The SCP Experience - Control Your Pests | SCP-5820

Episode Date: April 24, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-5820: Control Your Pests This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5820 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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 #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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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. It's insane, the man says, shaking his head. I just don't understand it. We're standing outside the man's house on the morning sunshine. His lawn glitters with dew. His name is Ollard, and he wears a fuzzy robe and house slippers with white socks.

He stares at his neighbor's house as we talk. On the road in front of the house, three uniformed police officers mill about, waiting for me to give them orders. You say they were already setting up the tent when you woke up? I asked him. What time was that? I always get up at 5.30, O'Lard says. So I can do my run at 5.45.

And yes, they were already putting up the tent. In fact, it was mostly up by the time I stepped out the front door. They were moving so fast. I remember thinking, you better pace yourself, guys. You're just getting started. What did they look like? I ask him, even though I already know the answer. I couldn't see their faces, he says.

Come to think of it, I couldn't see any of them. They were dressed head to toe in these maroon suits. How many were there? Six that I saw. And did Mr. Warren talk about the fumigation with you beforehand? Did he know it was going to happen? O'Lard sighs and looks away from the ruined house, meeting my gaze. Look, the guy's an asshole, okay?

I'll freely admit that. He came over yesterday talking about how if he could prove the termites came from my house, he was going to sue my ass. Like I somehow controlled termites and sent them over to his house or something. So yeah, I'd say he knew. I nod, taking notes in my little not. So you and him aren't on friendly terms? Hell no.

Ever since he moved in, he and his wife have been the scourge of the neighborhood, calling the homeowners association for minor violations they see on other people's property, picking fights about the fence line on both sides of the house, saying that we need to replace the fence because it looks old and disgusting. Seriously, that's a direct quote. O'Lard pauses suddenly, looking at the Warren property again. His mouth drops open. Their cars are still there, he points, pointing at the driveway. I didn't even realize, could it be possible? I mean, did you check the house yet?

Were they in there when it happened? I nod solemnly. One of my guys checked already. I'm afraid they were in there. We have the medical examiner and a couple of homicide detectives coming down right now. Holy shit, they're dead? I'm afraid so. That's why anything you can remember will help.

License plate, strange behavior, anything. All I know was that they showed up in a big truck with sneaky bugger's pest control on it. I already told you I couldn't see what they looked like and how they moved fast. That was all. When I came back for my run, I saw the six of them come out of the house. They started taking the tent down, which I thought was strange. I thought fumigation took a lot longer than an hour. But I went inside to shower.

And when I looked out the window again, I saw the house as it is now. I nod. Thank you for your help. The detectives may have further questions. If so, they'll be in touch. I leave Ollard standing slack-jawed in his front yard, joining my men in front of the Warren property. Is it safe enough to go in there? I ask. Lester, who's leaning against our squad car shrugs. Safe as others, I guess, he says, around a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. You want to see? Why? You got a better idea of what we should do with our time? Luster shrugs again.

We gotta be on the lookout of any fumigation tents, so I guess not. We wait and hope for a call. I look at my other two men, Zapata and Cole. Without a word, I know what they're thinking. We've been working together for long enough to know each other well. We're all dressed in police uniforms. But the truth is, we're more than regular beat cops. We work first and foremost for the SCP Foundation.

which is why we get all the weird calls, like this one. The detectives who are on their way will go through the motions, but they know to leave the real investigation to us. It doesn't bother them much. In this city, they have their hands full, so they don't ask questions, and we don't volunteer information. It's better this way. Leaving the guys at the curb, I walk up toward the Warren House.

As I go up the walkway, I pause and look at a sign. staked on the front lawn. It says, A few less parasites in your neighborhood, Sneaky Buggers humane extermination. I think about how all the people who've been killed so far by sneaky buggers have been real assholes. They seem to target people like the Warrens, people who make everyone else's lives just a little more miserable. Or, in some cases, the kind of people who ruin lives altogether. Does this mean I'm any less inclined to find them?

Not really. The fact is, most people are assholes at one time or another. They don't deserve to die for it. Even if I know personally a couple of people who would benefit from a visit from the exterminators. Shaking my head, I move up the walkway to the house. The front door is standing open from when my men went inside. The whole structure is warped, with small holes eaten through the wood here and there. The hardwood floors flex and crunch under my feet as I step inside.

The drywall is, for the most part, still in place. I see a hole where one of my men broke through the drywall to verify the damage to the studs underneath. Using a small flashlight I carry around with me, I peer into the hole, seeing that the two visible studs have been eaten away, leaving only a basic shell of warped wood. I find the two bodies in the kitchen,

Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Only they're not really bodies at this point. They're just skeletons, bones with little bits of meat and gristle still attached, and they're each lying in a festering puddle of blood and bodily fluids. That makes eight people in three weeks. And we always seem to be one step behind whoever, or whatever, is doing this. I have my suspicions, and if I'm being honest, I'm not looking forward to seeing if I'm right.

Walking around the house for a few minutes more, I verify that this is the same as the others. Wood furniture has been eaten through, and piled around the furniture as the stuff that comes out of termites as they do their thing. It's called termite frass, and it looks like sawdust. Really? It's shit. A waste product, the little bastards leave behind. Then I hear Cole's voice from near the front door.

L.T. He shouts. We got a live one. I run out of the place so fast, I nearly break my ankle putting a hole in the floor. Cursing, I limp outside and into the waiting car. And then both squad cars are tearing off down the street, out of the neighborhood. Where? I ask Lester, as he flips on the siren and lights.

McFarlane and Chambers, he says. I smile to uncover my unease. We're only a few minutes away. Part of me wants the bastards to still be there. But another part is scared, shitless about what will happen if we have to engage. Grabbing the radio, I tell Cole and Zapata, who are behind us in their car, to switch to our private channel. When they do, I tell them the plan. Okay, here's what we're going to do.

When we get close, we're going to go quiet. I want to stay back and see if this is really sneaky buggers. If it is, we call in the mobile task force and wait for them. Got it? Copy that. Zabata says over the first. radio. Then I pull out my cell phone and call the head of the task force. We may have something, I say as he picks up. Get ready. Where? He asks. McFarlane and Chambers, I tell him. Got it.

Just as I'm hanging up, Lester shuts off the lights and siren. Two minutes later, we're taking a left on Chambers Street and pulling over. Up ahead, we can see the house in question. There's a giant blue and yellow striped tent over the structure. A large four-door box truck is parked right outside. But it's too far away for me to tell if it says sneaky bugger's pest control or not. Stay here, I say, grabbing the binoculars from the glove compartment

and opening my door. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rBC training ground.ca. I limp up a couple of houses on my twisted ankle and ducked behind a bush in someone's

front yard. Leaning out, I peer through the binoculars at the truck. Sneaky buggers, say to myself, I head back the way I came. Getting to the two squad cars, Justice Lester calls out to me. They're coming out! Turning to look, I see that he's right. Figures dressed in maroon, full-body suits are coming out of the tent. It's okay, I say. They still have to break down their equipment. We have some time. As I go to pull out my phone, I see all six of the figures at the distant house

freeze on the front lawn between the structure and their truck. Their heads turn in perfect unison, goggles glinting in the sun as they look toward us. They're looking right at us, Lester says. Shit. All six of the figures book it to the truck, moving like they're Olympic sprinters. Jesus, they're fast. Cole calls out from behind me.

Now we don't have a choice. We can't let them get away. Let's go, I say, jumping into the car. The tires squeal and the engine growls as we race toward them. Their truck lurches as it takes off away from us. But our squad cars were built for this. We gain on them quickly, lighting them up with lights and sirens. It's clear that they have no intention of pulling over.

They're swerving all over the road, keeping us from us from. from getting in front of them. I unclipped the shotgun from its place between our two seats and tell Lester to get us up on their left side. I roll down the window and lean out with a shotgun in hand. Lester maneuvers the squad car up as close as he can to safely get to the manic vehicle. I take aim with a gun at the back left tire,

waiting for the perfect moment. The tire explodes with a blast, and the truck swerves left and then quickly right as the driver loses control. It bumps up over the curtain and smashes into an S-E-Rexamines. P-V parked in a home's driveway. Our squad cars come to a screeching halt.

Lester and I stop on the driver's side of the truck, while Zepada and Cole stop on the other side. We're out of the cars and aiming our weapons. I still have the shotgun in my hands as I yell for them to come out of the truck. My team is still in the street, so we have to see each other to communicate. I look over at Cole and Zapatah, who shake their heads. No one's coming out of the truck on that side. Lester, I say.

Radio in the MTF. On the radio? He asks. Yes. I say. Just use the code. We try not to communicate over the radio where all the other cops can hear us. But sometimes it's the quickest way.

Movement! Cole yells. There's no one coming out of my side of the truck. Put your hands up! Zapata yells. Now! The next thing I know, both Cole and Zapata are firing. Emptying their magazines at the figures blocked from my vision by the big box truck.

Stay here! I called Lester as I move toward the other squad car. Before I've taken two steps, four figures emerge from behind the back of the truck, running toward Cole and Zapata. I can see the bullet holes in the plastic suits, but there's no blood coming out of them. Instead, there are tiny insects

scrambling around in a frenzy on the maroon plastic. I fire at the nearest figure, blasting the hood, goggles, and gas mask off, revealing a squirming mass of the small, tan and white insects underneath. Run! I scream. Zapata turns around and sprints away from the figures,

but it's too late for Cole. The figure I shot throws itself toward the man, who's situated behind the open driver's door of the squad car. Cole turns to run, but the figure jumps clear over the open door and tackles him to the ground. The insects pour out of the top of the suit, engulfing Cole. He screams and rides, trying to crawl away.

Thousands of termites rush into his mouth and nostrils. They crawl under his eyelids and invade his ears. Pretty soon his screams die off. His throat choked with the writhing bugs. Two figures are still chasing Zapata while a third throws itself down on Nicole. The man is completely covered as the bugs stream out of the suit. We've got movement! Lester yells. I turn and look, seeing the other two figures jumping out of the driver's side of the truck.

Get in the car! I yell. flipping back to my squad car. Lester already knew what was coming. He jumps inside and rolls up the windows. The two figures from the driver's side of the sneaky bugger's truck are closing on us as I throw myself into the car. Lester hits the gas and we take off backward before the figures can reach us.

I turn and look out the back window towards Zabata, who's running away from us. The two other figures hot on his heels. He glances over his shoulder to see us coming. Do it, I say to Lester. He nods with all his attention. on the rearview mirror as we reverse down the street. Zapata and the two figures are running on the sidewalk.

Lester keeps the car on the street, parallel until the last moment. Just as he turns the wheel to reverse up onto the sidewalk, Zapata dives out of the way. There are two quick thunks as we run into the figures. Their suits split with the impact, splattering hundreds of thousands of termites all over the back of the car. Come on, come on, I say, looking out the window, as Zapata scrambles up from where he landed.

samples up from where he landed on the nearby lawn. He runs over and yanks the back door open, throwing himself inside. A thousand or so termites rush in with him from the back of the car. As Lester hits the gas again, reversing down the street, Zapata concentrates on slapping the termites away from his face. Tapping the brakes and spinning the wheel, Lester whips the car around and puts it in drive. But before he can put his foot back on the gas, a curtain of termites flows up over the windshield and all the windows.

Lester turns on the windshield wipers, which works for a minute, allowing us to drive maybe 100 yards. But the wipers suddenly fall off, chewed through by the termites. Fuck! Lester yells, hitting the brakes. He can't see to drive. The car rocks as the other two figures, the last two from the sneaky bugger's truck, hit the vehicle, joining the fun. As the termites finish covering the windows, the last remnant of daylight fades, leaving us in the dark. I reach up and flip on the dome light.

How long until they get inside? Zapata asks from the backseat, still slapping at the termites that came in with him. Minutes, I say. These fuckers can chew through anything. Well, it's been nice working with you guys, Zabata says. I appreciate the effort.

I hate bugs, Lester says. We're silent, long enough to hear the constant hum of the termites chewing through the door seals and the glass and even the metal components of the frame. Well, shit, I say, looking down to see a trickle of termites coming in through the bottom of my door. I guess I was way off with that minute's estimate. They're coming in over here, too, Lester says, looking down and do his foot well. I hope you fellas don't mind if I eat a bullet, I say, I don't want to die like cold did, no way.

I was thinking the same thing, Zabata says. We're silent for a minute, contemplating our last moments of life. I pull my pistol out of my holster and hold it in my hands. the shotgun now propped between my legs. Then I hear the low rumble of a big engine. A powerful jet of liquid slams into the cruiser, rocking it on its struts. Suddenly, sunlight streams in as the termites are washed away. The smell of oranges is suddenly overwhelmingly strong.

As the windshield clears, I look out to see an SCP Mobile Task Force vehicle with a water cannon on top. A man in full combat gear manns the cannon, spraying our squad car down. Orange oil, I say, smiling. They hate the stuff. It won't kill them, but it sure will deter them for a minute or so. As I turn and look back through the car, I see another vehicle down the street. Men and fire-retardant suits with flamethrowers are jumping out. They spit flames at the ground next to the other squad car,

torching Cole's body and all the insects still around it. The guy with the water cannon stops firing and motions for us to drive forward. We do. and then he signals for us to stop and get out of the car. The three of us gladly abandoned the vehicle. Seconds later, a couple of flamethrower guys jump out of a newly arrived vehicle and torch the car. They got here fast, Zapata says as we stand on the sidewalk, watching the mobile task force work. Must have been close, Lester says.

They certainly didn't say anything about being here so fast when I radioed them. Of course, I didn't stay on to chat. I had other things on my mind. I realize I'm still holding my pistol. I put it back in my holster, seeing a termite crawling on the leather. I smashed the tiny insect under my thumb. Sneaky bugger. SCP 5820 refers to sneaky bugger's humane extermination.

A California registered pest control company linked to a number of anomalous incidents in the southern region of the state. An SCP 5820 event typically begins with a cold call to a chosen target. Victims are informed that their home has been scouted and discovered to have a termite infestation requiring immediate fumigation. An estimated 83% of homeowners to date have accepted this request without suspicion. Appointments are scheduled within two working days of the initial call. As per SCP 5820's alleged policy, homeowners are strongly recommended to be present for the setup process. Instances of SCP 5820-1 are humanoids of indeterminate sex, clad, in full body suits. They do not announce their arrival and generally reach the location 15 minutes before the allotted time.

A fumigation tent is rapidly erected around the designated structure, with immediate attention paid to covering doors and windows. As a result of this, occupants are not given a chance to vacate the building. Upon finishing the setup operation, all instances of SCP 5820-1 will enter the structure. Instances typically re-emerge within one hour and begin to disassemble the tent. Following an SCP-5820 operation, the affected building is left with severe structural damage. Exploration of an affected dwelling's interior also reveals the total corrosion of all biological matter except bone. In addition, paper currency and financial documents have been notably absent from all buildings investigated.