The SCP Experience - Empty Worlds, Empty People | SCP-201

Episode Date: December 18, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-201: Empty Worlds, Empty People This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-201 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com 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

Today is the day I die. Dad sewed those words yesterday, after his third day in the hospital. Of course, he didn't say it around Tammy or Billy. That was the sole burden of me. That's how it's been ever since Mom left decades ago. Dad pulling me quietly aside and explaining why Christmas gifts would be late or why we wouldn't be able to take a vacation in the summer months. He always expected me to lean on him and help him out during the rough.

or lean times. And boy, were there a lot of those growing up. I stayed close to home while Tammy and Billy got as far away as possible. Someone had to keep an eye on him. When Tammy and Billy made their annual Christmas and Thanksgiving trips back home, they told me I nagged the old man too much. I suppose a part of me hates Dad for always expecting me to drop everything to come and help him. Just like a part of me hates myself for never having the courage to break away like Tammy and Billy. And yeah, I guess I hate Tammy and Billy, just a little. The family that hates together stays together, right? Despite all that hate, Dad has always been hard to stay angry with. He's a chain smoker and a drunk, but a functioning one who approaches everything with a state

of calm readiness. Every difficult hand dealt to him was met with a shrug of his shoulders. When the doctors told him he was dying, he accepted the news the very same way. Tammy will be a while before she gets here. She lives on the other side of the country, and with four kids still in school and her husband working, she needed to rearrange her schedule. Billy's in an even tougher spot, stranded in some third world country, courtesy of his third go-round with the Peace Corps. Dad made me promise that they would make it in time to say goodbye. For three days, it has just been me.

Dad, a rotating stream of nurses and doctors, and the hum of daytime television. Dad spent our last days together telling me what I needed to do when he was gone. Everything is trivial as the lawnmower needing a new motor to paying the taxes on the house. After he was satisfied that I knew everything he needed, dad drifted off to sleep, still alive and kicking, but I knew he'd never wake up. I've been staring at Dad in his never-ending slumber. I pulled out a smoke for the first time in years. I don't know why.

You would think with a dying example of the worst cigarettes can do to you right in front of me. I'd never be tempted again. But I'm dying for a Marlborough or a Winston. A Kentucky spirit? Hell, I'd even settle for a new board. Bobby? The broken voice pulls my eyes away from Dad into the doorway. Tammy stands at the threshold, a quiver at her lip,

as she stares through the doorway like there's a force field blocking her entry. The spell is broken as I stand, and she rushes into my arms. We share a quick embrace and to kiss on the cheek. Even now, after all these years, she needs me to be her big brother. I take her by the hand and lead her to the side of Dad's bed. We say nothing. Just stare at the rise and fall of his chest. The only sound is the steady beeps and boops of the machines keeping him alive.

Any word from Billy? Tammy's voice is a detached sob. Not since we last spoke. He's on the plane, but it's the first of... I think he said four layovers? Doctors think it might be kinder to pull the plug now. But Dad made me promise to wait until we all got here. Yeah.

Tears fall from Tammy while she takes one of Dad's calloused hands into her own. That sounds like him. I stand beside her for a few more minutes with my armor. around her. There's nothing left to say. When your last parent is dying, there aren't any words to capture the pain and helplessness of it all. I remain her shoulder to cry on for a few more seconds before letting go. I walk over to Dad's tattered jean jacket resting on the chair. Bobby, what are you? The pack of Winston's in the front pocket as usual and nearly full. The only time you would find Dad smokes this well-stocked was at the start of his morning.

The nurses and doctors were strict about not letting the old man smoke. There aren't even any designated smoking areas at this hospital. Dad hasn't smoked in nearly three days. The nicotine withdrawal hitting him almost as hard as the cancer. Tammy jerks back from the pack in my hands like it's a snake that's waiting to bite. What are you going to do with those? What's traditionally done with them, I suppose. Bobby, do you really think that's...

I hold up a finger, cutting Tammy off. She's developed a respectable mom tone now that she has kids of her own, but I haven't had anyone use it on me since hours up and left on us when I was 10. I helped change Tammy's diapers, made her school lunches, and drove her to softball practices. She is not going to use that tone with me. I spent the last three days not sleeping and watching Dad die. I could say more, but I don't need to. What's left unsaid speaks volumes.

If I said more, it would mean a fight with my baby sister at the worst possible time. I'm thankful she leaves it at that, nodding once and turning back to dad. Turning away from both of them, I take a break from my father's death. It's not my sibling's fault. The words go through my head as I kill time wandering through the hospital. The cigarettes are burning a hole in my pocket. But a part of me doesn't want to indulge. them just yet. It's been so long since I've been able to be by myself. It's a comfort,

having just me and my thoughts for a few precious moments. It's not Tammy or Billy's fault. Everything had been my decision. I decided to stick around after I turned 18. I chose to work in the same factory as dad to help make ends meet until Tammy and Bobby graduated. And I kept to the routine long after I had to. It wasn't their fault that I was. was the closest in proximity to take dad to the hospital and get the diagnosis. My anger is irrational. I know this. Just like I know, it's stemming from the fact that dad is dying. And that's a stupid reason to be angry, too. I'm 43 years old. I know I've already spent half of my life, maybe more than that. Someday, I'm going to die. I've known that for a long time.

And yet, somehow, the realization that dad is going to to die before me. Well, I guess it's just one of those things that nobody likes to think about. We all spend our time ignoring the inevitable until it finally springs itself on you. My legs are sore from the walk, and the worst of my thoughts have been run tired along with them. Now that my thoughts are somewhat at ease or too exhausted to bother me, it's time to take that much-earned cigarette break. I walk around aimlessly for another 20 minutes, but can't find any place to smoke. The nurses I ask scoff at me for wanting to do so. As the latest nurse turns her nose up at me, a security guard approaches, making my body tense. Did someone complain

about my questions? As anti-smoking become such a rabid trend that it's not even considered appropriate to ask anymore? My hands go to my jeans and protectively cup the outline of the cigarettes. I realize how stupid I'm being when the guard smiles sympathetically and lowers his voice. There's an old janitor's closet at the end of the hall on your left. Past the flicking lights, you'll see a wet floor sign. Ignore it and step inside. It's mostly used for storage. So be mindful of the equipment and blow your smoke out the window. If this bellow smokers here lose our hiding spot, they'll kick me out of the club. A hoof of laughter and a nun. is the best I can muster as a sign of thanks.

The guard waves off the display and continues on his shift. Replaying his words, I take a left down the hall. This part of the hospital is older, with no signs of the sleek and modern renovations in Dad's Wing. The hallway is long and empty. The lights a dimmer yellow, struggling to stay on. I step into the sputtering light and nearly knock over the wet floor sign in front of the blank door. The door creaks on rusted hinges as I open it slowly and peer inside. The security

guard was true to his word. Heavy dust lined most of the objects covered by white cloth. Tobacco still lingers in the air, despite the cracked open window. Something that looks like a coat rack stands near it, but it's hard to say due to the limited lighting. Stepping inside, I noticed the footprints on the dirty floor. They're made from show. of all shapes and sizes, often overlapping with each other. The guard wasn't joking about the area being the smoker's only safe spot. All of the footprints lead toward the window. I follow in their wake and raise the window several inches before lighting the cigarette.

After the first deep inhalation, a row of angry coughs escapes from my throat. I spit outside and lick my lips, the taste of nicotine and smoke staining my mouth. mouth. Instead of tossing the cigarette out the window, I raise it to my lips and inhale again, coughing only once this time. My third puff brings back countless memories of Dad. Every Christmas morning, every breakfast, and every time he worked on the car with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. It explains his current condition, but the memories are so pleasant I spark up another cigarette after finishing the first. There's not much to look at in the closet, so I settle on the object near the window.

Leaning in close, I see it's not a coat rack. It looks like an IV of some kind, but with more pouches than any of the ones I saw in Dad's room. Instead of plastic and tubes, most of it appears to be brass or steel. Maybe one of the first IVs? Who knew what the things looked like in the 1800s or or however long IVs have been around. Looking over my shoulder, I fill my lungs with more smoke and press one of the knobs on the IV.

A spark of static electricity bites my finger, causing me to swear and drop the cigarette. My head spins with the addictive chemicals, and I sway on my feet, momentarily overwhelmed by nicotine. Groaning, they pick up the cigarette and drop it out the window but freeze in place. When did it get so dark?

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$1%%% $1% $1%% $0%%% $0%%% fills me with dread. The lights from earlier are no longer flickering and it's completely dark. A power outage of some kind? Or maybe visiting hours are over. But that doesn't make any sense. I've been here the past three days with Dad, and I occasionally lingered from the room to get

a cup of coffee or a quick bite to eat. There were always people wandering the hall or hovering around the vending machines with the same haunted and exhausted expressions. Now it's completely quiet. There's no one standing in line, no nurses sipping coffee in their graveyard shift, no security guards making their rounds, not even a janitor with a mop and bucket. The power is dead, something I thought a hospital would never allow. But it's confirmed after I make my way to the elevators. My thumb clicks against the button, but there's no answer. I'm sweating and out of breath when I finish taking the stairs. In all that time, I haven't come across a single person.

As I walk down the aisle toward Dad's room, I strain not to look over at the other rooms, knowing what I'll find. I finally get to my Dad's room and it's empty, with no sign of him or Tammy. The room is sterile and devoid of any belongings. Not even Dad's coat is there. It's like he was never here to begin with. I try to keep my pace at a slow walk, but every step. step I take echoes around me, taunting me, sounding like mocking laughter in the darkness surrounding me. By the time I get to the doors, I'm at a full run. I elbow into the

revolving door, grunting as I push it open, letting me outside. It's impossible to tell what time it is. The sky is a bruised purple of twilight, but it's so heavy it choked out the moon and stars. Thick fog clings to the ground as I walk through the parking lot. It doesn't waft or part against my touch. It's like I've stepped into a bizarre painting, one frozen in time. I reach my cell to my ear, but the only answer is hungry static. Another small jolt bites my ear, forcing me to drop my phone. Leaning over to pick it up, I watched the battery level plummet before my eyes. The bar goes red before flashing a low battery message, and it flicks off. Hello?

I call out to the world around me. But my words are swallowed up by the fog, dying in a hushed volume before they can echo. Is anyone out there? Can anybody hear me? There's no answer, but my heavy sigh as I push deeper into the fog. A spark of hope ignites in my heart at the sight of a familiar shade of red. My pickup truck is still here. I run across the parking lot and click my key fob. Just like before, there's no answer.

But the key turns after inserting it into the cell. used keyhole. With a twist, the door opens, and I laugh in relief as I fling myself inside and shove the keys in the ignition. There's a quiet hum and a slight stirring of the dials and lights before the truck clicks and go silent. I rest my head against the steering wheel, but the horn doesn't blare. Whatever's affected the hospital has hit outside too. I think back to several movies I've seen about nuclear weapons and the chaos caused in their wake. An EMP? Is that what caused all this? My breath catches in my throat as I see a cloud outside.

It's different than the fog clinging to the ground. It stands out against the purple skyline and moves as the wind hows like a banshee. I hold my breath and watch as the cloud comes in contact with a nearby building. The walls darken, crack, and crumble, falling to the earth and giant stones that shake the ground beneath my feet. The cloud moves with the wind and crumb. crosses the parking lot, devouring the fog.

Several cars turn to rusted skeletons as the cloud passes through. The tires collapse into themselves as disintegrated sheets of rubber. It only leaves me with more questions, but I've seen enough. I fling myself from the truck and run for my life. It's the day I die. It takes me a while to process the words coming from my lips and why they sound so familiar. Memories of Dad mixed with those of Tammy and Billy flood my memory. Family.

I never realized how important it was to me until I lost them. I'd give anything to see them again. Hell, I would even love to see Mom again. I haven't thought about her in decades. I set down the book I've been reading and stare at the walls around me. Every inch is covered with four tally marks slashed with the fifth line. Some are done in permanent marker. Others are carved into the wood, and a few are smeared onto the wall with blood.

None of the marks are mine. I never bothered counting how long I've been here. My time was better spent, keeping one step in front of the cloud. Staying alive was easier than I thought it would be. The grocery stores are still lined with countless canned goods that have never gone bad. There's no power to cook the food, but you get used to cooking by fire when you don't have any other choice. There have been signs of others in my journey of staying alive. Other markets were ransacked of food.

Other shelters seem to have held occupants before. Similar to this latest apartment I'm crashing in. It came with the remnants of smoldering candles and a pile of books. Books are another thing I never appreciated enough. They're the only reason I've stayed sane and entertained with no power and no people to keep me company. I've read more in my time here than my life before now combined. I guess it's something all people stuck here end up doing initially.

I'm always finding new books to read after I move. The signs of life are the hardest part to endure. It made me hold out hope that I'm not the only one in this cursed place. That may be somewhere out there in this world of darkness, there's someone else struggling to stay alive, just like me. But there's nobody here now but me. The cloud probably swallowed up the rest a long time ago. Although I don't know how much time has passed, I know it's been years.

I can tell from the way my body aches and groans in the mornings and the evenings. Maybe that's why I know my body is now on the downward slope. Everything is going to be a struggle from here on out and less. The words are a comfort as they say them a second time and close the book. I was so lost in my reading that I didn't notice the wind how long. outside. But now I know it's time. Memories of Dad flashed through my mind again. Even when he couldn't wake up, he still hung on, desperately holding out for Billy and Tammy to arrive. And maybe if I knew I would see them again, I would have the strength to keep living. But I don't.

I leave the apartment's door open for the next traveler. A sudden epiphany hits me and I realize why I'm all alone. Everyone eventually came to the same decision as me. Living a life in isolation is worse than dying. I step out into the streets as the wind rushes through my hair. The brown cloud slithers along the horizon, tearing down buildings and adding to the debris in the air. I don't turn away from it this time.

I open my arms and smile as the cloud washes over me. The noise is a deafening explosion in my ears, overwhelming me and bringing me to my knees. My eyes are attacked next. The glares of a thousand different stars assaulting me all at once. The smells hit me next, and my mouth waters from dozens of different foods. At the same time, my stomach churns against the foul odors in the air. All around me, something is moving, pushing me aside and carrying me with the flow of motion.

I walk with them on reflex before something dawns on me. The sounds are a litany of horns, advertisements, and hovering helicopters. The blinding lights are from the billboards and the glare of traffic. I'm in a city, and the shadows surging against me are people walking along a busy street. Spinning around, I nearly tumble over into the traffic as I stare at the abundance of life long since denied to me. Letting out a whoop of laughter, I grabbed the person nearest me. What day is it? What year? The person I grabbed is a young man in his twenties.

His eyes are wide, and he squirms beneath my grip. With great reluctance, I let go of him and step back, holding my hands open. Sorry, I just haven't seen anyone in a long time. My actions give him a little comfort as he rubs his shoulder and looks at me. Farther on the narrow, doth thou circular communications? Uh, I dig my finger in my ear and dry again. Sorry, kid. What did you say? He frowns at me.

Victorian knives cut through butter in space? What? He's not making a lick of sense. As other people walk by, I hear other bits of strange conversation. Did the cloud drop me off in a foreign country? No, they're speaking English. It just doesn't make any sense. Please, kid, you just got to listen to me. I was in the hospital, and my downward...

was dying. Noxious and notorious neglect, negotiations with neighbors? Deluded laughter rises from my chest. The world I was in, it was one of complete loneliness. That cloud, it was an embodiment of isolation. I passed through it, escaping its prison. But it made sure I'll always be alone, even now that I'm back home. Home. No, I'm not home anymore. And I never will be. The boy keeps staring at me as my laughter turns to screams. SCP 201 appears to be a very old piece of medical equipment, superficially resembling an IV stand, but with many other glass and metal items attached to it.

SCP 201 stands 1.8 meters tall and has a mass of 36.5 kilograms. The metal portions are made of steel and brass, and various parts are connected with rubber tubing. The two IV bags are porcelain and are open at the, top. SCP 201 was recovered from a hospital in a long unused storage area. No record of SCP 201 appears anywhere in hospital records. Entering within 30 meters of SCP 201 can result in the subject being displaced into an alternate reality. This effect is apparently random, with some subjects remaining totally unaffected after exposure to SCP 201. Duration of displacement

vary between a few hours and upwards of eight years. Time spent in this alternate reality can vary greatly from actual time elapsed in our reality. Through experiments with D-class personnel, surveillance recordings have revealed that this alternate world appears identical to our own, with these exceptions. It is apparently in a state of constant twilight, with no sun or moon visible at any time. Large banks of very dense gray fog travel very low to the ground. These fog banks are unaffected by wind and can make exposed skin feel very sticky and dirty. There is no plant or animal life anywhere. All places of human habitation, including major cities, appear as if all life suddenly vanished in the same instant.

Most, if not all, electrical systems appear to be broken or without power. The air will randomly take on a gray-brown tint, accompanied by strong wind, which will pursue. displace subjects. Subjects displaced to this alternate world report initial surprise and curiosity, which are shortly replaced with very strong feelings of loneliness and fear. The severity varies widely with individual subjects and with time of displacement. Upon the end of displacement, the subject will reintegrate from this alternate world to our own, which can cause a great deal of shock, especially in urban settings. In addition to suffering from psychological damage consistent with being sequestered within solitary confinement, displaced subjects also lose the

ability to express themselves coherently through either written or spoken words.