The SCP Experience - Death Toll: 157 | SCP-666-J

Episode Date: August 21, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-666-J: Death Toll: 157 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-666-j 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

I sat on a hill overlooking the smoldering ruins of what had once been a middle-class neighborhood. It looked like a massive tornado had just torn through the place. Bodies littered the streets. A woman stumbling through the rubble screamed someone's name, the sound clawing at my insides. Staring at the scene, I went over the events of the day once again. I could find no logic hidden in them. No reasonable explanation for what had happened. I looked down at my hands.

half expecting to see them coated in blood. But they were clean, not a scratch on them. The pancaked orange car at the bottom of the hill was a different story. It was smashed to a pulp. There was blood all over the fender. Bits of hair were stuck in the grill, twitching in the breeze. A helicopter came near, whipping dirt up into my face as several ropes dropped out of it. Foundation security officers slid down the ropes in full gear.

They surrounded me in a matter of seconds. Ready to go, Doc? Security officer Blakely asked from the doorway to my office. I had my head in my hands, staring down at the endless pile of paperwork on my desk. Guess so, I said. Cheer up, will you? Blakely said in a jovial manner that maybe want to throw something at him.

We're getting out of the office today. It's a field trip day. I'd never known a man as old as him to be so happy all the time. Wasn't life supposed to beat you down as you got older? If so, Blakely hadn't gotten the memo. That's the problem, I said. How do they expect me to get all this stuff done if they keep sending me on these field trips? Why do we even need a doctor to transport D-Class from one site to another?

Blakely shrugged, smiling slightly. Bims the regulations, he said. And you're the junior doctor here. Grumbling, I stood up and grabbed my bag, stuffing some of the paperwork inside so I could read on the trip. I looked up at Blakely, who was watching intently. You never saw this, he raised his hands. Don't know what you're talking about. It was against regulations to take paperwork off sight.

But the regulations be damned. I had to get some work done. Granted, I'd been staring at the paperwork for about ten minutes when Blakely had shown up. Funny how easy it is to be paralyzed, just when you need your brain the most. Blakely and I walked to the bank of elevators and stepped into one. So, how's the fiancé? He asked when we were heading up to the garage. She's good, I said.

Kidding wedding crazy. How about Carol? She just retired, right? That's right, Blakely said, shaking his head sadly. I can't imagine not working. I'll be here until the day I die. Well, that's a sad thought, I said. I love this job, Blakely said.

Not sad at all. We got off the elevator on sub-level five, and walked to the school bus filled with D-class personnel ready for transfer. There was a security officer standing outside the vehicle. He nodded as we approached. Got 12 in there, ready to go. Well, how'd he do? Blakely said.

Thank you, Williams. I'll take it from here. We boarded the bus. Blakely, taking the driver's seat while I sat in one of the four front seats that were available. Behind the four front seats, there was a cage built from floor to ceiling. Beyond the locked cage gate was a security guard by the name of La Jolla and the 12D class personnel. After exchanging pleasantries with La Jolla, we started off. After ten minutes of security checks and re-checks, we were off Foundation property and on the road.

I pulled out some of the paperwork, thankful that some overzealous security officer hadn't asked to look in my bag on the way out. I got to reading as the sunny summer landscape streamed past outside. After 40 minutes of driving, we were in the city and about halfway through the trip. I was engrossed in reading when the bus suddenly swerved. I looked up and saw Blakely stiff in his seat. His face, a mask of pain. The guys in the back were yelling. Car horns honked as we swerved into the wrong lane.

I jumped up from my seat and grabbed the steering wheel, yanking us back onto the right side of the road. Hit the brakes, Blakely, I said. The brakes! I could tell he couldn't hear me. His eyes went wide before closing, and his body went. limp. The bus slowed, and I directed it onto the shoulder. Christ, I said. Blakely? You okay? I shook his shoulder, but he made no response.

I felt for a pulse. He was dead. Do something, Doc? La Jolla said. Help him. I'm not that kind of doctor, I said. I don't have any formal medical training. Shit. Yeah. Knowing that we couldn't involve the local police directly, I picked up the bus's radio and called back to the site. asking to speak to the site director. After telling him the situation, the director made a judgment call.

Site 37 will take over once the D-class are offloaded. You're kidding me. What the hell am I supposed to do with the poor man's body? Are you questioning a direct order, Gerald? He asked. In his tone, I could hear my career hanging in the balance. No, sir, I said. I'll continue on to site 37.

Good. Get to it. I stood up and looked back at La Jolla. Little help? I asked. He shook his head. No can do. It's against regulations for me to leave the back until we get to our destination. You're going to have to move him yourself. Damn regulations, I said, shaking my head. Then I turned my attention to Blakely.

I'm sorry about this, my guy. It's not dignified. I know. Turning him and gripping him under the arms, I picked him up and walked him back, laying him out in the aisle. There was just enough room for his body there. Once that was done, I sat down in the seat. Something came over me then, and I shivered, like Blakely's ghost had just passed through me. All of a sudden, the last thing I wanted to be doing was driving the bus. It felt wrong somehow. Shaking it off, I got acquainted with all the controls.

I put it in gear, checked my mirrors, and pulled out onto the road. The gas pedal suddenly slammed to the floor, and my foot went with it, like it was being pulled by the pedal. I shouted and surprised, turning the wheel to miss the SUV we were bearing down on. But the wheel jerked back as we came alongside the SUV, smashing into the vehicle, which in turn ran off the road and smashed into a light pole. A ball of orange flame shot out from the vehicle as it flipped into the air, defying the laws of physics. I tried to take my foot off the pedal, but they seemed fused together.

When I tried to pull my hands off the wheel, I couldn't get my fingers to come off. In the back, La Jolla and the other passengers were screaming at me to stop. I got a n— I screamed, surprised by my own words. The bus sideswived a semi-truck on the left, and the truck veered into oncoming traffic, running head on into a fuel tanker. The explosion lifted the bus's back wheels off the road for a moment. Cars flipped and tumbled through the air like it was a Michael Bay movie. The wheel jerked right, plowing across the Gore zone and onto the exit we were about to pass.

There was an outdoor arena ahead, and the bus did 80 miles an hour on the street, hitting any cars that got in the way. Several pedestrians on the sidewalk screamed and threw themselves in front of the bus. What is happening? I tried to yell the words, but what came out was, Eat my dust, suckers. I tried to pull my left foot up to hit the brake pedal, but it wouldn't budge. We jumped at the curb and came at the arena on the sidewalk, barreling toward a pedestrian entrance made of glass and metal. People turned in front of us, screaming as the bus hurtled toward them. They made no move to get out of the way. Tires thumped. jumped over a half-t dozen poor souls before we crashed through the entrance.

Flying past concession stands with shocked employees and customers, we headed straight for one of the entrances to the seating area. Sure the bus wouldn't fit through, I shut my eyes and waited to die. There was a roaring crash, and for a moment we seemed airborne. Then we hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. I opened my eyes to find that we were in the arena, racing toward a monster truck. It was a demolition derby. When we weren't part of the show, the monster truck tried to turn away, but the bus hit its big wheels side on.

The truck flipped impossibly into the air, spinning twice before landing on the back of the bus. In the mirror over the windshield, I watched as the ceiling collapsed under the truck's weight, smashing half the D-class personnel to bits. The gas pedal went to the floor again, and the monster truck rolled off the crumbled back of the bus. There was a huge dirt ramp ahead, and we were heading straight for it. Glancing into the mirror again, I could see La Jolla taking aim with his sidearm through the mesh divider. He was going to shoot me. I wanted to tell him to do it, but what came out of my mouth was,

He-ha! Before La Jolla could fire the weapon, we hit the ramp. We flew through the air, the front end, tilting forward as the bus slowly flipped. And as we turned, I realized that we wouldn't be landing on the arena floor. We'd hit the ramp with enough force to launch us into the stands. People screamed, but they made no move to get out of the wall. way, they just pointed and screamed and looked around before the bus crashed into them on its roof. I thought I was dead, mostly because I wasn't holding onto the steering wheel and my feet

weren't glued down anymore. But when I opened my eyes to look around, I knew I wasn't so lucky. I was sitting in a seat in the arena, the bus a few yards to my right. It was completely crushed. I saw no way I could have survived the crash. Looking down at my body, I was. I was a few yards. I I expected to see gashes and broken bones. I expected to feel pain set in. But I was fine. Not a scratch anywhere on me. People were screaming all around me.

There were dead bodies under the bus. You bastard! One man screamed from behind me. I turned to look, seeing a man in a cut-off monster jammed t-shirt. He had a mullet and a handlebar mustache, and he was reaching for a pistol on his hip. You killed Joe Bob! I jumped up and lunged over the seats in front of me

as he pulled the weapon out. As he fired, I ducked below the seats. Then people were rushing around, trying to get clear of the gunmen. Some of them were injured. Others were just in a panic from the bus crash. I managed to get to the arena floor without getting shot. I only thought was getting out of there so I wouldn't be killed. I needed to contact the foundation. Something funny was going on here, and they would know how to handle it. The first derby car I came to was a beat-up, bright orange station wagon. The driver was standing next to the vehicle, helmet in hand, as he stared up at the crashed bus. I slipped through the window and started it up before he saw me, and I hit the gas, heading directly for the vehicle exit area. As I got closer to the exit, I tried to ease off the

gas, but my foot wouldn't move. You've got to be kidding me, I thought. I already knew what would happen, but I tried to take my hands off the wheel anyway. They were stuck there like they'd been sewn on. Arena employees and demolition derby participants screamed as the car plowed toward them. Their bones crunched as the car ran them down. And I was outside, racing toward a neighborhood next to the arena. I opened my mouth to scream in frustration, but the scream didn't come out, not like I wanted it to. Instead, I yelled, I want to go fast. By the time the demolition derby car was so smashed it wouldn't drive, I'd destroyed a whole subdivision. in a suburban neighborhood.

I sat on a hill overlooking the smoldering ruins of what had once been middle-class houses. The derby car was at the bottom of the hill, smashed to the size of a pancake. Yet somehow I'd gotten out of it, unscathed. A helicopter came near, whipping dirt up into my face as several ropes dropped out of it. Foundation security officers slid down the ropes in full gear,

surrounding me and pointing their weapons in a matter of seconds. Dr. Gerald? One of the guys asked. I nodded. What happened? I shrugged, gesturing at the destruction I'd left in my wake. I didn't even want to think about how many people I'd killed. The guy took a moment to scan the horizon.

Then he turned back to me. Well, you're going to have to come with us. I'd prefer it if you cooperated. Otherwise, things will get nasty. I stood up and rushed off my pants. Fine. On one condition. The guy sighed.

What's that? He asked, humoring me, we walk. All individuals who board any vehicle or form of transportation that Dr. Gerald himself is controlling in any form are assured to die. Testing has shown that even those who escape vehicles he's been driving are doomed. They are generally struck by another moving vehicle within minutes. In such cases where the passengers aren't near any other vehicles, they will fatally suffer from apparent anxiety-induced heart attacks. Dr. Gerald himself, oddly enough, always survives whatever horrors he puts a vehicle through. Additionally, all potentially hazardous objects seem to become even more dangerous if he is manning a vehicle in their general vicinity.

Knives penetrate more than their sharpness would accord. Normally benign oil tankers become moving bombs that will detonate with the slightest touch. Buildings lose any significant rigidity, and pedestrian seem to lose all forms of self-preservation, throwing themselves into his path. A mere bicycle ride can inflict the devastation of an EF3 tornado. Lazzangue sur-gillet, puissance-moyane for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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