The SCP Experience - Explosive When Cornered | SCP-236

Episode Date: December 27, 2024

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-236 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-236 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett  * * * 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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50 tours on the machine-a-Bass Bonanza, depop Minimimimum of 10 dollars. Veye to pay They are responsible. The conditions apply. And this is your room, Tate says, opening the door on a comfortable-looking bedroom with hardwood floors

and two wide windows that look out upon the darkening jungle. Wow, this is great. Eliza says, pulling me by the hand into the room. When a moment passes and I don't say anything, she squeezes my hand, hard. Yeah, this is something else, I say. Thanks. Eliza separates from me and plops face down on the king-sized bed with an exaggerated sigh.

You got it, Keats. Tate says. I've already asked him once to call me by my actual name, Keaton. But Tate doesn't strike me as the type of guy who does much listening to anyone but himself. As I glance over my shoulder, mouth opening to ask him to call me Keaton once again, I see that Tate's eyes are glued on my wife. Following his gaze, I see that Eliza's tennis skirt has flapped up, revealing her white, lacy underwear. Tate is staring at her ass, and he continues to do so, even as I turn all the way around and stare at him. Eliza senses something and flips over, ending the show.

She sits up and looks for me to Tate, who is still staring at her, but with a wide, knowing grin on his face. I step in his line of sight and put my hand on the door. Thanks, Tate. We'll be out in a bit. Right, of course. Take your time. Tate's eyes finally come up to my face because I've blocked his view of my wife. With mounting frustration, I see that Tate doesn't actually look me in the eye. He looks at my mouth or chin as he speaks. I can't tell which.

All I know is that it's probably some alpha male bullshit tactic he picked up at some point during his charmed life. I have to resist the urge to slam the door in his face. This week cannot go by fast enough. When Tate finally leaves, I shut the door and look at Eliza, who's still sitting on the bed. Isn't this great? I scoff. Don't tell me he didn't feel that. Eliza rolls her eyes. He's harmless. He was staring at your ass. He wasn't even trying to cover it up. It's like I wasn't even standing here. Babe, I've been looking forward to this vacation for so long. Please, please, just try to get along with the boys. We're on a private island for God's sake. And look at this room. It's amazing. She's right. Tate's private island compound

is pretty impressive. It's not what I imagined, all glass and metal with tasteless rich guy decorations. Instead, it's more homely, with what looks like genuine tie artwork on the walls, hand-crafted furniture, and the sense that the place has been lived in and lived in well. It has personality, but it also has a mini-bar in the corner, an in-sweet bathroom, and a mini-split air-conditioner, so we can make it whatever temperature we like. The bedding is plush, the sound of ocean waves can just be heard from outside, and the smell of budding tropical plants permeates the place. If only Tate weren't here, it would be a perfect getaway.

Yeah, it is pretty amazing, I pause, studying Eliza for a moment. She's too pretty for this world. My heart aches every time I look at her, and my blood boils when Tate looks at her. Are you sure this isn't some kind of swing or thing? Eliza lets out a frustrated groan and falls back onto the bed. I'm just saying, that's what it seems like to me. Tate and Vicky seemed quite close and comfortable with Colt and Michaela.

Like, maybe a little too close. And when was that about sunbathing topless on the boat earlier today? Both of them? They're comfortable in their bodies, Keaton. That's all it is. And they do have great bodies, you have to admit. I saw you sneaking some glances at them. My face flushes.

To cover it up, I sit next to Eliza on the bed. Yeah, because I could have. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I mean, who gets naked in front of people they barely know. I know them well, and they weren't naked. Yeah, well, I don't know them. And it was close enough to naked to cause me discomfort. Didn't it make you uncomfortable?

Eliza sits up and wraps a hand around my back. Not really. I'm not a prude like you. I can't help but smile at her playful tone. Prude? Prude? I'll show you prude. She giggles as I sink.

down to my knees next to the bed and stick my head up her skirt. Soon enough, those giggles turned to moans. Several hours later, I'm four stiff drinks in and finding it hard to put up with Tate's bullshit. The six of us are sitting in a large, sunken living room with leather couches and a bar within spitting distance. Tate and his wife Vicky are like Ken and Barbie, if Ken had curly black hair and Barbie had tanned so much, she looked like an over-covert over-cooked hot dog. The other couple that traveled here with us on Tate's yacht are sprawled together on the couch to our right. Colt and Michaela are a little older in their late 30s,

but they're cut from the same cloth as Vicky and Tate. Eliza and I are the outsiders, the ones who don't come from money. That's not to say that we're poor, far from it, but there's a difference between living a comfortable life and owning a private goddamn island. We do well enough that Eliza finds time to do charity work, which is where she met Vicky and Michaela. I have nothing against the women. They seem nice enough. Even Colt makes an effort to be a nice guy. But Tate is almost hostile in a way that makes me think he's very much trying to get under my skin. He has perfected the art of the underhanded compliment and the delicate balance of hitting on someone else's wife right in front of one's own without making anyone mad.

Well, except for me, I'm plenty mad, and the whiskey isn't helping. But if I do or say anything to him, I'll be the bad guy. I know it. Plus, I'll ruin the week for Eliza, and I really don't want to do that. So instead of hurling my half-empty glass tumbler at Tate, which is what I really want to do, I put the tumbler down on the coffee table and stand up. I'm going to go get some air. Okay, babe, Eliza says, only half paying attention as she talks with Michaela.

No one else acknowledges my comment, so I head out the front door, which takes about five minutes of walking to reach. I step out of the air conditioning and into the balmy tropical night. Breathing deeply of the saltwater air helps to clear my head a little, but a sense of despair washes over me as I think about six more days of Tate's bullshit. Clenching my teeth, I walk down the front path that leads eventually to the dock where the yacht is moored. Instead of going to the dock, I take a right and walk along the beach. It's dark out. There's essentially no light pollution because we're surrounded on all sides by miles of water. The stars are splashed brilliantly across the sky.

More stars than I've ever seen. After walking for a few minutes, I see a bar. path carved through the woods on my right. Thinking it's a path to the back of the compound, I decide to see where it goes. But the tropical canopy blots out the light from the stars, making it difficult to see where I'm stepping. I pull my phone out and engage the flashlight. Up ahead, I see a palm tree right in the middle of the dirt path. Wondering if it's a coconut tree, I shine my light on it as I come to it. At first, I think I'm seeing a coconut tree. At first, I think I'm seeing things when the tree starts melting directly under where I've pointed my light.

Standing a few feet away, I stare, realizing that my eyes aren't playing tricks on me. But melting isn't the right word. Dysintegrating is more like it. Almost as if the tree is made of sand, and my light is a powerful jet of water. The palm leaves that are a good four feet over my head also start to disintegrate. But I don't feel anything falling on me.

It's as if the leaves are rolling themselves up somehow. I shine my light up there, and the disintegration comes faster. Shifting my light back down to the trunk, I bend toward the tree to get a closer look. It almost appears as if the tree is made of tiny crawling insects. Suddenly fearful, I step away from the thing, staring down at my feet, hoping they aren't coming for me, whatever the hell they are. At first, when I look down at my feet, I only see a smattering of sand on my toes and the blue foam of my flip-flops.

But after a moment of looking, I see that the foam seems to be breaking apart, bit by little bit. In my shock, I haven't pointed my flashlight directly at my feet, instead pointing it at the ground nearby. But as I stare down, amazed and befuddled and more than a little freaked, I see something else. There's no pain, but it looks as if the skin of my little bit more than a little freaked. left big toe is coming apart, like it has been rubbed by a piece of fine sandpaper. Then the pain comes, along with the blood, just a pinprick of blood, burbling out to the surface of my toe, just under my toenail. But the bead of red is enough. I kick off my flip-lops and turn around, sprinting back along the trail. I think of getting into the ocean. Maybe I can

wash off whatever is on my feet. I splash into the waves and kick my feet around under the warm salt water for a few quick moments before getting back on the beach and pointing my flashlight directly at my toes. The wound is bigger, but only incrementally so. It's not much worse than a small cut, as if I kicked a sharp rock or a piece of coral. Thankfully, it doesn't appear to be getting worse. I guess I did manage to wash the things off. Knowing I have to tell the others, I sprint back to the house, bursting into the living room to find Tate, sitting a little too close to my wife, his right hand on her leg. Eliza looks uncomfortable, back straight as she leans away from him.

Everyone looks up at me, everyone but Tate, who remains staring at Eliza even as she sees the state of me and stands up. Are you okay? I sputter, overwhelmed with anger at Tate and fear of whatever the hell I just saw outside. Something strange out there! Insects eating a... I trail off mid-sentence and rush down into the sunken lounge area. I stop in front of Tate, looking down at him.

You touch my wife again? I'll take your fucking hand off. I don't wait for a reply. But Tate's steady grin has my fists clenching painfully. I step back and speak to the group. Something strange is happening outside. I just saw a bunch of insects eat almost a whole tree in a matter of seconds. The only replies I get are looks of utter disbelief. and embarrassed confusion.

There are all kinds of critters here, Tate says absently, as if I didn't just threaten him. I'm sure you're overreacting. I lift my left foot and smack it down on the coffee table, pointing at my slightly bloody toe. I say,

Does that look like overreacting to you? They ate into my foot. Eliza looks from me to my foot and back again, a nervous smile coming to her. She thinks I've lost it. Tate bursts out laughing. Face reddening with shame. I take my foot off the coffee table and say,

Let me just show you. You're going to want to see this for sure. I'd rather not go traipsing through the jungle looking for bugs with you, Tate says. It's not far. It's on that trail behind the house. Come on, I'm serious. Tate glances at the others,

giving them an exasperated smile. Okay, I give up. I'll look at your bugs. nodding. I turned to head back the way I came, but Tate stops me. Where are you going? I thought you said it was out back? Let's go this way. I follow Tate out of the living room and through the massive kitchen. There's a mud room beyond, with the washer and dryer, a bunch of diving gear, and a shower to get the sand off after a swim. We come to a door that leads out onto a wide patio.

But as we reach it, Tate spins around and grabs me by the neck. He slams, me into the washing machine. If you ever threaten me again, I'll have you disappeared. His fingers dig into my neck. I grab his hand, trying to pry them off. One way or another, I'm going to fuck your wife during this trip. That's the only reason you're even here. It's up to you if you want to have fun with us. Both Vicky and Michaela want to have fun. But if you don't want to, that's on you. Just stay the fuck out of my way. He lets me go and turns around, stepping to the door. The fact that he's putting his back to me just shows how confident he is that I won't do anything. And he's right.

I don't do anything because I'm in too much shock. I just breathe raggedly and feel my neck. Tate unlocks the deadbolt and then grabs the doorknob. But the door doesn't open. What the hell? He says, bringing his hand up to look at it, dragging his thumb across his fingers, as if some mystery substance was on the doorknob. I glance at the doorknob, which suddenly looks like it is made out of sugar that has just gotten wet.

He wipes his hand on his shorts and then goes to grab the doorknob again. I open my mouth to tell him not to touch it, but I'm too slow. Or maybe I want him to touch it again. Maybe I want to see what happens to his hand, because at this point, I'm sure those insects are involved. He grabs the knob like he's mad at it for not working as intended, and he squeezes. Something pops loudly, like a firecracker going off in the mudroom.

I blink as something wet splatters my face on a rush of copper-smelling wind. I step back, eyes closed on reflex. Then I open them and look at Tate, who is half turned and is staring down at his right hand. Or rather, what used to be his right hand. The limb now ends just above his wrist. The hand is all but gone, except for his pinky, which hand. limply from a chunk of bloody flesh. I look at the doorknob, but it's gone.

It's replaced by a charred hole in the door. Blood spurts out of Tate's ragged wrist as he looks up at me, surprise and shock all over his face. I can hear the others calling after us, asking what the noise was. My heart beat so hard I can feel my pulse at the back of my eyes. It seems to make my vision thrum. I know, somehow, that this has something to do with those insects. I just don't understand how.

Nothing makes sense. Tate pushes past me, muttering something I can't understand. All the blood brings me back, and I grab Tate by the shoulders, turning him toward me. Where are the towels, Tate? My hand, he says drunkenly. Yeah, I know. We need to stop the bleeding. Where are the towels?

He points to a set of white cabinets opposite the washer and dryer. I open them and find the towels. I'm getting one wrapped around his wound as Tate's wife, Vicky, comes into view. She looks at the bloody towel around her husband's wrist, eyes going wide. What did you do? It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe

with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. You're saying it was booby-trap? Colt shouts at me. I don't know what it was.

Say for the tenth time. He just grabbed the thing and it exploded. Go look at the fucking door again if you don't believe me. I'm not saying I don't believe you, Colt says. I'm just trying to get the whole story. Quite a coincidence after what you said to him, don't you think? All of us are in the kitchen now, and we've got Tate sitting at the breakfast nook,

while Vicki searches around for a first-aid kid. Eliza has grabbed my arm, and her nails dig into my right. bicep as she stares at Tate in shocked silence. The guy is still in shock, and it probably doesn't help that he's drunk. He just babbles incoherently while holding the towel to his injured right arm with his left hand. I'm still being pelted with questions from everyone but Eliza while I think about what this entails.

I haven't gotten very far in my thinking. I only know that the disintegrating doorknob looked exactly like the palm tree outside before or it exploded in Tate's hand. But if it was the same creatures as I saw outside, why would they explode? And how? I didn't touch the tree outside, so maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe if I had grabbed the tree, like Tate had grabbed the doorknob, I would have been blown to bits.

Some kind of defense mechanism maybe? I pry Eliza's fingers off my arm and move over to the injured man. Tate, do you have a magnifying glass here? What the fuck do you need a magnifying glass for? Colt cries. What's wrong with you? Tate is bleeding to death. Just shut the fuck up.

I shouted Colt. The kitchen goes silent. Shocked faces, including Elizas. I ignore them. Tate, this is important. Do you have a magnifying glass or anything like that here? Tate, whose face is splattered with his own blood, looks swimmily into my arm.

eyes. Magnifying? Yes, do you have one? He nods drunkenly. In the study, for grandpa. One of those lighted things for reading books. As I rush out of the kitchen, Vicky says the only sensible thing since Tate's hand blew off. I'm getting him on the boat and taking him to the nearest hospital. I stop in turn, seeing that she has a first-aid kid in her hands. Good, go. I'll join you in a minute. Where are you going? Eliza asks, suddenly realizing that I'm making moves without her. Just go with them, I tell her. She ignores me, running after me as I head toward what I think is the study.

Keaton, what's going on? What the hell happened with Tate? I'm not going over this again. I need to find that magnifying glass. Just help me, will you? We arrive at the study, a mahogany room with leather reading chairs and a wall full of books. It takes us just a few minutes to find us. find the magnifying glass in the drawer of the side table.

It's a rectangular one, with a light function, just like Tate said. With the magnifying glass in one hand and Eliza's hand in the other, I rush back to the kitchen, finding it empty. As I duck toward the mudroom, Eliza yanks my arm. They'll leave without us! I know she's right, and I won't allow my curiosity to get us both killed by staying on this island with those insects. We rush outside, both agree with us.

worrying wordlessly that our stuff isn't important. What's important is getting off this island and getting Tate medical attention. We run down to the beach and take a left toward the dock, seeing that the yacht is still there. As we approach the ladder, the screen rips into the night air from inside the cabin. Eliza and I freeze and look at each other in the limited light from the boat. Her fingers dig into my hand. That sounded like Fickey. Sticking the magnifying glass into a pocket, I tell Eliza to stay put.

Then I climb up onto the deck. Just as I'm about to head to the bridge, Eliza calls out to me. Keaton? Something's happening to the ropes down here. Rushing back to the side, I look down at her. She points to one of the mooring lines securing the boat to the dock. What? I ask, not seeing anything at first.

Before she can answer, the rope is disintegrating just like the tree in the doorknob. Get back. I say. Eliza backs away just before the rope separates from itself. Part of it dangles while the other part falls down to the surface of the dock. They're doing this on purpose. I say to myself, fearful realization making my words breathless. I know what we're doing. What are they? Eliza screams. Get in the water. Jump in the water and swim back to the beach. Stay away from the dock. She hesitates, looking up at me.

Do it! She jumps into the ocean and starts to swim. Knowing that this boat is our only way off the island, I rush onto the bridge and come to a sudden stop when I see what has happened to Vicky and Tate, who are both slumped in one plush captain's chair. As I watch, Vicky's face collapses inward like a wax statue, heated with a blow dryer.

Little insectile bodies move here and there across her face. So small, they look like little more than interference from a poor TV signal. The things are all over them both, eating them from the outside in. Blood comes rolling out of their many wounds, like they've been scraped down a giant cheese grater. Unable to help myself, I check to make sure my feet aren't bleeding, and then I pull the magnifying glass out and bring it to my face as I lean forward. For the first time, I see the things clearly. They're tiny, about as big as a grain of sand, but they're not insects I realize with considerable shock.

They're more like miniature crabs than any insects I've ever seen. They have ten legs, including pincers at their fronts. Their size isn't the only reason I've had a hard time seeing them clearly. They also seem to be able to change color at will. As I watch a small group of them scurry from uninjured skin on Vicky's arm to a place where a ragged wound begins, I see them change color from one matching Vicky's skin tone perfectly to one matching the red of bloody flesh. But this isn't the most interesting part.

What they're doing is far more interesting. They seem to be consuming the flesh and the blood. At first, I think they're digesting this matter quickly, because they pause and crouch, and then leave behind a small gel-like sphere that's about half the size of their little bodies. My first impression is that they're eating and defecating quickly. But that notion is soon dispelled when I see what happens to one of these little gel-like spheres. It grows limbs, sprouts pincers, and soon begins eating. They're not just eating the flesh and using it for energy.

They are, quite literally, multiplying. Knowing that I'm pushing my luck, I back away from the two melting bodies and shout for cold. I assume they got on the boat with Vicky and Tate, but there is no answer. After shouting a few more times, I feel the boat tilt under my feet. It isn't much, but it's enough to put the fear of God in me. I rush back outside and see that the yacht has floated a good 20 feet away from the dock. Standing on the dock with their luggage held in their arms, her colt and Michaela.

They're huffing from the run from the house with all their luggage. Before I can make sense of their selfishness, I hear water gurgling somewhere below. Looking down, I see a hole in the hull. Water is pouring in. Soon, the boat will capsize. I can't stay on this boat unless I want to become about a million little crabs very soon. So I throw myself off the side. As the dark ocean rushes up to meet me,

I think only of my realization from earlier that these creatures are intelligent, that they know what they're doing. Biennue at board of Viarai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and relaxes. Sirot, bookine. Oh, that also.

And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that we love. The four of us have barrican, The four of us have barricaded ourselves into the master bathroom, because it seems like the most secure room in the house. After finding both the radio and the satellite phone halfway eaten by those crabs, we've decided that the best thing to do is try and survive the night. Tomorrow, we'll find a way off this goddamn island.

Although they haven't come out and said as much, Colt and Michaela believe me about the crabs now, they saw the boat sink. They saw the radio and the satellite phone. Eliza, of course, believed me before that. Colt and Michaela sit in the jacuzzi tub, swaddled in blankets and pillows. Eliza and I sit against the outside of the tub, facing the door, staring at the towels we shoved under it to keep those things out. Not that it will work if they really want to get in.

They'll just eat through the towels. Hell, they'll eat through the door if they want. The bathroom lights are on for two reasons. I recalled how the crabs reacted, when I first encountered them. They didn't seem to like my bright flashlight on them, so maybe the bathroom lights will keep them away. The second reason is so we can see any minuscule changes

that may come to our barriers, such as the doors melting or the towel being eaten. But so far, I haven't seen anything. It's late, and all the adrenaline and excitement, not to mention the booze, has left me feeling drained. Despite the bright lights overhead, and the whimpering sobs from Michaela, I drift off into a restive sleep. The sound that brings me back from sleep isn't like anything I've ever heard before.

The only thing I can compare it to is the wet spray of air from a sea mammal's blowhole. Only it has a slight whistle to it. It's coming from behind me, in the jacuzzi tub. Gently shifting Eliza's head off my shoulder, I move enough to glance behind me. With some distant part of my mind, I realize the lights are off, but I can still see well enough to make out what's happening in the tub. Jesus! I shout, jostling Eliza awake next to me.

I scrambled to my feet, yanking my half-awake wife with me. What is it? She asks, then she sees where I'm looking. Colt has a hole eaten in the middle of his throat. As he breathes, blood splashes out. The cartilage and meat combining to make a low whistle. His eyes are opened and fixed on me, and his hands claw weakly at the wound. But his fingers have been eaten away too, so he does little more than spread blood all over

the place. Michaela is slumped over obscenely, face down and Colt's crotch. But the grizzly, tennis ball-sized hole in the back of her head makes it plain to see that she's dead. My phone no longer works because I got it wet. with Eliza's, but I found a flashlight earlier. I snack it from the floor and point it at Colt's neck. I think I can see the crabs fleeing, although they're so small it's hard to tell. It looks as if they ate through one of the glass block windows above the tub, and that's the

way they go to escape the light. Sickening rage erupts in me, and I lean forward, pushing the light directly over top at the barely visible column of the strange animals scrambling back out into the night. Die! I scream at them. Die, you fuckers! There's a flash and a pop, and I feel a spray of sharp objects

hit my face. I throw myself backward, crashing into Eliza and going down to the floor on top of her. When I get my eyes open, I look at the hand that had been holding the flashlight. It's a mangled mess of bloody meat,

although most of my fingers are still somewhat intact. Then my vision goes blurry as blood fills my eyes. Soon enough, the pain comes. I realize I have pieces of exploded flashlight stuck in my face. It's a miracle I'm not blind. Eliza gets me up as I scream, panic, getting a stranglehold on me.

We rush out of the house, running toward the only place that they seem not to like, the ocean. About halfway there, wiping blood out of my eyes, I finally get some semblance of control back. I recall Colt and Michaela standing on the dock earlier. untouched by the crabs. It must be okay. The dock! I say. We need to run to the end of the dock,

and jump in and swim for our lives. Eliza pulls me along ahead of her. As we're running down the dock, Eliza points and says, Life jackets! They must be from the yacht! I follow her finger and see that there are two life jackets

floating in the water just beyond the edge of the dock. I look around for other signs of debris from the sunken yacht, seeing that most of the stuff, has washed up onto the beach. Why would two life jackets just happen to be floating there as if waiting for us? Don't touch them!

I shout. But we're at the end of the dock, and Eliza jumps in before I finished my sentence. She lets go of me and reaches out for one of the jackets as she hits the water. My momentum is too great to stop, so I hit the water doing my best to avoid the other life jacket. When I get back to the surface, I whip my head around, searching for Eliza and making sure the second life jacket is far away. I see my wife floating nearby, grabbing the life jacket, smiling at me.

It's okay. They're just life jackets. But even as she says this, I can see her arms changing, melting. Baby, get away from it! I scream, thrashing toward her with my one good arm. Blood springs up all along her arms as the crab's consumer. She looks down in shock and stares at her arms as the... they disintegrate. I'm getting closer now. My only thought of taking her in my arms, even if it kills me. But as I approach, Eliza moves, kicking me in the chest. Stay away! She kicks frantically,

swimming away from me toward the beach. No! I scream, flailing toward her, using my mangled hand to swim despite the pain. The dark ocean goes darker with her blood, as the fake life jacket breaks apart, all its component parts eating away at my wife. Before I can reach her, she sinks under the waves. I swim to where I last saw her and dive down, searching frantically for any sign of Eliza. I resurface for air and then dive down again, all while the waves send me toward the beach. Once I feel sand under my feet, I press against the ground, fighting the waves, because now there's something on the beach that wasn't there before. It's a palm tree, standing tall and as real as anything.

It sways in the breeze, and it keeps swaying, picking up speed until it looks like a hand waving at me. Adding my salty tears to the ocean, I turn around and swim as hard as I can away from this god-forsaken island. I've been treading water for hours when I see the boat. I barely have the energy to wave my good hand, but I manage to, and I sink down into the water each time. I also yell, my voice ragged with desperation. The sun is just lighting the eastern horizon, and I pray it provides enough light for the boat to see me. It looks like a fishing vessel, but I can't be sure.

I just keep shouting and waving. My legs feel like they've been stuffed with heavy ball bearings. I have no idea how much blood I've lost, but the pain in my hand has turned to a throbbing numbness that doesn't make me hopeful for retaining use of any of the digits. It's a small concern, because drowning is the most likely outcome for me, unless I get this boat's attention. So I shout and wave as they get within a couple of hundred yards of me.

I can just see a figure on the boat. I think he's looking toward me, but it's hard to tell. He rushes along the side and disappears. A moment later, the boat turns toward me. I keep shouting and waving, but now I have a desperate smile on my face. A few minutes later, Thai fishermen are pulling me out of the water, speaking words I don't understand. The most beautiful words I've ever heard.

They drag me onto the deck. A man with a first aid kid appears and starts tending to my hand. Then there's a shout from the other side, and many of my rescuers rush over there. I wonder what they've seen. but it's a distant concern. I'm just so happy to not be treading water any longer. I'm so happy to be away from that island in those fucking crabs.

The boat changes direction again, and it looks like the other men are preparing to pull something else out of the water. Fear suddenly stabs through me, and I pull my hand away from the medics as I get to my feet. The man speaks quickly and tie, but I ignore him, peering at the men on the other side of the boat, reaching down for something. A moment later, they pull a body out of the water

and set it gently down on the deck. I stare, not believing my eyes. It's my wife. It's Eliza, intact. How? Hope fights with despair in my stomach, a roiling battle that lasts only moments before despair wins out.

No! I shout, rushing toward the men crowded around Eliza, but before I can reach even one of them, My wife's body breaks apart as the millions of crabs who had been imitating her rush out for their newest victims. SCP-236 is a swarm of near microscopic crabs which appear to operate under a form of collective intelligence. This intelligence appears to grow when individual instances are in close proximity and dissipate when they are divided. Large swarms exhibit predatory intelligence and become significantly more aggrimating.

aggressive than individuals. Swarms show aptitude with problem-solving, encircling tactics and stealth. In addition, swarms appear able to take on the physical aspects and appearance of inanimate objects, such as doors, chairs, or even complex patterns, such as those found in paintings for extended periods of time. Swarms will sometimes even destroy existing objects and replace them in what appears to be an attempt at better disguise. SCP 236 individuals appear to fear light, rapid movement, or loud noises. This fear is reduced in proportion to the number of units in a swarm, but even large collectives can be startled by a sudden sound or bright light. Instances that are startled while mimicking an object will rapidly break apart into individual units,

which will then either scatter and hide or attack, depending on the specific situation. When cornered or unable to escape quickly, SCP-236 units will initiate their defensive response. This entails a unit raising its pincers, and then detonating with an explosion. Initial research suggests that this is the result of an internal chemical reaction involving the mixing of three normally inert chemicals.