The SCP Experience - Don't Drink the Green Booze | SCP-7185

Episode Date: September 9, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-7185 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7185 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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

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Depos minimum of $10. De Povey to pay They are responsible. The conditions apply. How much farther? I asked, as we trudged up yet another hill through the dense Oregon woods. We're almost there, Janine said, turning around to smile at me. She had been living this lifestyle longer than I had, and her stamina showed it.

For my part, I was already having regrets. I mean, I hated, absolutely hated, working a dead-end job for shit pay. The freedom I had experienced since, I dropped out of society was infigurating, but along with it came other problems. Problems I hoped the abandoned town of Beard, Oregon would solve. If Janine could be believed, it would. From the knees down, my jeans were soaked because of the moist foliage that grew out over the little-used trail. Lush greenery surrounded us on all sides, and that's what I chose to focus on as we kept going. Thinking about the clean air and the bird sounds and the feel of late summer air on my skin

was so much better than thinking about how the straps of my backpack dug into my shoulders or about how my feet were 90% blisters at this point. I looked jealously at Janine, who seemed as if she were just out for a pleasant walk despite the overburdened backpack she wore. If you pictured a classic hippie chick, you'd picture something close to Janine. Her long dreadlots were ringed with earth-tone beads. She wore Birkenstock sandals without socks, corduroy cut-off shorts, and a grateful dead tank top.

She was once again pulling ahead of me, so I struggled to keep up. But a sudden rustling sound from up ahead and to the right caught my attention. I slowed, looking that way. It sounded like something big, but Janine didn't seem worried. I took my cue from her and kept going. Then the squealing started. Both of us stopped and looked toward the sound, which now accompanied the frenzied rustling

in the underbrush. It was the chittering scream of a small animal in pain. I stepped up beside Janine and looked toward the source, seeing ferns rustling as the screaming animal came closer to the trail. What the hell is that? I asked. The noise was putting me on edge. It was an injured animal, and I wanted to make it stop and put the first.

the thing out of its misery. I think it's a raccoon, she said. What's wrong with it? It was a dumb question. Janine just shook her head as we watched the progress of the animal. It was headed toward the trail, looking like it would emerge just 10 yards ahead of us. The screaming continued, getting louder as it got closer. Then the animal emerged from the foliage.

What the fuck? I said, flinching away from the thing even though it was a good 30 feet away. It was a raccoon all right, but something was seriously wrong with it. At first, I thought it was being attacked by dozens of flesh-colored worms. The thing kept screaming. Its dark eyes landed on us, seeing us for the first time. For some reason, the thing bolted toward us. I guess it was rabid, I don't know.

It didn't move normally. It lurched as though it was injured. And for a few moments, neither of us did anything. We just stared at the approaching creature. As it closed the distance, I saw that the dozens of squirming flesh-colored worms were growing out of the raccoon. They protruded from amid its fur, switching and writhing, as if trying to escape from the little mammal's body. The sense of revulsion this sight produced in me was so powerful that panic started to take hold. I wanted to turn and run away from the thing, and I almost did.

Were it not for Janine, I probably would. have. I turned, my heavy backpack barely a consideration in my mind. Then I saw a thick branch lying next to the trail just a few feet away, and that sense of revulsion changed form slightly. My panic morphed, engendering a sense of anger, as if the laws of nature had been violated, or that the laws of nature could let such a thing as this happen in the first place. I didn't examine the feeling too much, I didn't have time. I simply slung my pack down, picked up the branch and turned back around. The raccoon was about ten feet away from Janine.

I reached out and grabbed her back, yanking her ungentlely out of the way and stepping into her spot. The chittering scream was so loud now it seemed to fill the forest. The pale worms protruding from the raccoon's body were squirming sickeningly. As it approached, I glimpsed inside its open, screaming mouth. And I saw smaller worms protruding from its tongue and gums. I raised the branch and slammed it down onto the creature as hard as I could. The worms writhed, their very existence flooding my body with adrenaline.

My muscles thrum. I hit the thing again. It stopped screaming. I hit it again. Blood splashed up into my face. Shouting, I dropped the branch and fell backward, wiping at my face with frenzied hands. I flipped onto all fours and spit into the wild grass and firms growing next to the trail. After a moment, Janine was next to me with a handkerchief.

She calmed me down, wiping my face with the cloth, saying, It's okay, Todd, you're okay, you're fine. I didn't know if she was right or not, but the possibility of catching whatever that raccoon had through its blood seemed less and less likely as she calmed me down. Did you get any in your mouth or your eyes? I don't know, I said, chest heaving. I don't think so.

Yeah. You're fine. Animals can get lots of strange diseases that humans can't. It's rare that they can be transferred. You're fine. You're fine. I sat down on the trail, calming down, and studied Janine's pretty yet weathered face. She was one of the first unhoused people I'd met after ditching my old life barely three weeks ago now. I'd been living in Portland at the time and had heard about small, hidden homeless encampments in Forest Park. Nestled in the city of Portland, Forest Park is one of the biggest urban forests in the country. I figured there would be plenty of room there for me to start my unhoused journey.

And I was right. There was plenty of room. What I didn't count on was the lengths the city would go to in their efforts to clear the park of encampments. The first time I got kicked out of the park, the cops and park rangers dumped my stuff just outside of the boundaries and told me I would be arrested if they found me in there again. Janine was nearby, packing her stuff up, having just gotten kicked out too. Apparently, she saw the doe-eyed look on my face and took pity on me. You're new at this, huh? She asked.

How could you tell? Because you're shook, she said, chuckling. And it was true. Janine didn't seem bothered by getting kicked out of the park. She later told me it was part of the lifestyle. Things can get so much worse if you're not careful, she said. We stuck together as we headed away from the park. Eventually, I offered to share a hotel room with her.

You can afford a hotel room? she asked. I wrote a book a while back, I told her. I still get royalties from it. Not much, but enough so that I can splurge once in a while. She considered this for a moment, studying my face. A room with two beds? She asked. Suddenly, I saw why she was wary.

I might be able to afford two rooms. I said, reaching for my phone. Let me see. She waved it away. Not necessary. I'm a good judge of character, and you're no creep. She paused. But you should know that I sleep with a knife next to me.

I nodded. Okay. A big knife. I smiled. Okay. After that, we were fast friends. We stuck together for the next few days, and she gave me a bunch of pointers on living what she called

the vagabond lifestyle. She noticed I didn't have a good water bottle, so we went and picked one out for me, a dark blue nal gene, identical to the one she had. I spent a good chunk of change on it, but she said it would be worth every penny. We waited a few days, hoping we could get back into Forest Park without being seen. But every time one of us went to scope it out, we had eyes on us. It never felt right. Finally, Janine had had enough.

I'm leaving. She said one night as we slept under an overpass with a bunch of other homeless people. Where are you going to go? I asked. I heard about a commune in this old abandoned town called Beard. One of my friends, Jonas, told me he was going to check it out a couple of weeks back. He said he would find me and let me know the next time he came to Portland. But he hasn't. Still, I think the time is right for me to go check it out.

Apparently it's supposed to be pretty good. Not like a homeless encampment. but like a real commune, a community. Sounds too good to be true, I said. It does, doesn't it? Still, I'm going to check it out. You can come if you want. I didn't answer her then,

but I thought about it all night as I listened to the mutterings of mentally ill people and the whinings of junkies unable to find a fix. I wasn't ready to give up on Forest Park then. I liked being in the city. I knew these streets. I had grown up on them. The next day, I told her I wouldn't be going.

But if you get there, and it's as good as you say it is, give me a call. I still had enough money for a basic cell phone plan, and I gave her the number on the off chance someone had a phone in the commune. She called me a week later and invited me down. I had taken a bus out of the city and then walked along a dirt road for two hours. Janine met me just where she said she would, next to a long-abandoned Texaco station that had mostly been reclaimed by Mother Nature. Now, here I was, having just encountered some kind of diseased raccoon on my way to Beard, Oregon.

We spent several minutes calming ourselves down, or Janine calming me down, really. And then we picked up the raccoon's corpse and took it off the trail a good distance with a couple of long sticks. The worms were limp now that the animal was dead. It was probably for the better. The thing had been in pain. I could tell by its screams. Have you ever seen anything like that? I asked, as we pulled our packs back on.

No, she said, I said. We resumed our hike. Several minutes passed in silence. As the trail rounded a large, shoulder-shaped hill, I heard the first signs of life. Someone was whistling as they worked, The sound of wood being cut reverberated through the trees. We pushed our way through a curtain of foliage and came into a clearing behind an ancient house.

There was another house, and another. All of them two dilapidated to live in. But there was promise in them. We passed between two of the houses and turned onto a dirt road. A hundred yards farther on, we came to a kind of town square where three people were working in a garden. They turned and waved to us. Janine waved back. Off to the left, visible amid trees and overfallen homes, stood a factory.

At least, that's what it looked like to me. A factory with rusting metal siding. It looked as if it was from a different generation than the old log houses that surrounded it. What's that? I asked, pointing at it. Some kind of factory with all sorts of weird machinery in it. Some of the guys are trying to see if they can find a way to transport it to sell for scrap. That could be a good shelter for us. It looks sturdier than any of the other structures.

Yeah, maybe, Janine said. But right now, we have a camp set up near a creek. After walking a little farther, I saw what she was talking about. There were about a dozen tents arrayed under trees at the edge of the tiny abandoned town. The flat ground was ideal for camps. several fire pits had been erected, many of them with cooking grates over them. Old wooden chairs were arranged near the fire pits, along with what looked to be pews from the town's only church, which we'd passed shortly after seeing the factory.

This is my place, Janine said, pointing to a blue and green tent. There was an empty space next to it. You can put yours there, if you want. Sure, I said, swinging my place. packed down and sighing with relief. I grabbed a chair from the nearby fire pit and sat on it, propping my feet on my pack. It felt great.

Uh, Todd? Yeah, I said. There's something I have to tell you. It's nothing big, but I need to warn you about a couple of guys here. Okay, I said, paying full attention now because of her tone. What's up? Well, she said. There's this guy.

Curtis. I'm not sure who invited him, but he's kind of an asshole. He's trying to, like, lead the group. He tries to tell people what to do. And he's got some other guys, like his little lackeys, who follow him around and do what he says. Great, I said. I wish you told me this before. It's not so bad, she blurted. Most people just ignore him and go about their business. Just don't antagonize him or anything. And don't tell him about the money you get from your book. He'll probably want you to spend it on stuff for him, like booze and drugs. I sighed and looked around at the camp. An old guy was busy hanging clothes on a line between two trees. The wood chopping I heard was a young black-haired guy chopping firewood about 20 yards away. He was still whistling.

A woman had a couple of open tin cans and was cooking their contents over a fire. Okay. I said, thinking that this was definitely better than sleeping under and overpass with drug addicts. What does this guy Curtis look like? It didn't take me long to find out for myself what Curtis looked like. Apparently Word traveled fast in the little commune, so Curtis came to see me. He'd been working in the factory with his little crew, seeing what they could sell for scrap metal. But when he heard there was a newcomer, he came to see for himself.

and to assert his dominance. I was busy setting up my tent when Janine said, He's up. I looked over to see four men approaching. The man in the lead had a bushy red beard, but dark brown hair. He was pretty unremarkable, not large or muscular, or particularly imposing. He wore a green Oregon Ducks t-shirt that had seen better days, along with haggard blue jeans and a bear of tennis shoes that were a thousand steps away,

from developing mouths. The other three men looked to be about Curtis's same age, which was probably mid to late 30s. One of them was covered in shitty tattoos that I was sure he'd gotten in some prison or other. Another had the wild look of unpredictability I had come to recognize in my three weeks of living on the streets. The third had blonde dreadlocks and a surfer stand.

I stood up from my tent and walked to meet the four men, extending my hand and putting a small smile on my face. Welcome, Todd, Curtis said, although his expression didn't match the levity of his words. He shook my hand and slapped me on the shoulder. Let's take a walk. I need to tell you the ground rules. Come on, Curtis, Janine said. Leave him be. There are no ground rules. No ground rules, Curtis asked, as if the idea was crazy to him.

You can't have a society without rules. All right, fine, Janine said. So let's get everyone together, and we'll vote on these rules. You don't get to decide them. Curtis laughed and shook his head. Then he grabbed me by the arm and directed me away from Janine. Come on, I'll have you back soon. Janine started to say something else, but I gave her a look, and she stopped.

As we walked toward the factory, Curtis introduced me to his little cadry. The tattooed guy was Crosby. The crazed looking guy was Fitzpatrick. The surfer dude was Mahoney. They all said hello. It was all pretty amicable, but I could smell booze on their breath. It seemed all of them, including Curtis, had been drinking.

Then we got inside the factory. The place was littered with old machinery and broken furniture and ancient bags of garbage. One corner had been cleared out, presumably by Curtis and his crew. And that's where we stopped. The tattooed guy, Crosby, leaned over and picked up a mason jar of green liquid. He unscrewed the lid and took a big gulp and then passed it to Fitzpatrick, who did the same.

While this happened, Curtis talked to me. Did Janine tell you about the tax? he asked. No, I said wearily. What tax? Well, it's like a property tax. You got to pay it if you want to live here in my little community. The words, my little. little community weren't lost on me, especially that first word, my, but I didn't say anything.

Mahoney, having just taken a drink of the green liquid, held it out to me. I waved it off. No thanks. Come on, have a little drink, Curtis said. It'll get you feeling good. I don't drink, I said. Especially not some bright green liquid that was probably made in a dirty Home Depot bucket, I thought but didn't say. Come on, Curtis said again. It actually does some good. You see this?

He held up his right hand palm out and pointed out a fading scar that ran under the base of his fingers. I nodded. I cut myself on a piece of metal two days ago, and it was deep, my friend. I thought I was going to need stitches. But the next day, it was completely closed. No scab.

Just a pink line. Now look at it. Looks like it's about a month old, doesn't it? I didn't believe a word he said, but I nodded. So drink up, Curtis said. I looked him in the eye and with a steady voice said, No, I'm not drinking any of that. Thank you. Curtis stared back at me.

No one spoke for a long moment. Mahoney continued to hold the mason jar out at me. Finally, Curtis shrugged. Suit yourself. Now about that tax, it'll be $100. I laughed. Yeah, right. You think I have $100? If I did, I wouldn't be here. I'd be in a hotel room for the night. You don't have the money? Curtis asked, looking sad.

No, I said. I don't have the money. I'm happy to pull my own weight, though. I'll work to make this a good place to live. I'll help out, so don't worry. You don't have the money? Curtis asked again, placing a hand on my shoulder. No, I said. Curtis slammed his fist in a hand. my stomach. I doubled over, groaning in pain. Go check his back, Fitz! Curtis said. Fitzpatrick left the warehouse after taking one more swig of the green liquor. I straightened up, about to say something, but Curtis was ready for it. He grabbed a fist full of my hair and punched me in the face. I went down hard on the dirty concrete floor. Curtis leaned down and gripped my hair again, turning my face toward his. This is my town. You get me? None of this voting bullshit.

What I say goes, and that's all there is to it. So if you want to stay here, if you want to stay in one piece, he'll do what I say. You get me, Amigo? I nodded as best I could. Yes. Good. I'll take the tax out of your belongings. If there's not enough there to cover the hundred, you'll owe me.

Sound good? I nodded again. Yes. Good. Now get the fuck out of here. I got painfully to my feet and stumbled outside. I could hear Janine yelling at Fitzpatrick while the man went through my stuff. But when I got to the campsite, I told her just to leave it.

I fucking knew that asshole would be trouble. I knew it. Careful what you say, lady. Fitzpatrick said, still rummaging through my stuff. Or we'll have to teach you some manners. Janine opened her mouth to say something else, but I grabbed her wrist. It's okay, I whispered. We'll leave. We'll go tomorrow and find someplace else. After a minute, Janine nodded.

We moved away, letting Fitzpatrick take whatever he wanted from my backpack. Worried we'd be attacked or harassed, Janine and I slept in the same tent, only we didn't do much sleeping. Once the sun went down, the woodcutter stopped chopping wood and left the axe sticking out of a stump. I borrowed it and had it nearby in the tent just in case something happened. And in the middle of the night, something did happen. Only it wasn't anything I could have anticipated.

It was something out of a nightmare. That's what I thought it was at first. I thought I was having a nightmare when the screaming started. I sat up in the dark tent, half asleep, looking around in confusion. The screaming was distant, and it was a man. He sounded like he was in agony. What's that? Janine said with a gasp, suddenly sitting up.

That was when I knew it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. I don't know. Does that sound like anyone you know? Jesus Christ, Janine said. I bet Curtis has done something to someone. We need to leave now, right now. I knew she was right.

If Curtis or one of his crew had killed or injured someone, he wouldn't want any witnesses going to the police. There was no telling what the man would do. Gather whatever you can, Janine said. Quickly and quietly. I nodded, sliding out of my sleeping bag. We both were still fully clothed. When you're homeless, you don't sleep in your underwear, not unless you're stupid.

I unzipped the tent and peered out. The screaming continued, and it was accompanied by shouts of dismay. I looked around, seeing other people poking their heads out of tents. Flashlights were coming to life, illuminating small strips of the landscape as people crawled out of their tents to see what was going on. After pulling my boots on and grabbing the axe, I crawled out of the tent. As soon as I stood up, I felt a presence behind me. Before I could spin around, something hard pressed against the back of my head.

Drop the axe! Curtis said. We just want to leave. I said. Someone from an adjacent tent shined a flashlight at us. He's got a gun! The woman whispered, tendrils of fear starkly apparent in those four words. You're not leaving, Curtis said.

In fact, no one is leaving. If any of you try to run, you'll get a bullet in the back. Now, Todd, drop the fucking axe. I did. The heavy tool thumped to the ground next to me. Behind me, Curtis groaned. I felt the gun leave my head for a moment, but I didn't dare move. What's wrong with you? What's happening?

I asked. Who's screaming? Curtis sucked in a breath, seemingly recovering himself. Everyone moved to the factory. No one moved. I could sense Janine still in the tent trying to be still. Maybe he wouldn't remember her. Up ahead, the screaming continued.

Now! Curtis screamed. Move! You too, Janine! The other people exited their tents and moved toward the factory. Janine got out and grabbed my hand, and we walked together among the others. Curtis followed behind. is breathing loud and ragged, as if he was in pain. I wondered if he'd been injured in a fight with the screaming man.

Gun is loaded. The black-haired woodcutter whispered, talking to the small group. He could be bluffing. I never heard any gunshots. Did anyone else? Shut up, Curtis called. We kept walking. Soon, it became clear that the screaming was coming from the factory.

When we were 50 yards from the structure, The black-haired man whispered again. I'm running for it on three. If you're smart, they'll do the same. No one said anything. We just kept walking. Janine squeezed my hand, silently telling me not to run.

At least, that's what I thought it meant. He and two others darted away from the group, going in different directions. The loud crack of a gunshot sounded, and the man fell. I pulled Janine down at the ground as four more gunshots sounded. The other two runners fell to the ground.

One of them started screaming, but Curtis walked up to her and put a bullet in her head. I've still got ten rounds in this thing, Curtis said, looking at the rest of us. There were only six now, including Janine and me. Anyone else want to try and run for it? A curtain of black dread fell on me, suffocatingly heavy and made of rusty nails. We're going to die tonight, I thought. We're all going to die. executed by this psychopath."

When no one answered, Curtis made us resume the walk. At the factory, he ushered us through the door and into the dim illumination cast by several battery-powered camping lanterns set around the cleared area of the factory floor. Inside, the man's screams were like a clamp, tightening on my head. I looked over toward the side, where I recognized Crosby and Mahoney crouching around Fitzpatrick, who was doing the screaming. Since the two other guys were in the way, I couldn't see what was wrong with him.

But now that we were in the light, I looked over my shoulder to get a good look at Curtis. My eyes narrowed. It looked like the man had mud smeared on his arms and face. I looked closer and saw that it wasn't mud. He had roots on his skin. Curtis wore a grimace, and with his free left hand, he tore roots from his right forearm.

They came out bloody. Some part of me realized that the roots were embedded in his skin. But that didn't make sense. How could you get roots in your skin? Curtis saw me looking and thrust his pistol at me. I couldn't grasp what was happening. Fitzpatrick's screams kept tightening the clamp, making my head thrum.

The roots coming out of Curtis's face seemed to be moving, growing, taking over. Curtis turned his attention to his face, tearing out the roots with his left hand, grunting the pain. Blood started to pour down his face. Stop staring at me unless you want a fucking bullet in the face, he said. Other people were staring at him now. Confused whispers and horrified gasps emanated from our small crowd, but they were overshadowed by Fitzpatrick's screams.

I turned away from Curtis and headed over to Fitzpatrick, thinking about the raccoon and I had come upon in the woods. I stopped a good 10 feet away from the screaming man, my mouth falling open. Fitzpatrick had a pocket knife in one hand, and he was using the blade to dig an eyeball out of the back of his left hand. He had eye-shaped wounds all up and down his arms, and all of them were bleeding profusely. Littering the ground around him were bloody eyeballs. Most of them ripped and torn and cut. As I watched, a new eyeball formed on his forehead.

There was already one on his cheek, blinking and staring around as if frightened of the new world it was seeing. He also had an eyeball growing out of his neck, just under his Adams apple. Every time he swallowed, the eye bulged sickeningly out of its socket. Between screams, Fitzpatrick kept repeating three words, Get them out! Get them out! Get them out! Suddenly, Fitzpatrick stopped screaming and brought his bloodied left hand up to his forehead, where the new eye was forming. He felt it, his own original eyes bulging even wider than they had been.

He brought the knife up to his head and was ready to dig into the new socket. But Crosby reached out to grab his friend's arm. Fitzpatrick slashed out at the man, screaming. Fuck off! He cut a gash in Crosby's hand. The tattooed man fell backward, and scrambled to his feet. Just as Fitzpatrick brought the tip of the knife to his forehead, Crosby reared back and then kicked the screaming man's knife hand.

The blade sunk into the eye socket to the hilt. Fitzpatrick's hand dropped from the knife, which stuck out of his forehead. He twitched and gibbered for a moment before slumping against the wall and going still. Motherfucker! Crosby yelled at the dead man. You motherfucker! You cut me! This is a bad dream! Janine said from beside me, she had followed me over to look at Fitzpatrick. I glanced over my shoulder at Curtis again.

His face was a mess of blood from all the roots he had ripped out of his skin. Now the roots were coming out of his nose. He tore at them frantically. Guns still held in one hand, but now down by his thigh. Crosby straightened and looked at the six of us, the hostages. What the fuck are you looking at? He shouted. Oh no!

Mooney said from his spot on the floor. Oh God, please no! Looking at the surfer guy, I saw that he'd started to deform. Like the raccoon, he had worms coming out of his skin, growing out of his skin. They were small now, but I could see them getting bigger, wriggling as if trying to escape from his body. It was that shit, Crosby said, moving over to Curtis. That green liquor you made us drink. It was... Curtis lifted his gun and shot Crosby through the head.

The contents of his skull splattered all over half of the hostages. Three of them bolted for the door. Curtis was ready. He shot them all easily, one bullet each. I yanked Janine by the arm and ran away, deeper into the debris-strewn warehouse as the gunshots continued. Once, twice, and then a third time. The last bullet whizzed by my head,

and I knew we were the only two left now. We ducked around a large piece of metal machine, that looked like it had become obsolete half a century ago. With the machine between us and Curtis, we ran, jumping over trash, dodging between piles of broken furniture, and nearly twisting our ankles as we traversed a small hill of old tires. There was a large roll-up door at the back at the factory that wasn't closed all the way. It had been damaged, leaving a two-foot gap at one side. Janine and I crawled through the gap and out into the knife.

We ran, not thinking about the direction, thinking only about getting far away from the factory. But soon enough, I realized we were nearing our tent. I whispered for Janine to keep going as I detoured, grabbing the axe I had dropped earlier. Despite my urging, Janine stayed with me. We kept running, finally hunkering down in a dry stream bed. We turned around and looked through the trees, back toward the camp, waiting for Curtis to appear. But he never did. We stayed hidden all night, waiting for morning,

knowing that making a bunch of noise running through the woods might get us shot. Even after the sun came up, we stayed hidden for a couple of hours, watching, waiting, listening. We heard nothing, saw nothing. So we finally crept out of our hiding place, hungry and thirsty and tired, from our all-night vigil. I carried the axe in both hands as we worked our way hesitantly back to the camp. When we got back to the tent, the first thing we went for was our water bottles.

I unscrewed the top of my Naljean, the dark blue one I bought at Janine's suggestion, and took four huge swigs before I noticed that something tasted off. I took the bottle away from my lips and looked at the water through the blue transparent plastic. Then I tipped it and dumped some of the water out, noticing that the liquid had a green hue to it. Stop drinking it, I said, stepping over and slapping Janine's identical water bottle from her hands. It fell to the ground, green-tinted water spilling out. She stared down at it, understanding, turning her face ashen. He poisoned it. We need to puke it up.

I dropped the axe and shoved a finger down my throat until I triggered my gag reflex. The water came rushing out of me, turning the dirt to mud at my feet. Janine did the same. A harsh bark of laughter came from nearby. I spun around, looking for the source of the noise. It's too late, Curtis said. It's in you now. You'll be just like me soon. I still couldn't find him.

Not for a long moment. Then I shifted, taking a few steps to my right, bringing a nearby tree into view. The only thing left of Curtis that you could call him, All human were his eyes and his mouth. The rest of him had been fused to the tree with the roots that had taken over his body. It looked like he had sat down against the tree and let the roots do the rest. It's too late, he repeated. His eyes darted toward me in their wooden sockets.

You're dead. You're both dead. I dashed back to the tent and picked up the axe. What if he's right? Janine said, panic infecting her voice. He's not. I said, moving over toward what was left of Curtis. But what if he is right? What if we're infected now?

I didn't answer. I just stepped in front of Curtis and hefted the axe. His eyes darted up to the tool, and I was pleased to see fear in them. I brought the axe down onto his root-covered head with all I had. The sound it made was that of an axe blade sinking into wood. But when I pulled it out, I saw brains there. Human brains, with tiny roots snaking through them. Then the gash filled with blood, and Curtis's eyes rolled up in their wooden sockets.

I stood, watching Curtis die while Janine's question played on repeat in my head. What if we're infected now? SCP 7185 is an unidentified machine located within an abandoned factory in the U.S. state of Oregon. The machine is not connected to any exterior power or piping. but maintains three levers that control its operations. If the three levers are arranged properly and pulled in the right order, SCP 7185 will produce a green liquid dubbed SCP 7185-1.

The liquid is an alcoholic beverage with a semi-viscous consistency, which, when ingested, will result in a series of changes to subjects' bodies, eventually resulting in the bodily mutation and deformation of subjects. These changes vary on a case-by-case basis, and inevitably result in the subject's expiration. Following the expiration of subjects, the anomalous cause of their deaths will cease manifesting.