The SCP Experience - Imitate. Infiltrate. Eliminate. | SCP-1014 (Part 1)

Episode Date: December 19, 2025

Listen ad-free + bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of ⁠SCP Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ 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 * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Why doesn't he just swim to the island? Rinaldi asks. Or to us? I've been wondering the same thing. The man is between us and the island. But it's not a very big one, and it doesn't look to be inhabited. Plus, we're closer to him than he is to the small landmass.

Does it look like he can swim? Whitlow asks. Her voice, equal parts, anger, and concern. He's drowning. I don't know, Rinaldi says. He's been keeping that head above water. for as long as we've been watching him. Seems to be doing okay. I glanced at Rinaldi, seeing the smirk he wears on his splotchy face. His gray eyes stare at the struggling man in the

brilliant Azure Sea. I've only known these people for a day, but I already don't like Rinaldi. He has the kind of forced, aloof attitude that can only be covering for something. I haven't decided whether what he's covering for is cowardice or something more malignant. Help! The man calls out. If we don't help him, we fail the test. Whitlow says, uncrossing her thin arms and moving toward the back of the boat, where a small raft is secured to the swim deck.

Oh, yeah? Rinaldi puts in. Then what happens? We all go back to prison? Who cares? We're all going back anyway, no matter what comes of this little test. Lundberg lumberes after Whitlow, the yacht rocking lightly as he moves. We help them because it's the right thing to do.

I want to say something about our limited food stores, but I know Lundberg is right. We have to help them, even if it's not part of the test, which I'm sure it is. I'll go, I say, stepping in front of Whitlow and Lundberg before they can reach the back of the boat.

The aft? Is that what they call it? I don't know boats. Why you? Lundberg says, raising a heavy eyebrow over a half-lidded eye. Because Whitlow won't be able to get him out of the water, and there hardly be any room for him in the raft if you go.

I pause. No offense. Lundberg shrugs. Seemingly relieved not to be going out in the raft. Untaken. Go for it. Whitlow only stares at me, a question on her face that she doesn't ask. I've caught her staring like that a few times now,

but there seems to be less distrust in her sun's sparkled green eyes now. Maybe something else behind that unknowable question. A sense of satisfaction? Like she knew I would volunteer? I'm thinking too much into it. It's been many years since I've been around a woman, especially one as stunning as Whitlow. The afternoon sun gives her brown skin or richness

I've never actually seen in real life before. Until now, I thought it's. It was only the result of airbrushing or makeup used on models and magazines or on social media. Her arms are thin, but the rest of her is shapely, and her legs are thick in the best way, which I can see thanks to the white shorts she wears. I push these thoughts away as I release the small raft and settle into it on the gently rocking seas. It has a small motor in back, which I mess with for a few long moments before finally looking up into the faces on the boat. Anyone know how to work one of these?

I get a chorus of head shakes and knows. It's not really a surprise. We've been on the boat for a day, and we've discussed how none of us really knows anything about sailing or operating a yacht. I'm sure that's no coincidence. Finally, I find the choke and give the engine the right mixture of fuel and air to make it come to life with a pool of the cord. I've seen people steer boats with motors like this on TV and in movies.

so I grip the handle and twist the throttle. The raft goes so fast I nearly fall out, but I quickly get the hang of it, steering and working the throttle as I head for the man. He's still thrashing, still calling for help. I got you, I call, slowing as I near him. Not knowing how to turn the engine off, I let it idle as the raft coasts next to the man.

I position myself with my knees on the bottom of the raft, reaching over the edge as he comes into view. He's dressed strangely in what looks like dark, tattered rags. But it's his face that gives me paws. His skin is as white as a corpses, with odd growths or deformities distorting his features. His nose is little more than a lumpy collection of flesh with two narrow holes for nostrils. His lips are thin and crowded with bits of dried skin. One eye is fully closed by a fleshy growth on the eyelid.

His other eye rolls around without apparent permanence, like a loose marble instead of a functioning globe used for vision. I can't see his ears or his hair, because a raggedy black hood obscures them from view. I wonder for a moment how the hood has stayed on with all his thrashing before I decide it doesn't matter. I came here to help this man, not to question his clothing choices,

or be appalled at his deformities. His arms flail, but I managed to grab one more. wrist. The bones inside his thin skin feel almost sharp and harder than they should be for an old man. I grasp his other arm and start hauling him into the boat when the smell hits me. It's a putrescent reek, like what came out of my cellmate's bowels after chilly day in the prison cafeteria, only about five times worse, and it's coming from the old man. My mouth fills with saliva as the stench takes hold in my throat. I have to work not to vomit as I pull the man into the raft. As soon as he's out of the water, he curls into a fetal position in the bottom of the

raft, shaking and muttering. He wears no shoes, and under the hem of his tattered robe, I glimpse his feet. Some of his toes are fused together, and the skin on the underside of them is as smooth as the top, like he hasn't walked a day in his life. I don't want to die, he says, although I can't see his mouth move, because his head is turned down and away. You'll be okay, I say, sitting on the side of the raft next to the motor. The smell of exhaust from the idling engine is infinitely preferable to whatever rot is emanating from the old man. With a glance at the tropical island, which is lush with greenery, but not a hint of anything man-made,

I twist the throttle and steer back toward the yacht. I glance at the man. Where did you come from? He doesn't answer. When was the last time you had any food or water? No answer. Don't die on me, man. Buckets!

The guy murmurs. We need to bail now. Did your ship sink? He doesn't answer, and he doesn't talk for the rest of the short trip. When I return, Lundberg and Whitlow are waiting. Whitlow grabs the raft so it doesn't float away, while Lundberg helps the old man off. I see the moment the smell hits them. They look at me, faces twisted and disgust.

I shrug and gesture at the old man. Lundberg has to carry the guy inside because the small man is still curled in a ball, muttering and shivering, despite the warmth of the afternoon and the temperature of the water. After I get the raft in its place, secured to the yacht,

I join the others inside. The yacht is quite nice. It probably cost more than all the money I've made in my life. Granted, prison wages aren't all that great. A stone's thursday. throw from slave labor. But even if I hadn't spent much of my adult life incarcerated, I still wouldn't have made $10 million by now. The whole thing is a mixture of wood and fiberglass or some other synthetic material. It features everything you need for long stretches at sea,

a kitchen, or galley, five small bedrooms and two bathrooms. The bridge or control room is perched on top of the boat. But you can get below deck from there by climbing down a ladder in case it's raining out, or you don't want to take the long way. The last thing I remember before waking on the boat was sitting in the prison infirmary, downing some strange pills given to me by the prison doctor. Before that, was a long interview process for a chance to join what I was told was an experiment. If I participated, they said, I would be able to shave two years off my remaining six. With good behavior, I could be out in just three.

I had some questions about the experiment, the most obvious of which was if I would ever be in danger of death or injury. The man I talked to, who said his name was Richards, assured me I would be in no danger. He said he couldn't give me more details until I signed up. Aside from going out to rescue the old guy, I can't really say Richards was lying. We have plenty of food and water for a while. The only problem is we can't get the yacht to move. probably because it's not supposed to. One thing's for sure.

This is the weirdest experiment I've ever heard of, but I get to spend some time around Whitlow, so I'm not really complaining. Just being in a beautiful woman's presence after so many years makes me feel like I did as a teenager, complete with a queasy stomach and sweaty palms. It's kind of ridiculous. Still, as I joined the others in the galley,

which is located through a sliding glass door just off the back of the boat. I get as close as I can to Whitlow, hoping that the looks she's been giving me mean what I think they mean. I doubt it, but a guy can dream. Where did you put him? Rinaldi says. Better not be in my bedroom. Relax, Flunberg says.

I put him in mine. And I'm thinking he can have it from now on. That stink. Did he shit himself? Hagan, Al. from where she sits at the booth to one side. She's a crass woman with a southern accent, missing teeth, and the mannerisms of a longtime meth addict.

I don't know what that smell is, but it's sticking to me. I'm going to have to shower and change clothes. Yeah, what happens when we run out of clean clothes? Hagan asks. Ain't no washer on board. What about the man? Whitlow interjects. Did he say anything?

Does anyone have any medical expertise? I guess he needs food and water, right? Lundberg nods. Yeah, I came out here to get him some water and maybe some soup. Fuckers already eating our food, Rinaldi murmurs. Everyone ignores him. Lundberg gets water while Whitlow heats up some soup. The rest of us speculate on what this means for the experiment.

We've already compared stories. We're all from different prisons, and we all had similar experiences as far as recruitment and then taking some pills before waking up on the yacht with no instructions and no clue what to do. Maybe it'll be over soon? Hagan says. Now that we saved that sticky old fart, although I wouldn't mind a few more days on this yacht. It's like a vacation, and the water's fine. Rinaldi says we need to explore the island.

I suggest the whole thing is a team-building exercise to see if we can get the yacht working again. All these ideas seem pretty weak. And it can't be a coincidence that the old man was out there. Maybe he'll have instructions for us or something. Maybe Lundberg or Whitlow will be able to get something out of him. Instead of sitting around, I head up to the bridge to see if I can get the radio or controls working. There's a knock at my bedroom door, interrupting my reading. I never used to read, but prison changed that.

It's one of the few simple pleasures I have left. I've read hundreds of books since my incarceration began, and I've even started writing in the last couple of years. I can't describe just how happy I was when I found a small library on the yacht, along with some unused notebooks and fresh pens. The gentle rocking of the boat has lulled me into a kind of reading trance, which is broken by the knock. Sitting up in my tiny twin bed, I look toward the locked door. Who is it? Whitlow. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it's after ten.

Setting my book down, I whip the covers off, quickly deciding to answer the door in my boxers. The other simple pleasure I discovered, thanks to prison, lifting weights. Maybe she'll see something she likes. I walk across the polished wood floor, unlock the door and open it. Whitlow pauses, her eyes ranging down and then up my body. You couldn't put some clothes on? My hopes were just that. Hopes. Reality crashes down on me. I might be fit, but I'm not anything close to handsome.

And I'm a world away from what women consider hot. As I open my mouth to apologize, Whitlow grins and slips into the room, shutting the door behind her. I step back to give her space. She steps closer and looks up into my eyes. Your first name. One of the enduring habits ingrained in me by prison is the use of last names. First names imply friendship, and I don't have any friends in prison. So I haven't volunteered my first name, even though Whitlow told me her first name is Jessica.

Ethan. Are you clean, Ethan? She asks. Her toothpaste, sweet breath in my face. I stutter, unsure what she's asking. I showered earlier. Her smile widens. Now, do you have any STDs?

No, I say quickly. Do you? No. She says before shoving her mouth against mine. An explosion of reawakened feelings erupts inside me. We fumble toward the bed, kissing, touching. Her skin is so soft, her body's so warm. As I slide a hand up under her shirt, there's another knock at the door.

Go away, I say breathless. Sorry, but you're going to want to see this. Lundberg says. Both of you. I grunt. I can't wait. Whitlow is already pulling away. No.

Shit. Better put some clothes on this time. Whitlow says with a smirk. I pull on shorts and a t-shirt while Whitlow adjusts her clothing. We exit the room. Lundberg gives us a knowing look and says, Come on. We follow him a few steps to what was previously Lundberg's room,

but now belongs to the old. man. I came to check on him before I went to bed on one of the loungers. This is what I found. He steps into the room and flips the lights on. The bed is empty, but my gaze is immediately drawn to the polished wood floor next to the bed, Whitlow says, stealing the words from me. There's an irregular hole in the floor, about the size and shape the old man made when he was curled on his side. The edges of the hole bubble and dissolve has something. sort of green-gray substance eats away at them. I can see directly through the sub-flooring, into a dark space below, containing pipes and electrical wire. Despite this, there's enough

room for a man to fit down there. I realize we're looking at the very bottom of the boat, the hall. I can do nothing but stare at the hole for several long moments. Any idea what the hell could have caused this? Lundberg asks. Aside from xenomorph blood? Whitlow says. No idea. Did the old guy do this? I say, I shake my head. A sound like sloshing water erupts from the hole.

I crouch, leaning toward it, mindful to keep clear of the gray-green goop along the sides. The light from the room doesn't reach the bottom, where the two sides of the hull come together at a rounded point. Much of that space is obscured by the pipes and wires. But as the sound of sloshing water gets louder and nearer, I glimpse a reflection of light off liquid down there. Uh, is the boat tilting? Lundberg asks.

There's a hole in the ship. I blurt. Water's coming in. It's going to sink. What? Whitlow says. No, it can't be. We didn't hit anything. How can a hole just appear in a boat? As I get to my feet, I realize the ship has already tilted nearly five degrees toward the back.

I grab Whitlow by the arms. There's a hole in the floor right there. Help me get some supplies. Food and water. Lundberg, tell the others. As I drag Whitlow out of the room and toward the galley, I hear Lundberg banging on doors and shouting. Abandon ship! Like he's a sailor in some cheesy pirate movie. It would be funny under different circumstances. Pulling cabinets open in the kitchen, I search for bags, not remembering if there are any. After a moment, I give up and race back to my room, yanking the pillowcase off my pillow. Driven by some deep instinct, I snatch my book up and shove it into the fabric bag.

By the time I make it back out of the room, Hagen has joined Whitlow in the galley, but Rinaldi is arguing with Lundberg in the doorway to the smaller man's room. Go fucking look if you don't believe me, the large man says, gesturing at the room with the hole in the floor. I barrel past Lundberg and shoulder Rinaldi out of the way, taking his pillowcase while he squawks at me. Now I have my answer. All his bluster is to cover the fact that he's a coward.

But cowards can be extremely dangerous, especially when shit hits the fan. Let him stay if he wants to, I say as I leave the room, grabbing Lundberg by the arm and shoving a pillowcase into his hand. While the four of us gather supplies in the galley, Rinaldi creeps out of his bedroom and darts into Lundberg's former room. I note this movement, but don't think much of it. Instead, my focus is on how much of it. much I have to compensate for the tilting floor as I move around. I suddenly think of the raft.

I secured it to the swim deck with straps designed to hold it down in high winds. Alarms pulse in my head as I glance through the glass doors and see that the entire swim deck is underwater, including most of the raft. We need that raft. And if the swim deck sinks much more, it might be impossible to retrieve or the pressure could cause it to pop. Take this, I say, handing my half-filled pillowcase to Whitlow. I dart outside and slide down the tilting deck into the water next to the raft, reaching down to unfasten the straps. I nearly have to put my face in the water to unclip the first one.

The side of the raft shoots up and smacks me in the face. Pain rips through my nose, blood joins the salt water, dripping down as I move to unclip the rest of the raft. The only part not completely submerged was the top of the motor. I can only hope it still works. But even if it doesn't, we can still use the raft. Standing waist deep in water, I shout for the others to hurry. The front of the yacht now tilts out of the water at 20 degrees.

Whitlow comes out first, holding two stuffed pillowcases. Together, we work to get the supplies into the raft. As Hagen comes out, with Lundberg not far behind her, there's a loud crack that reverberates through the decking, and the front of the yacht sinks down, causing the back to come up a couple of feet. The yacht is still intact as far as I can tell. so I have no idea what could have caused that.

Some interior wall breaking or a ballast tank giving way. Or do only submarines have ballast tanks? It doesn't matter. The ship is still sinking. Now it's doing so more evenly as water rushes in through the open sliding door, nearly swiping Hagen off her feet. Lundberg helps her stay up and propels her out. Both of them knee-deep in ocean water.

Supplies in the raft, I say. The rest of us hang on to the sides. Help! The shriek comes from inside. Brinaldi. Everyone looks that way. No one moves to help the man, even as he calls out again. Two years off my sentence, I think, wondering if this is part of the experiment.

It seems so real, but it could be some kind of elaborate setup. Then I think, what's the right thing to do? Don't leave without me! I make sure Whitlow has a hand on the raft before I slosh through the water, back into the sinking yacht. Bernaldi's calls are coming from Lundberg's bedroom. room. I stop at the door, feeling the pull of the water as it rushes into the hole in the floor, joining the other water that has already infiltrated the hall. I can't see Rinaldi from where I am. It's a miracle that I can even hear him over the sound of brushing water.

Where are you? I call. Not sure what else to say. Help! I'm down here! His voice is sharp with fear. There's something down here with me! The old man, I think. But he said something, not someone. God knows how Rinaldi ended up down there. Maybe when the boat shifted? Hang on to something until it fills up. Then you can swim out. He's not human!

Rinaldi shouts. He's coming apart! The rantings of a dying man, I think. But the words still give me chills. The ship is sinking. The water is getting up to the top of my thighs, even as it continues to pour into the hole. By the time it fills the space up,

it could be too late to get out. As I'm about to leave to save myself, I catch a glimpse of something in the water below. At first, I think it's Rinaldi swimming into view. But I soon realize it's the old man, only it's not all of him. His head, still connected to his right shoulder and arm, bob's violently in the water. I expect to see blood, but there is none. And what's even stranger is he still has his hood obscuring most of his head. His shoulder and arm, apparently all that's left of his body, are also clad in the strange material.

His face bobs to the surface for a brief moment, during which I get a somewhat clear view of it. His features are even more distorted than they were when I last saw him. It seems that his face is melting, but it's doing so in sections divided from one another by deep fissures. As his body parts are jolted by the water pouring into the hole, they begin to break apart along the fissures, like pieces of a 3-D puzzle. One part includes his right eye and an oblong portion of his forehead. Another part includes his mouth and three-quarters of his jaw. Another is his shoulder. His arm separates into half a dozen pieces.

All these pieces sprout would look like dozens of small black legs from where the fissures were. And they start squirming in the water, the centipede-like legs kicking. After a few moments, these sections seem to find their bearings. They become elastic, moving with the grace of a creature born. to swim. Using their bodies to move through the water, they dart around, many of them escaping from my view. My focus on this strange occurrence has been blocking out Rinaldi's increasingly frantic screams. The water is to my crotch now. The hull is almost full. I can't stand the thought of those things swimming after me. I turn and throw myself into the water, sure that swimming will be

faster than waiting. I pushed myself off of submerged walls and doorways as I make my way back outside. The others stand on the sinking swim deck, grasping the sides of the supply-filled raft. They've waited for me, but apparently not without conflict. Lundberg has Hagen in a headlock with one arm, the other gripping the raft. Whitlow stands nearby, darkness, clouding her features. What's happening? I ask as I reach the raft. This one tried to take the raft and go, Lundberg says, nodding to Hagen. Her wild yet dull eyes are hooded as she glares at me. He's clearly only holding her in place, not trying to choke her out. I was trying to get into the raft, she says.

I wasn't trying to steal it. Does the motor work? I ask. Try not to think about what I just saw. A sense of creeping panic is beginning to take hold. That's what I was trying to see. Hagen says. Lundberg shakes his head. Bullshit.

I glanced at Whitlow. But she says nothing. Did you see how I got it running earlier? I ask her. She nods. Okay, you get in. There's only room for one. The rest of us will hang on to the sides, if the motor works. That ain't fair, Hagen squeals. How come she gets to... Lundberg tightens his grip on her throat.

Shut up. We hold the raft steady while Whitlow climbs in and sits beside the motor. The water is now up to my chest, and the yacht seems to be sinking faster. I'm guessing the hull is completely filled with water, which means those things can now reach us. I glance toward the structure as the lights inside flicker and finally go out. I'm surprised they lasted this long. The sound of the motor coming to life brings me back around. With low grins at me.

I look at Hagen. You're going to behave, or should we leave you here? I'll behave, she says. I swear on a stack of bibles. I nod. And Lundberg lets her go. She hooks one arm over the rounded rim near the front of the raft. Lundberg does the same near the back.

I move to the other side and secure my own grip. Seeing that we're all ready, Whitlow puts the motor in gear, and we start off toward the island. Thanks to the yacht's position, this means we first have to go along its side, passing it to head toward land. With all the drag, the raft doesn't go fast, even though the motor is working hard.

Whitlow has to constantly correct our aim to keep us straight. We haven't even gone past the submerged tip of the yacht when Hagen starts screaming and thrashing. Something's biting me. There's something on me. Whitlow slows the raft, and Hagen immediately tries to scramble inside. The raft tilts that way, and I have to pull myself halfway out of the water on my side to counter the weight. Keep going!

I shouted Whitlow, knowing Hagen won't be able to climb into the raft if it's moving at a steady clip. As Whitlow eases the throttle back up, Lundberg reaches one large hand forward and grips a handful of Hagen's dirty blonde hair in one fist, He twists and jerks her back into the water, so she's once again only hanging on with one arm. I dropped my own weight off my side, allowing the raft to regain equilibrium. It hurts! The woman cries. I'm not sure if she's talking about whatever bit her or the grip Lundberg has on her hair. I just hope it was a jellyfish sting or some other minor issue, but I fear I already know what bit her.

After a minute, I glance back at the yacht in time to see the last of it go. under the water. The beach isn't exactly welcoming. Before we make landfall, I cut my feet up on coral and sharp rocks. I left my shoes in my room. There was no time to put them on. But if Hagen's continued whales or any indication, my discomfort pales in comparison to hers. Wincing at the pain of my cuts, I help Lundberg pull the raft onto shore. Hagen stumbles onto dry land and collapses. Her screams become even more frantic as she inspects the outside of of her left calf. Whitlow retrieves a flashlight from the supplies and jumps out of the raft as soon as we stop dragging it. She and I rushed to the screaming woman. Whitlow points the flashlight

at Hagen's leg, illuminating the pulsating creature there. It takes me all of half a second to realize this is similar to the things I saw in the form of the old man before they broke apart and swam away. What it looked like dark, torn clothing on the man, now appears to be some kind of seaweed, or possibly the creature's skin. It's not clear that. which part of the old man it came from. It's about the size and shape of a flattened banana, if bananas had pulsating nodules on them. The things I thought were little black legs

have burrowed into Hagen's skin. Close to the edge of the thing, where these black filaments enter the flesh, they look like dark veins before becoming obscured as they travel deeper into the leg. Still, in the illumination from the flashlight, I can tell that the legs, or hairs or proboscisus, are deeply embedded,

and there are lots of them. Get it up! Even as Hagen pleads, she grabs the thing and tries to yank it off. A familiar pungent reek fills the air. The same smell that emanated from the old man. The rubbery flesh under Hagen's fingers suddenly transforms, and her digits sink in. A moment later, the whole creature vibrates, making a sound like an electric sander. Hagen shrieks and tries to pull her fingertips out of the creature, but it doesn't work.

I fall to my knees and put one hand on her leg. well away from the creature. I can feel the sickening vibrations through her limb. I grip her wrist with my other hand and pull. Her hand comes away, but her fingertips are gone. What's left are bloody nubs, then look as if she just stuck her fingers into a pencil sharpener. I jerk my hands away without thinking about it.

The creature stops vibrating, and the holes where Hagen's fingers had been seal up again, returning the creature to its previous state. It resumes its arrhythmic pulsating. Hagen holds her hand in front of her face, as blood pours from the injuries. She screams, hyperventilating, face changing colors. As Whitlow tries to get her to calm down, the woman passes out.

Shocked, I stare at the creature. Sensing someone behind me, I shift on my knees and look at Lundberg, who stands a few yards behind me. He gazes at the creature with eyes that seem hollowed out, and he looks at me for a moment before his eyes dropped to his legs. Like the rest of us, Lundberg is wearing shorts. They're not only appropriate for the weather, but they were also what was provided on the yacht. Below the hems of his shorts, on both thick legs, are several of the creatures.

I meet his eyes again, and this time there's an oppressive pleading in them, and a hint of something like hope. I open my mouth to speak, but only manage a loud, dry gulp. The change in his expression as the hope there shatters seems to knock my breath away. I collapsed from my knees, sitting down hard. hard on the rocky beach, my back to the lapping waves of the dark, endless sea. Lundberg slouches a few yards up the beach before sitting down. He peers down at the creatures on his legs, three on the right and two on the left.

Then he lifts his head and gazes at the distant, flat stretch of ocean. I look down at my legs just to make sure. Seeing nothing there and feeling nothing wrong, I glance at Whitlow. She sits on her knees next to an unconscious Hagen, holding the woman's injured hand up to limit blood loss. But her focus isn't on Hagen. She's just seen what I have, and her gaze is pinned to Lundberg. Hagen gasps, coming around again. It takes her a moment to remember what happened. When she does, her screams start again. Just fucking do it, or give me the fucking knife. Lundberg's shouts vibrate my chest as I grip his left ankle with one hand,

holding a kitchen knife with my other. We've set up camp in a clear spot up the beach among the tropical trees. A battery-powered lantern provides light so I can see what I'm doing. But I hesitate, not so much afraid of hurting Lundberg, but concerned with what the creature's reaction will be when I stab it. Whitlow stands behind me, looking over my shoulder. As a precaution, I've wrapped my t-shirt around my right hand, and I grip the knife through the material. I have no idea if it will do any good. I have no idea about anything anymore. Come on, Percy! Lundberg yells.

I don't know what landed him in prison, but I'm guessing it had something to do with this side of him. Not that I blame him. I would be pissed in his position, too. In the time it has taken us to secure the raft, go through the supplies, and set up this sad excuse for an operating room, the creatures on his leg have sunk into the flesh about a quarter inch.

As if they're eating into him, same with the one on Hagen's leg. Although the woman has passed out again and remains unconscious nearby. There's no blood, but the flesh around the creature is an angry red. I don't want to imagine the pain it's causing. Lundberg is mostly stoic, but his face is pale and dotted with oily sweat. The organism I'm focused on is attached to the inside of the man's meaty left calf.

The other one on that leg is just above his knee. The other leg is dotted with three of the dark, pulsating creatures. Taking a breath, I jabbed the organism with the night. knife. The tip of the blade depresses its rubbery exterior, but doesn't pierce the surface. I push harder, and the blade breaks through, sinking in. The dozens of dark strands that disappear into Lundberg's flesh writhe and tense. Lundberg screams. I hear a muffled crack as his shin bone breaks. I pull the knife from the creature, seeing that the bone is broken directly under the organism, as if it used those dark strands to do the breaking. The

bottom half of his lower leg is angled sickeningly. Lundberg screams in pain. He shoots one hand out and yanks the knife from me. Before I can react, he plunges the blade into the flesh next to the creature and begins sawing, as if to cut the thing out, even if it means losing a chunk of his leg. Blood pours from the wound. The creature hunches like an angry cat, bending the broken leg even farther. Stunned, I do nothing as Lundberg continues to work, now yelling through clenched teeth. He's slices around the organism, creating a gash several inches long. Stop him! Whitlow yells.

Jesus, stop him! I lean in and grab Lundberg's cutting hand. He cracks me in the side of the head with his left fist. His full strength isn't in the hit, but it knocks me down nonetheless. Dazed from the hit, I get to my knees and try again. This time, Lundberg grabs me by the neck and squeezes almost absently. Most of his attention focused on cutting the creature out of his leg. A kaleidoscope of colors invades my vision as oxygen and blood flow are restricted.

I club his arm weakly, trying to break his steely grip. It doesn't work. Panic closes in. Sapping what energy I have left. Fear accelerates my heart rate. Was this what he felt? I think. When I ended his life?

I barely remember the crime. I was so angry, so blinded by rage that it's all a blur. My public defender called it self-defense. The jury called it murder. I snuck into his bedroom as he slept one night and climbed on him, wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing with all I had. I was little more than a kid back then, skinny and sickly, but 19 is still an adult in the eyes of the law.

I had come home from my shift at the restaurant to find my sister Lilith dead in her bedroom, an empty pill bottle next to her. She was cold. She'd been dead for hours. And my stepdad was blissfully a slothold. in his room. I knew it had been his doing. Although my sister never admitted it when she was alive, I knew what he'd been doing to her when I wasn't around. But I couldn't prove any of it. There was

no evidence, aside from my suspicions. There were no bruises, no broken bones, and no evidence of rape when they did the autopsy on Lilith's body. By the time of her suicide, he'd long since broken her. There was no need to force himself on her anymore. He'd convinced her it was something good and normal. I could tell by the way she spoke whenever I asked her about it. She always denied anything was going on, but in the same breath, she'd say that he loved her and took care of her. She always said these things with a haunted look on her face, like deep down she didn't believe them at all. I should have done something sooner. I shouldn't have let it go on for so long, but I was a scared kid who was easily intimidated by threats and beatings. I had to bottle it all up,

So when I found Lilith dead, something inside me ruptured and I lost it. I remember so little, but one memory stands clearly in my mind. He woke up and looked at me as I choked the life from him. I remember the childlike confusion in his eyes before they lost focus and went still. I'll remember that look forever. They wanted me to make a plea deal. Manslaughter, reduced a sentence. I refused.

I was stupid and naive. We took it to trial, and we lost. Now, my stepdad's final moments come to mind as Lundberg chokes me with one hand, hacking his leg open with the other. Would it be poetic justice to die like this? Or a spit in the face from the universe? Pain encompasses my skull as my vision darkens. I try prying his fingers away, but I hardly have the energy to lift my hands.

A hard smack sounds, and Lundberg's arm jolts. His hand loosens. I yank myself away, falling onto my back and inhaling deeply. As my vision returns, I see Whitlow standing over a limp Lundberg with a piece of driftwood held in her hands. She drops the wood and comes over. Are you okay? I sit up with her help.

We both look at Lundberg, sprawled on his back. He still holds the knife in one hand. Movement from his leg draws my attention. The creature he was cutting out, twitches. sluggishly. He managed to cut almost halfway around it. The wound bleeds freely, soaking the rocky, sandy dirt underneath. We need to stop the bleeding, Whitlow says, heading to the supplies. My gaze remains on the creature. It seems to be detaching itself from his leg. Sure enough, it flops off, falling to the dirt and struggling to turn itself over. Its belly, if it can be called that, is a chaotic mess of

tiny wriggling parts, some of which look hard and shiny like little teeth. Others are more flexible, morphing and pulsating. While the outside is mostly black, this underside is a mixture of pale pinks and whites. Around the outside, those thin black filaments undulate like tentacles. Nearly half are missing, apparently having been severed by the knife. The remaining filaments managed to right the creature before it starts crawling slowly away, toward the ocean. Whitlow reappears with a length of rope. She's apparently cut from the raft line with a second knife she brought from the kitchen. Wary of the remaining creatures on Lundberg's legs, she fastens the rope around his upper thigh as a tourniquet. While she does this, I stand and find

a large rock. The injured creature has made it a few feet away from Lundberg by the time I step over to it. Stone held in both hands. I take aim and drop the rock onto the creature. Stepping back, I find that I can't see the thing anymore. If it's not dead, then it will probably have a hard time moving that rock, although if it can break a human leg bone. I find a smaller rock and set it on top of the larger one. Then I return to help Whitlow clean address Lundberg's wound. At least we know how to get them off now, she says. Yeah, we just have to cut them out like we're digging a deeply rooted weed out of a garden. Lundberg will never survive if we cut all of them off his legs. No, but Hagen might.

We both look over at the unconscious woman, and the organism attached to her leg.