The SCP Experience - A Rainbow of Blood | SCP-942

Episode Date: December 13, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-942 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-942 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Jake Bible  * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's something else here now. Something new. From. Exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls Scary as Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi Vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules.

Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. Try something different today, sweet and candy red. What's that? I hold the bubble gumball dispenser in my hands and read the inscription on the bottom a couple of times. Try something different today, sweet and candy red. I have a vague memory of this thing from when I was younger, but I don't remember there being an inscription.

It's a weird place for an inscription. The bottom of the machine. Why put it there? If you want to entice people, mainly kids of it. course, to put a penny in the machine and get a gumball, then you wouldn't put the inscription on the front, like right above where the penny goes in, or even on the handle you twist to dispense the gumballs, or on the flap that covers the shoot the gumballs come out of. There are a lot of places you can put that engraving.

On the very bottom where no one sees it isn't my first choice. What's that? Hmm? That. In your hands, Scott, what is it? My wife's words finally get through to me. and I look up from the gunball dispenser and over at her. The lack of adequate light in the attic makes it hard to see her,

but I can tell she's slightly annoyed by the tone of her voice. This? I ask and hold up the dispenser. Yes, Scott, that, she replies, and moves out of the shadowy corner, where she was looking through a large bag of quilts under the single light bulb that doesn't really do much against the attic gloom. Um, a gumball machine? I say. You don't sound too sure about it.

that?" She responds with that little laugh she does, when she knows I'm in my head and not truly present. The laugh pulls me out of my thoughts and I hold out the dispenser. I don't want that, she says. Those gumballs have to be ancient. I give the dispenser a shake and I'm not surprised that the gumballs are all stuck together. They thunk as one entity inside the plastic bubble. Definitely not loose and shiny as if they were freshly bought from Sam's Club or Costco. I've seen them there on the candy aisle on those large plastic tubs. Funny they go from a plastic tub on a shelf to a plastic bubble in a small machine. You'd think you could skip a step and just turn the

tub you buy into a dispenser, but where would the fun in that be? Scott! My wife nearly shouts. I shake my head and look over at her. What? I snap, obviously a little too harshly, considering the withering look my wife gives me. Sorry, sorry, just thinking back to when I'd spend summers here. With that thing? she asks. This? I hold the machine up in front of my eyes. Maybe? I don't really remember this thing. I sort of do, but I could be conflating memories. We were always going to old-fashioned soda shops and penny arcades and places like that. Gumball machines were everywhere in those places. Yeah, they have them at the mall still too, my wife says. They're bigger, though, and they have the weird flavored gumballs that are as big as deli

head. The mention of our daughter makes me look at the attic hatch and the ladder leading down into the upper hallway of my grandfather's house. Or I guess it's my house now. Our house. She's fine, my wife says, reading my thoughts correctly. My mom is watching her in Lewis. I give my wife the, really? Look, and she purses her lips. Stop it, my wife says. My mother knows how to watch our children. Right, right, I say and nod. Jerk, my wife mutters then says, is that a keep, sell, or donate? I'm not sure, I say, rotating the machine in front of my face once more. Keep?

It's up to you, she says. But if you keep it, throw those gumballs away, will you? They're gross, and I don't want either of the kids trying to get at them. The last thing we need is to have to go to the ER because they ate some rotten gumball. Pretty sure these things can survive a nuclear blast, I say. I doubt any microbes can live. in them. So they're the cockroaches of treats? Great selling point, Scott, she says, and wipes her hands on her jeans. I'm going to make some lunch. You hungry? Ham and cheese sandwich? I ask. No problem.

She says and gives me that smile that tells me I'm not getting a ham and cheese sandwich. One hummus and sprout sandwich with Tofurki coming up. I thought I saw some ham and cheese in the fridge earlier, I reply with a little hope in my heart. Hope that I won't be subjected to the now natural foods rejective sandwiches she intends to make me. We should use that up. Nope, she says, and pats my shoulder as she passes me on the way to the hatch and the ladder. 45-year-old man you have heart attacks. Do not get to eat old ham and cheese out of their dead grandfather's fridge.

Ah, so you're a doctor now? I ask, but with a smile on my face and in my voice. Someone has to be, or you'd be dead by Friday. She says then stops. Her eyes go wide and start to tear up. I didn't mean that. I set the gumball machine aside on an upturned foot locker, then grab my wife in for a hug. She buries her face in my chest and lets out a small sob.

Hey, hey, it's all okay, I say and stroke her hair. I've got a lot of years left in me, and I have zero plans on dying by Friday. I gently push her back and wipe away the tears on her cheeks. Sunday at the early. earliest, but definitely not Friday. I say and go in for a kiss. Oh, you asshole!

She says and slaps my chest. You better not die on Sunday. We have the yard sale this weekend. Then she points at the gumball machine and wipes her whole face with her sleeve. Keep sell or donate, she says, and walks to the hatch and ladder once more. Decide so this cleanup train stays on the tracks. I'll decide after lunch, I say. Give me a holler when that delicious sounding sandwich is ready.

She nods and descends the ladder. Oh, and hey, Paula. I call to her just before her head is lost from sight. Yeah? She replies and pauses. I love you, I say. Forever. I love you, too.

She says and smiles wide. Enough to make me a ham and cheese sandwich, I ask. More, she says. Which is why you're getting hummus, sprouts, and tofurky. Then she's gone before I can protest. Returning my attention to the gumball machine, I pick it back up and give it one more shake. The clump of gumballs makes a thunk, thunk noise. After a few minutes of staring at the thing, I walk over and set it in the keep pile.

Then I pause and put it in the cell pile. Then I pause again and put it in the donate pile. We don't have a trash pile because Paula is determined that every single item in my grandfather's house that we don't want to keep will be rehomed and reused. Before I can turn around and head for the hatch and the ladder, I pick the gumball machine up once again, hesitate over the three piles, and place it in the keep section. Then I head for the hatch and the ladder,

and the waiting sandwich I'll have to choke down with a smile, so my wife doesn't worry anymore about me than she already does. Germ machines, that's what those things are. Carrie, my mother-in-law, says as I stand in my grandfather's kitchen. my kitchen now, and study the gumball machine, trying to figure out how to get the plastic bubble top off so I can remove the gumball blob and toss it into the trash as I've been asked to do by my wife, a wife who is currently at work, since she couldn't get the week off to help clear out my grandfather's place. Her company's leave policy does not apply to a spouse's relative.

I have unlimited personal time off, though. Having a massive heart attack in the middle of the office Christmas party gets you a shit ton of automatic medical leave apparently. Our HR manager said to go home and stay home until my doctor says that I won't accidentally drop dead anywhere near the office. My guess is it's not so much a compassionate decision over my well-being as it is a financial decision related to my company's liability insurance policy. Either way, I'll take it. Did you hear me, Scott? Carrie snaps. You should throw that whole thing away.

It has to be filled with germs. If you say so, I reply, still struggling with a dispenser. It probably unscrews, Lewis says from the kitchen table. He's busy eating some microwaved chicken nuggets and carrot sticks. Actually, it's more like he's busy eating ranch dip and the chicken nuggets and carrots are just the vehicles to get that seasoned buttermilk into his mouth. Lewis is 10 going on 50. He studies everything, ignores nothing, and is usually right with his.

observations. I see more and more of my grandfather in him each and every day, which is a weird thing to say about your 10-year-old son. On his right is Delia, three years old, going on pure trouble. She has chicken nuggets and carrot sticks too. But the chicken nuggets are all gone, devoured in seconds, and most of the carrot sticks are either on the ground or sticking out of her nose as she looks around, waiting for someone to notice. We've all noticed, it's just that we're trying to not encourage her to stick anything up her nose. Three trips to the emergency room and the bills afterward have gotten us to this point. Get those out of there!

My mother-in-law screeches, then hurries to Delia and yanks the carrot sticks out of my little girl's nostrils. So much for us not giving her any attention. Delia giggles and reaches out from her booster seat. Her little hands grasping at open air as Carrie moves away from the kitchen table and over to the trash can with the snotty carrot sticks. Immediately my daughter picks up two more sticks and inserts them into her newly vacant nostrils. You need to do something about this behavior, Carrie says when she turns to look at me. Her hands are on her hips and she is glaring daggers.

This is not sanitary. She points at Delia and I glance at my daughter. Delia gives me a huge grin and tries to get a second carrot stick into her left nostril. You're going to rip the skin, which will cause an infection and then they'll have to operate and remove your nose. knows Delia. Lewis says matter-of-factly as he dunks another chicken nugget into his mini swimming pool of ranch. But if you want to look like Voldemort, then go right ahead.

I know look, Voldy Morty! Delia shouts and throws the only carrot stick remaining on her plate. You Voldy Morty! Lewis ducks his head to the side, and the carrot stick sails past, hitting Carrie in the cheek. That makes both kids giggle, and the second I see Delia notice her plate is empty, I know exactly what is about to happen. Yet I do nothing to stop it. When you have an overbearing hypochondriac mother-in-law, who is always on your ass about something or other she thinks you're doing wrong, you let your toddler yank a carrot stick from her nose and throw it at her grandmother.

That's just Family Dynamics 101 there. Delia Caroline night check! Carrie shouts when the snotty stick splats against her cheek in almost the exact same spot as the non-snoddy stick did. My girl's got good aim. is how you spread disease?" Carrie continues shouting. If you do that again, I swear I'll... But she doesn't finish as two more snotty carrot sticks splat in the same spot, one after the other.

My girl's got really, really good aim. Carrie's head rocks to the side, but not from the impacts. More as an involuntary shudder as her hypochondriac mind tries to reconcile escaping the snotty carrot stick attack with her love for her granddaughter. It's a major psychological battle. I can tell by how Carrie hasn't started screaming and blaming me for what is happening. D, stop it, I say calmly, then bend down to pick up the carrot sticks off the floor. As I bend down, the gumball machine slips from my fingers and falls only a few inches before

hitting the kitchen floor. I must have loosened the top, because it instantly pops right off, and the gumball blob goes wobbling one direction while the dispenser's plastic bubble top rolls the other way. Damn it! I say. Damn it! Delia echoes. There! See what you've done! Carrie cries out with such venom that I half expect to get a swat to the top of my head before I can straighten up. As I stand straight, I remain silent. There's no point in

countering Carrie. Anything I say will only be twisted around and turned back on me. I once said what a lovely day it was, and was instantly reminded that there are people dying because of disease and famine. So how can I say it's such a nice day with all that misery happening in the world? Uh, sky, pretty. I said in a caveman's voice and pointed at the cloudless blue sky. She didn't speak to me for two months after that. It would have been great, except for the stress had caused Paula. With snotty carrot sticks in hand, I ease past Carrie and throw them into the trash can. Keep that open, Carrie snaps. and hip checks me out of the way, so she can throw the gumball blob away.

Then she goes back to fetch the dispenser and its bubble top. And this should go too, nothing but germs. Whoa! I exclaim and yank the dispenser and bubble from her hands. That was my grandfathers, and I'm keeping it. I see the fight in her eyes, and I'm ready for the hell she's about to dish out on me when Lewis says, Is Delia choking?

Instantly, I forget Carrie, and whirl around to see that my daughter has climbed down from her booster seat, and is sitting on the floor, her eyes huge, and her hands clawing at her throat. Oh, fuck! I scream and basically dive at my daughter, sliding on my knees over to her so I can flip her around and give her back a hard whack. A gumball goes shooting out of her mouth and is lost from sight under the fridge. Delia immediately starts wailing and crying, and I pick her up and hold her to me as I say soothing word after soothing word. She's snodding and crying for a good five minutes before she starts to calm me. down. Carrie just stands over Lewis. Her face a mix of, I told you so, and I wish this

prick had died from that heart attack. Uh, Dad, Lewis says. What's on her face? What? I reply, and ease Delia's head away from my chest. It's coated in blood. Blood is oozing from her eyes instead of tears and from her nose instead of snot. Oh, fuck! I say and look at Carrie. Call 911. Now! Her hatred of me makes her hesitate, but she snaps out of it and pulls her phone from her pocket. Yes, my granddaughter is having some sort of reaction to a diseased gumball. Carrie screeches into her phone. We need an ambulance right away.

Hurry! It takes EMS about 20 minutes to arrive at our house. By that time, I've got my daughter's face all cleaned up, and the bleeding has stopped. She stays still as the paramedics check her over. Well, as one checks her over and the other distracts her by making funny faces. She's fine, the paramedic doing the medical work says, and steps back away from the kitchen counter where Delia is sitting. I move in and brace my daughter so she doesn't fall off and crack her skull open. Although, I guess if she's going to do that, now is about as good a time to do it since I have

two paramedics in my kitchen. How can you say that? Carrie snarls. She was bleeding from her eyes. Her eyes! I share a look with the two paramedics. Their eyes say they are sorry and know exactly what I'm dealing with. I'm sure they've met a few carries in their line of work. My guess is the pressure from choking on the gumball,

and then the intense crying afterward, first a few capillaries. The examining paramedic responds in a calm, neutral tone. He wrapped a stethoscope over his neck and held both ends as he focused on carry. As far as I can tell, There's no permanent damage. Considering the bleeding had stopped by the time we arrived, I'd say there's nothing to worry about. But you are not a doctor, are you?

Carrie shoots back at him. No, ma'am, I'm not, he says, and kneels down to get his gear bag. The other paramedic, the one who'd played the role of distractor, hands me her card. Call us if she starts bleeding again, she says. But I doubt that will happen. Like we'd call you amateurs, Carrie says and tries to snatch the card out of my hand. I yank it out of her reach, and I swear she almost tries to jump for it. But she composes herself and turns her anger on the paramedics again. You can see yourselves out,

Carrie says. Thank you, I say to them. I'll walk you out. No need, the examining paramedics says and gives me a sad smile. You have your hands full here. He taps the card in my hand. Unless we're already on a call, we're faster than 911. If she does start to, we're just start to We'll come right back. Thanks again. I say. Lazzang sur-goled, Pucance-Moyerned

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the voice that we're the way that am I'm the two paramedics coo at Delia who hides her face in my shoulder, Kethelink. Kerry says and

pulls her phone from her pocket. He'll do a proper examination. He's retired, I say. He is not. Carrie responds, as she scrolls through her phone for the pediatrician she'd taken her kids to and who had been our first pediatrician. Two years ago. Posh.

Carrie says and holds up a finger as she turns her back on me. Yes, I need to bring my granddaughter in to see Dr. Hayflink right away. I stand and wait for the shitstorm that's about to erupt. Delian nuzzles her face. deeper into my neck, and I can tell she's ready for her nap. What do you mean he retired? Carrie snaps. Not for me, he hasn't.

You get him on this phone, right? Her back stiffens, and she pulls her phone away from her ear and stares at it. Then she whirls on me and shakes the phone in my face. This house has horrible reception, she says, then stomps out the kitchen's back door and into the two-acre backyard that I'd spent many a summer running around in. I watch or hold her phone up, acting like she's hunting for a better signal. It's all a ruse. The whole area was upgraded to 5G six months ago.

I know because the last conversation I had with my grandfather was him telling me how he could watch the Packers game on his iPhone all the way under the oak tree by the back fence. Grandma needs to chill. Lewis says after chewing and swallowing his last ranch-coated chicken nugget. She's going to be the one to drop dead of a heart attack if she doesn't relax. I can't help but burst out laughing, which disturbs the dozy Delia. I'll be right back, I say, and walk toward the hallway. Stay here and do not say what you just said to me to your grandmother when she comes back inside.

Lewis shrugs and eyeballs the last carrot stick on his plate. Can I be done and watch YouTube? Sure, kid, I say. I'll be back as soon as I put Delia down for her nap. With a semi-asleep toddler in my arms, I leave the kitchen, walk down the hallway and descend the huge staircase to the second floor. We have a playpen set up in the master bedroom, and I ease Delia down into it, then cover her with her favorite blanket, the one with unicorns farting glitter.

Carrie still hasn't stopped complaining about how crude she thinks the blanket is. Of course, I've dared her more than a few times to try to take it away from Delia. So far, she's come up with about two dozen excuses not to. Don't blame her. Lord help the person who separates my daughter from her farty-banky, she calls it. Delia grumbles a little, but then rolls herself up in her farty bankie and slips right off to sleep. If I'm lucky, I'll have at least an hour to get back up into the attic and finish sorting through the junk up there. Then a scream from below makes me jump. I look at Delia and her face is scrunched up, but she's not awake.

I quietly race out of the room and down the stairs. When I reach the kitchen, Lewis screams as he runs around the kitchen table. The gumball dispenser reassembled and held high in his hands as Carrie chases him around and around. Give that to me now! She shouts. Quiet, I hiss and step in front of Lewis. He tries to dodge past me, but I catch him and whip him behind me as Carrie comes racing

around the table. She nearly slams right into me, but she's able to put on the brakes in time. He fished those gumballs out of the trash, she snarls. She really isn't a pleasant woman. No, I didn't. Lewis shouts from behind me. They just appeared. Do you not lie to me, boy?

Carrie yells. Both of you stop it right now. I hiss and put my finger to my lips. Delia is napping. Keep it the hell down. He needs to throw those away this instant. Carrie says, her voice quieter, but not by much. These aren't from the trash.

Lewis insists. I turn and look down at him, and the gumball dispenser he holds is gripped to his chest. Through the wrap of his arms, I can see a rainbow peeking out. Give it, I say and hold out my hand. He doesn't respond right away, but then relents after a second and hands me the dispenser. It's completely full. I shake the machine and the shiny gumballs rattle around a little.

Shiny just as if they were freshly bought from Sam's Club or Cost Go. Unlike before, there isn't much space for them to rattle. There are so many. Where did you get all of these? I ask him. He docked him out of the trash like a rabid raccoon, Carrie says. Carrie, let me talk to my son, please. I say without looking at her.

Maybe you should go home for the day. I can handle things here. Sure. I'll lose any chance of getting the attic cleared out, but it's better than worrying about whatever my mother-in-law is going to do next. I'm not going anywhere. She says in a low, dangerous voice. And people were surprised I had a heart attack in my 40s.

Carrie, it's time to leave. I say, matching her tone. She glares at me, then glares at Lewis, before she fetches her purse from the kitchen counter and storms out of the house. When she's finally gone, I take a deep breath. I think she needs some serious medication, Lewis says, and I have to use every ounce of willpower not to burst out laughing. When I know I'm under control, I shake the gumball machine again and frown at it.

There weren't this many in there before, I say, and I rotate the dispense. her. And they looked new and shiny. Did you wash them? No, Dad. It just appeared after I put it back together, Lewis says. Look. He goes to the trash and opens the lid, then stands there looking at me. His entire body screams, see, duh. I stepped to the trash and look inside. Gumballs, and not separate gumballs, but one big stuck-together blob, just like the one that got thrown away. What the hell? I mutter. The gumball machine was on the table.

Lewis says, already explaining things without me having to ask. Went outside to pee. You what? Use the toilet kid. Come on. I say. You do it. He counters.

Yeah, well, I do lots of things you shouldn't do. I reply. An excellent role model. Are you going to finish your story? You interrupted me. Lewis? I snap, then lower my voice. What happened after you went pee?

I came inside, and the machine was full, he says, and shrugs. I picked it up to look it over, and then Grandma Carrie came in, and you know the rest. Weird, I say. Yeah, weird, he echoes. Then I hear a loud cry from upstairs, and I know that I have my work cut out for me. I woke your sister up, I say as I unscrew the bubble from the dispenser. I go to the trash and empty the gumballs into it. Okay, all gone.

I'm going to go get your sister. her back to sleep. You watch YouTube. Aye, aye, Captain, he says and salutes me. I grin and squeeze his shoulder, then head upstairs. The trick with getting Delia back to sleep is that you can't leave her. The first lay down she's good. The second lay down, not so much. I pick her up out of the collapsed playpen, then walk her around the room, bouncing her up and down slightly as I sing every nursery rhyme under the sun. She slowly lowers her head to my shoulder, and soon her breathing evens out. Oh, but it's not that easy. If I put her in the pen now, she just wake up and scream.

So I fish Farty Banky out and carry it and my daughter over to our bed. I lay her down gently, then scoge in next to her, Farty Bankey tucked between us. I guess I fall asleep, because the next thing I know, Lewis is tugging on my pants leg and saying, Dad, Dad! Dad! I think I made a mistake. I mumble as I roll my head over to look at him. What's wrong? I feel fine. It doesn't hurt.

Is his response, which brings me instantly awake. I bolt upright and Delia starts to stir. But I can't focus on my daughter. My eyes are only on my son. And all the blood covering his face and neck and arms and hands. Lewis! I yell. They looked yummy, he says and shrugs.

So I had one. One one. I exclaim as I slipped from the bed and picked my son up. A tightness hits my left arm like a lightning bolt, but I don't have time for me right now. I carry Lewis into the bathroom and wipe his face and neck off with a towel. But warm blood just appears like it's seeping from his pores, like he's sweating it, sweating blood. What happened? I asked and cough hard.

My chest is a little tight too. I ate a gumball, he says, and shrugs nonchalantly again. Then I went outside because YouTube was boring. I should be proud, but my son is bleeding from his fucking pores, so I forget to applaud his choice to go outside instead of staying glued to a screen. I was running around testing the aerodynamics of my arms and thinking about what modifications a humid would need to actually fly, he says. Get to the point, I say, almost snapping at him.

I got to keep it cool. If I freak out, then he'll freak out. I got hot, he says intro. again and started to sweat. When I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my hand came away bloody. Then I saw I was bleeding everywhere. I was sweating. Weird, right? Yes, it's fucking weird. I nearly shout. My left arm lights up and I gasp. Dad? Lewis asks. Are you all right? Yes, yes, I'm fine, I say. Just need to sit down. I return to the bedroom and have a seat on the bed. Delia cries when I accidentally sit on her legs.

I jump up and the world spins around me. I'm dizzy and feel hot, and my head is pounding and my chest really, really hurts. And I'm having a hard time breathing and I think, oh shit. Call 911. I gasp as I fall over onto my side on the bed. Now, Lewis, where's your phone? He asks. Bedside, table, I managed to choke out.

Delia is still crying and I slapped my hand in her direction. When I finally am able to patter, I say, It's all right, sweetie. Daddy is just fine. On farty-banky! My daughter yells, then starts tugging at something under me. Oh, right. I say and try to fish the blanket out from under my hip. But I pull a little too hard and send myself tumbling to the bedroom floor.

My face hits the rug and I groan. Hello? My dad is having a heart attack, I hear Lewis say. He's had one before. for please hurry i'm good i'm good i try to say but i'm not sure if words are coming out of my mouth or not i don't know lewis says we just moved into my dad's grandpa's house there's silence then uh no that's our old address my phone must be telling nine one one to go to the old address shit am i going to die because cellular carriers haven't fully figured out how to deal with nine one one great hold on louis says we call

911 earlier for my sister. He runs from the bedroom, and I want to shout for him to come back, but everything is starting to dim. Then I hear footsteps, and he's returned. I gave 911 the names of the paramedics, Lewis says, his face right in mind. They looked up the call and found our address that way. Good, good, I say, and want to ruffle his hair, but that isn't happening. The world continues to dim and dim and dim.

But before it all goes black, I just make out my bedroom door being pushed open and two people walking in. They're dressed in suits and definitely aren't paramedics. Where is the dispenser? I think one of them says. You got to help my dad! Lewis exclaims. We will, but first, where is the dispenser? The same one asks again. Downstairs.

Lewis says, I'll show you. I've got this one. The other suit says. Then crouches in front of me. blocking my view of my son. He pulls something from his jacket pocket and then places it to my neck. It's going to hurt, but it'll help stabilize. When I wake up, I'm not surprised to see I'm in the hospital.

I see you by the looks of it. How bad? I ask before I can even focus on anything specific. Oh, thank God! Paula cries and wraps her arms around me. Her face shoved into my neck, her tears hot and comforting. I'm okay. Okay, I say.

No, you aren't. I hear Carrie snap from somewhere in the room. Paula pushes back and wipes her tears, then nods at me. It was bad, Scott, she says. You were in surgery for 18 hours. 18 hours? How long have I been here? Three days.

Paula says and tries to smile. She fails miserably. She reaches past me and snags a Kleenex, and gives a monster of a honking blow. Wash your hands. Carrie says to her. To Paula's credit, she neither washes her hands, nor acknowledges her mother's comment. How bad, I ask.

Paula shakes her head. I got this, Mom, Lewis says, and pushes up next to Paula. The doctor says you'll be stable for a while, but you need a new heart. We already knew that, I say. You just need it faster now. Lewis says and shrugs. I'd reach out and ruffle his hair, but my arms are restricted by two. tubes and needles, and the fact that I doubt I could lift the cheesy puff right now, let alone my arm.

Hello, I'm Dr. Brinsky, a man says as he walks into my room. It's good to see you awake, Mr. Nijek. I'd ask how you were feeling, but you probably aren't sure yet. I feel wowsy. I can say that much, I reply. Did you operate on me? I did, he says and looks around. May I speak with your wife out in the hallway? Uh-oh, I say. That's not good. Everything will be fine, he says, and waves a hand at me. You just need rest. I have to go over some care procedures with her, and it's usually easier to talk to the non-medicated spouse alone, so no details are missed.

Mom, can you take Louis and Delia to get some snacks? Paula asks Carrie. Can I stay here with Dad? Lewis asks. I won't bother him. No, you may not. Carrie snaps. It's all right, Dr. Brinsky says.

He can stay as long as he lets his father rest. I promise, Lewis says, his eyes on Paula. Paula nods and then turns to her mother who was already opening her mouth to protest. You two go down to the cafeteria and get pudding or something, Paula says to Carrie. Pudding? Do you know how many chemicals are in that stuff? Carrie argues. Puddin, pudin! Delia cries and claps her hands. Carrie glares at everyone in the room, then leaves with Delia in her arms.

My daughter is still clapping and has turned the word puddin. into some sort of song. I bet it's driving my mother-in-law insane. We'll be right back, Dr. Brinsky says, and steers Paula out of the room by the elbow. When the door is closed, Lewis gets right up close to me. Do you remember the people in suits? He asks in a voice, almost too quiet for me to hear. What? Who was in suits? Those two people in the black suits and ties, he says. They showed up after I called 911. One of them had me show him where the gumball dispenser was. The other gave you a shot of something to stop the heart attack.

At least, that's what they said they gave you. He shrugs and smiles at me. Gumball dispenser, I mutter. Then my eyes go wide. Blood! I cough hard and several of the machines I'm hooked up to start beeping loudly. It's all good, Dad, Lewis says. Did you guys in suits explain to me that the gumballs can change any fluids in your body into blood,

and then you. He stops talking when the door opens and a nurse walks in, followed by Dr. Brinsky and my wife. Let's have a look here, the nurse says, and starts fiddling with the machines until they stop beeping. Just a little blood pressure, spike. She looks down at Lewis. You aren't tiring your dad out, are you?

No, ma'am. Lewis says and shakes his head. I think some more sleep is what he needs now. Dr. Brinsky says to Bala. Um, okay, Bala says. But I'll be busy. back tonight. Okay, Scott? Sounds good, babe, I say and ease my head back into my pillow. Damn, I really could sleep some more. The next thing I know, my eyes are closed, but I feel a warm

breath on my ear. He took the gunball machine with him, I hear Lewis whisper. I kind of know what he's talking about. Something to do with people in suits, right? And that gumball dispenser I found in the attic? Weird. Then I let myself drift off. I need this sleep, and I think the dreams are about gumballs floating on a river of blood. Then, even dreams can't win against my fatigue, and it all goes blissfully black. SCP 942 refers to a small bubblegum dispenser, SCP 942-2, capable of producing an endless supply of anomalous gumballs, SCP 942-1. When ingested, SCP 942-1 causes the consumer's bodily fluids.

to appear and coagulate like blood upon exiting the body, though chemical analysis reveals the fluid's original composition. This results in symptoms like bloodshot eyes, constant nosebleeds, and discomfort during urination, as well as psychological distress, including panic attacks and obsessive hygiene behaviors. SCP-942-2 is stored securely, with affected individuals restricted to foundation facilities due to the lack of a cure. Any new instances of SCP 942-2 must be retrieved or destroyed if retrieval is not feasible, and civilians exposed to SCP 942-1 are either recruited or neutralized undercover stories. The dispenser itself appears non-anomalous aside from its infinite gumball supply,

and research is ongoing into its mechanism.