moment, I reach back and pull the knife for my waistband, tossing it next to the flare gun. Just leave everything. You won't need it. You've been watching me, I say, dropping the pillowcase with my other supplies, mostly food, water, and what's left of the first aid kit. This is the moment of truth. If they saw my secret blade, I'm screwed. The woman studies me. I wait for the other shoe to drop. Of course we've been watching you. Couldn't be much of an experiment otherwise. My name is Dr. Becker. Follow me inside and we'll get your wounds properly cleaned and dressed. I'll explain everything. I follow Becker down a well-lit concrete corridor. The rifleman shuts the door and follows behind me. We come to another door, which Becker opens with a keycard. Then we step into what I can only describe as a command center. It's one large room with a line of computer stations along the left wall and what look to be a couple of holding cells along the right. Three other people, also uncomfortable clothes, turn from their stations and watch us walk in. One more guard, armed with a rifle inside arm, stands next to a door in the far wall. Becker stops in front of a holding cell with a reinforced glass window. The well-lit, white cell contains an unconscious lungberg on a gurney. His leg has been set and bandaged much better than our attempt from last night. But the creatures are still affixed to his legs. He has machines hooked up to him and an IV line in one arm. Recalling the strange memory with the hissing sound, I now know it wasn't a dream. We were drugged last night so these people could take lungberg away without us interfering. I'm going to level with you here. Becker says as we look in on him. This whole thing has been one big screw up after another. What happened to Whitlow? It never should have happened. I'm sorry about that. I'd look into her brown eyes. So you're saying the yacht was never supposed to sink? That we were never supposed to get attacked by whatever the fuck those things are? Is that what you're saying? Becker doesn't have heard her gaze. Now, all that was part of the experiment. But lungberg, cutting his own leg open, Agen attacking Whitlow. Those weren't supposed to happen. I'm guessing there was some kind of reaction with Agen's fast drug use that caused the psychotic break. These creatures release an interesting compound into the blood. I get in Becker's face, cutting her off. You wanted everyone to stay healthy so your fucking experiment could continue. The guard shows me in the wall. Pining me there against my back. His rifle aimed at my chest with his other hand. Becker moves back a step and continues talking. I appreciate your anger. But I'm trying to level with you. If I'm being honest, you have my sympathy. I don't think you ever should have gone to prison in the first place. Gee thanks! Just let me go free then. I won't tell if you won't. Becker smiles without humor. My predecessor suggested I simply drug you and do whatever I want, leaving you no choice in the matter. She pauses. But I want to give you a chance to return with two years off your sentence. Will you hear me out? Or do you want to see the alternative? She gestures at one of the other workers in the lab. The young woman loads up recorded night vision footage and plays it on one of the screens on the wall. On it, I see an oblique angle of me as I choke Hagen to death. Despite the angle, I can clearly see my face. I only watch a couple of seconds before looking back at Becker. What do you want? Hagen is dead. She says. Bernaldy is dead. Whitlow is dead. We only have Lundberg. We need another. I balk. Do you want me to put one of those things on my body? The guard presses harder against my chest as I struggle with swelling anger. I feel my hands around Hagen's throat, around my stepdad's throat. The rage threatens to overwhelm me. But I can't let it take over, not yet. It won't kill you if that's what you're worried about. Yes, you will be injured. But we can choose a part of your body that will allow you to remain ambulatory. So you can enjoy your coming freedom with full use of your body. Or... She gestures at the screen, still playing Hagen's murder. Your word doesn't mean anything. I say. Your recruiter told me this wouldn't be dangerous. You're all full of shit. Becker shakes her head sadly. I guess I shouldn't have given you a choice. Lawrence, bring my medical kid. The guard in the corner of the room leaves through a door. My eyes flick down, seeing that the gunman in front of me doesn't have his finger on the trigger. Wait, wait. Okay, I'll do it. You don't have to drug me. I just need in a moment to get my mind around it. I have no idea how long until the other guard returns. Becker and the gunman look at each other as they put my hands behind my head, like I'm surrendering. With the fingers of my left hand, I dig under the hem of my bandages, grasping the knife blade there. Fine, Becker says. Put your hands down. As soon as I feel the guard, he's off my chest with his hand. I whip my right hand down, clubbing his arm and rifle out of the way. At the same time, I bring the blade down and slash at the man's neck with it. Artereal spray spatters my face, even as I'm whipping the blade the other way, cutting gouges and Becker's hands as she brings them up to protect her face. Swinging back the other way, I go for the guard again. But he's dropped his rifle as he clutches at the massive wound across his throat. The other people in the room shout as I drop the blade and go for the rifle. One thing I'll grant my stepdad is he taught me about guns. I get the safety off and the rifle up just as the second guard rushes back into the room. Medical kid in one hand and rifle in the other. I aim and fire in a heartbeat. Bullets punch through his chest, pulverizing his organs. Looking the other way, I see Becker and the three other people. One woman and two men running toward the front door. There's no stopping my rage. I've let it off the leash. Becker has her keycard out. She swipes it in the door opens. Starting with her, I sweep the rifle across the room. Firing as fast as my finger can manage with the semi-auto rifle. As they close in on the door, they make things that much easier. The bullets find their marks. All four of them collapse. Feeling only elation and righteous fury, I get to my feet and walk over. Becker lies in the doorway, groaning and trying to crawl toward the bunker door. Another man is still alive, sobbing as I step over to him. I put a bullet in his head first, then I blast Becker to Kingdom Come. The sun has been down for about ten minutes, as I sit on the beach with the rifle across my lap. The ocean breathes against the land. The soothing sound slowly eroding my rage, replacing it with a strange mixture of shame and dull elation. It's only a matter of time before someone shows up to see what's become of the researchers I've just murdered. But I have a raft with a motor, and I have some food. And right now, a slow death in the middle of the ocean is preferable to an even slower death, rotting away in a prison for the rest of my life. Then again, I have a gun. I have bullets. If I get stranded at drifted sea, my death doesn't have to be slow. Who knows? Maybe I'll be picked up by a Thai fishing boat. I have no idea where I am, but in the hours since I've committed mass murder, I've convinced myself that I'm somewhere near Thailand. After stumbling out of the bunker and vomiting up what was left of the soup I ate earlier, I decided to go back in and pill for whatever I could use from the dead bodies. After all, what's a little grave robbing compared to mass murder? I now have $342 in cash, a dozen credit cards, and four weapons that I can try to sell or trade if I do get picked up by a fishing boat or a tanker. I found my way into Lundberg's cell and tried to wake him up, but he wouldn't come out of his stupor. I was afraid I might kill him if I messed with any of the medical equipment. If what Becker said is true, he'll survive. I'm sure it won't be long before reinforcements show up. Reinforcements from the SCP Foundation. That's the name I found on documents and ID badges in the bunker. I've never heard of it before. I tried to unlock all the phones I found in the bunker, many of them in the pockets of quickly cooling bodies, but they all required both a fingertip and a six-digit code. I couldn't get into any of them, and for fear of being tracked I left them all in the bunker. Now, I have everything loaded into the raft, but I still hesitate. It doesn't take a therapist to figure out why. Somewhere deep inside, I feel like I deserve to be caught and punished for what I've done. So I sit and watch the last remnants of daylight disappear from the sky and listen as the ocean breathes. The elation I felt at connecting with Jessica was so powerful and something I'd been craving for so long, its sudden absence is like a knife to the chest. Now I feel more alone than I ever felt in prison. I didn't think that was possible. I'm tempted to go lie down next to her body to try and convince myself that she's still alive, that this is last night, as we dozed in each other's arms by the fire. But it would be a lie. A sudden splashing sound draws my attention to my left out in the surf. It's so dark, I can hardly see anything but the white broth of violently sloshing water. I get to my feet, the rifle dropping to the ground. I recognize that voice. It's Rinaldi. The thought that prompts me to run into the water is simple, companionship. As I wade, waste deep into the water. I make out Rinaldi's form some 30 yards away. Something about the way he moves, thrashing around in the water, is immediately familiar. It's still hard to make out details in the dark, but I recognize the man's form. He's pale, so pale. I stop. The water now chests deep. The incoming waves lifting my feet off the rocky ocean bed. How could I be so stupid? It's not Rinaldi. It can't be. It's panic turns me cold. My muscles tense with adrenaline. I spin around and, in a frenzy closely mirroring the thrashing by not Rinaldi, I scramble toward shore. When the water is still thigh-deep high, I feel it. It's like a stinging bite on the side of my right thigh. Another erupt on my left calf. I race out of the water, hoping I've just been stung by jellyfish. But I look down and see that's not the case. Two of those creatures are now attached to me. The pain only increases as their tendrils dig into my flesh. After stooping to pick up the rifle, I run to the raft, tossing the weapon in, and then dragging the thing into the water. Before I can jump in, I feel a third creature attach itself to the inside of my right thigh. I throw myself into the raft, getting out of the water, before any more can get me. I start the motor. My only thoughts are getting the hell away from this island. Only one I can no longer see the landmass behind me, do I stop the motor. I'm surrounded by dark ocean on all sides. I turn the camping lantern on and find the knife Lindbergh used to cut one of the things off. It worked for him. It will work for me. I select the creature on the outside of my right thigh. My teeth clenched. I position the knife blade. Take a deep breath and get the cutting. SCP-1014 is a tunicate, capable of mimicking human appearance and vocalizations. Though very similar in appearance to the black sea hare in its larval form, a mature instance appears very much like a weathered and emaciated man dressed in rags. This is believed to be a heavily adapted tunic, a protective covering common among tunicates. This covering constantly emits a foul smelling mucus. Likely to discourage closer inspection. When a vessel comes near, mature SCP-1014 instances thrash about to attract its attention. If approached by humans, it will release from the rock so that it may be transported. Due to their resemblance to human shipwreck victims, passing ships will often take one on board, removing it from the water and thereby triggering its reproductive cycle. The mucus, secreted by the instance, then changes to include symbiotic bacteria, capable of rapidly rotting wood, fiberglass, steel, and aluminum alloys. As it consumes the hull of a ship, itself fertilizes and begins transforming into up to three dozen larvae. When the boat sinks, these larvae will attach onto humans and begin feeding to gather enough energy for the next phase, which is to develop the aforementioned human-like exterior. Once fully grown, entities will anchor themselves to rocks and feed on bacteria, phytoplankton, and other debris in the water until it can catch the attention of a passing ship or human to begin the cycle over again. Notably, adult instances are capable of mimicking human words and phrases, which adds to the realistic nature of the human imitation phase of the life cycle.