The SCP Experience - The Police Cruiser and Predatory State Trooper Smokey | SCP-973

Episode Date: August 6, 2021

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-973: The Police Cruiser and Predatory State Trooper Smokey This story was derived from http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-973, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ #scp #drscp #scpstories #scpexplained Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Three in the morning, end up flying across the asphalt, trying to beat the sun over the horizon. My ancient and well-loved Camaro swims through the dark. There's a groan. She's tired. We've been going hard the last couple of days, and the needle is coming down on E again. What has to be done, has to be done. We'll stop when we have to, and not before. The road flows under me like a river. I can't remember what state this is. I've been up for at least 40 hours, and the stuff in my system makes the highway fixed in my field of view, burnt in, hypnotizing, no room for anything like signs. Just the charcoal line that draws me forward.

West Virginia could be. Land's starting to move up and down, like it's trying to bite me. Mountain mama, or so the man sang, sliding through these intestinal back roads, weaving around the valleys and through the trees. It feels like she already got me. Late November, so all the branches just look like claws, snatching at me like snow white. Only I left all my bearded pals long behind me. It's all right.

They can't get a finger on me. I'm just too fast. Pushing them. Needle stuck at 80 miles per hour. The roads out here are all snakes. One slip, and I'm over the guardrail into the jaws of the mountain. Chewed up. Not this time.

Some other night, maybe. Sure. Part of me can see it. I know I'm headed down for the bottom, for the fine tectonic grind underneath it all. A smoking wreck painted down a beautiful country mountainside. Anyone who knew me and found out would say, sure, that sounds about right. Some other time, though, not done yet. I come around a broad shoulder

and road evens out. Let's me breathe a minute. These straightaways are my oasis. I realize I've got a death grip on the wheel. My hands are like hose clamps, grinding my teeth without realizing it. But it's either this or sleep. And if I sleep now, I won't get up. Not going out like that. I ease up. Roll the window down a bit. Let the wind in. We meet again. It howls in greeting me. There's joy in the night, in speed. I know that better than anyone. I know it just like the wind does. Now's my chance to light a smoke, and thank God or whoever.

I need just a little of that poison on my tongue. I inhale my cigarette, and a bit of life comes back to me. I rest my elbow out the window and let the smoke go. The whole world exhales with me. I feel a little better, something like a person, on my motorized magic carpet, going straight to hell, exactly where I want to be. radio's been drooling the same stuff you'd expect to hear at nothing o'clock in the middle of nowhere.

I keep it on for the rhythm. Another beat to keep me company, marching along with the metal fire roar of the engine and the wet, dark thud of my heart. I pass a mile marker and do a quick bit of mental math. Okay, I can be there, be done with it all, and have pancakes afterward. There's time, as long as I keep pushing it, then I'll be done. I just have to keep it together between here and there. The smoke helps.

I put my hands on the wheel and feel a room. in the passenger seat for the other thing that helps. There it is, my firearm. I hope that my finger and the trigger will never have to meet. This is the early morning dark, the kind that you wouldn't brave unless you had to. People sleep to get through this, to get around it. But not me.

I live here. Cop showing up in my moonless wonderland would be impossible. That wouldn't happen to me unless it did, like it is now. Headlights in my rear view, coming around the same bend as me. That's strange. All those twists and turns since after midnight, and I never saw anyone. Must be booking it harder than me. Where are you going? Are you like me? Or something else? Two ships passing in the night or something like it. I don't want to let anyone around me. I'm going so fast that this shouldn't even be happening. I looked ahead. I talked to people. I know all the speed traps. That's why I'm out here instead of under a parade of sodium lights on a freeway wider than Belgium. Pulled out from some invisible driveway, maybe. Who are you? I don't let off the gas. I wait and see, trying to gauge a speed. If you want to

catch up to me. You're either a cop or you're as illegal as I am. It's too dark and they're too far back. I can't see what kind of car it is. Getting closer, faster than I am. No sirens though. No lights. Fine. You're in such a rush. You can pass me. I keep my speed and wait for it to happen. The lights grow larger. Brighter. He doesn't turn his brights off. Asshole. It's one thing to move in on my space. That's annoying, but not anyone's fault. Just two lives intersecting. But now you're stepping on the rules of the road, and I hate that shit. We live in a rude enough world without people flicking their high beams right in each other's faces. I can see the car now. It's a real piece of shit. Awful. Goes right in with my expectations. Doesn't have common courtesy, and doesn't

take care of their ride. Front bumper and radiator grill dented to hell. Paint scratched up like they've driven the thing through nothing but sandstorms. Rust like mold. I can even see a huge crack in the windshield. Looks like an old Monaco, like the Blues Brothers had. Maybe I'm being tailgated by the ghost of John fucking Belushi. They're right on my ass. Unbelievable. Ordinarily, I'd break-check them. You want to play? Sure, I can play. Let's hit the pavement together. You and me. But I can't. Not this time. I have to get there. I can't risk it. I slam my horn and wave my hand out the window at him. Go around, freak. Other lanes free. There's no one else out here, except you and me, and I'm not stopping you. Move on. Nothing. Still ride on me like a tick. Like my exhaust is vitamins. My radio says something.

words, not music. It's the abyss between midnight and dawn. And I'm not on a talk station. I haven't heard words in eight hours, and I was too busy waving this fucker on to pay attention to what was said. It was only a few words, for just a second. Stray lyric? A sharp rock under the surface of the smooth jazz? Whatever. I look back through the rear view, and I can swear they're even closer, less than a car length, leaning in for a kiss. I'm conscious of my gun. No, there'll be time for that If we're unlucky, I shouldn't think like that. But I might have to at least up the ante and scare the piss out of them if they won't get off me.

Run, fucker. My ice crash land back onto the radio. I heard that. I fucking heard that. The shit is getting to me. I need to stop relying on the good stuff so much. It's not doing me any favors, playing with my perception. The guy behind me revs, hops forward, biting at me.

Okay, they are not playing around. He's close enough that I can see a bit through the windshield around his brights, lots of shadows, but I can tell that's a man. Heavy face, mustache, we've got John Candy out here for a fuck-around joyride. Great, okay, you want to play? Why don't you go sell someone a shower curtain ring, you fat piece of... Run fucker! I saw his mouth move, but the words aren't coming from there.

Far, far too late. I noticed something on the hood of the beaten old Monaco, something I'm too familiar with. Cop lights. They flare to life. A dizzying flicker of alternating red and blue. Then comes the fucking siren, shrieking like a banshee, tearing my night in half with its fucking noise.

Run fucker, run fucker, run fucker. I'm not pulling over. I don't think that's a cop. He's tapping my rear bumper now, like he's trying to taste it. We're pushing almost 90, and I'm ready to push it more. I don't have a lot in life,

but what I did have, I put into this car. Most people don't put in that kind of money and work into their vehicles. Most people don't have to drive for their lives. I press down on the gas. I slither forward, out of his reach. The flashing freak show responds by accelerator out ahead into the other lane,

trying to flank me. That could be a fatal mistake for him, I can box him out and keep him there. Oncoming traffic might solve this problem for me. If this road weren't so goddamn lonely. Run, fucker, run, fucker, run. Neat trick, pal. Not sure how you warmed your way onto my radio,

but you're not going to psych me out. The crazy fuck swerves into me. His car grinds into mine. The screech of metal on metal, trying to run me off the road. You fucking animal. You fucked up my paint job. I'm going to splatter your guts all over the...

But through the two walls of metal, through two panes of glass. He's almost right next to me. Just to my right. I can see him. I thought what I saw earlier was a man. That is not a man. Men have mouths and eyes.

Men have skin. Men are made of meat. Men die when I shoot them. Maybe this thing will too. I want to go for it. I'm not going to get a better shot than this, but my eyes are transfixed on the road in front of me, and my hands are glued to the wheel,

refusing to give up the road. My wheels start to shudder, hitting the edge of the pavement. Got to accelerate. Have to break out of this. I lean harder on the throttle, open her up. But the devil driving the Monaco has the same idea and matches pace.

Can't get out. Don't know how that dumpster with wheels is pulling it off, but I'm pinned. I tear my eyes off the road for a second and put them on my gun. I quickly grab the gun. No time to aim well. No time to be delicate. From my eye over the top of the gun, through the passenger side window, through another and into that thing that I mistook for a man. My radio screams at me again. Run, fucker, run, fucker, run, fucker, suppose this is real. The metal feels real. The thunder of the road and my bones feels real. There's no way that thing could be real, It's right in my face, and I can tell how hungry it is.

Suddenly my Camaro's engine dies. My car comes to a screeching halt. My hand tightens on the gun. The cop car stops a few feet behind. The humanoid cop gets out. He jumps on my car in a superhuman-like fashion, ripping scores into the body of my Camaro, tearing into the metal like meat from the bone.

He reaches for me. My skin peels back. The cop's siren and the roaring engines fade down to nothing, and I close one eye over the sights of the gun. I might not make it to Savannah, but I might make it to hell. SCP 973 consists of two entities. SCP 973-1 is a police cruiser, resembling those used by state troopers in the early 1970s.

The vehicle appears to be in an advanced state of disrepair. Eyewitness accounts have consistently mentioned large dents in the doors and hood, a heavily cracked windshield, heavy rusting, and a loose rear bumper secured with duct tape. SCP 973-2 is reported as a Caucasian male in his late 40s, wearing a state trooper uniform dating from the same time period as SCP 973-1. Subject is described as balding, slightly overweight, and having a handlebar mustache. SCP 973 will manifest at night when another vehicle enters the designated territory and is believed to be triggered by the target vehicle accelerating over a certain speed.

This limit varies, with the average being in the area of 55 miles per hour, but it can range anywhere between 35 miles per hour and 70 miles per hour. No predictable pattern or connection between differing limits has been found as of yet. When this limit is broken, SCP 973 will appear approximately 0.4 kilometers behind the target vehicle and will chase down the target at high speed with the siren and flashers on. This is accompanied by a looping message played on the target's radio. In many cases, the target will flee with SCP 973 in pursuit and will be overtaken in one to six minutes. The remains of 34 individuals and 19 vehicles have been found within 6.4.4.

4 kilometers of the affected roadway. The range of damage done to bodies includes evisceration, rape, and three cases where the body had been damaged by the impact to the point that visual identification was impossible. Five survivors are within foundation custody, all suffering from varying degrees of mental trauma. The recovered vehicles showcase heavy impact damage, both environmental and inflicted,

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