The SCP Experience - The Skin Removal Disease | SCP-1121

Episode Date: October 22, 2021

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1121 - The Skin Removal Disease This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1121, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Concour. The Reglements of the Concour Sapplic. When can we leave here, Officer? The small,

middle-aged man shouts up at me. Some of us need medical care. He's got the kind of polite tightness in his voice that I hear from upper-class people all day long. It's a tone that says, I know people, and I'll cost you your job if you continue to inconvenience me. I turn and look down the dirt slope at him. Sir, I need you to remain there until we figure out what exactly is going on here. I adjust my duty rig as I speak to him, putting my right hand next to my holstered Glock 19 as I pull the belt up.

His eyes flick to my weapon and then back up to my face. He nods slightly and turns back around, his shoulders slumping as he heads back over to his small group of co-workers. I turned back to Schaefer, my partner, and smile. I told you, that move works with certain types of people, Schaefer says, smiling under his wiry black mustache. It's good to remind them who the police are sometimes, you know? You mean it's good to remind them that we carry deadly weapons? I asked, laughing. You say pastry, I say donut. What's the difference? You and your donut jokes. You know that's how

people make fun of us. Cops and donuts. A brat, Schaefer says. I'm just taking away their ammunition. Might as well lean into it. I laugh again and shake my head, stifling a joke about Schaefer's weight. I look around the flat slice of New Mexico desert, taking in my surroundings again, just like a good cop is supposed to. Other than the slotheling. smattering of creosote bushes, mesquite trees, and tufts of black grama grass. There's not much to the landscape. It's flat and goes on to the horizon in every direction. The sun sits high in the eastern half of the sky. Not quite noon yet. A warm wind whips around me, bringing with it the smell of freshly churned dirt and living vegetation. I turn and look

back into the dig site, which is essentially a pit about 100 feet in diameter, and about six feet down at its deepest. At one end of the pit is a blue canopy, one of those pop-up ones that goes up in about a minute. The group of workers sits in the shade of the canopy, looking sullen and ill in a way I can't quite place. There's probably one or two full-fledged archaeologists sitting under there, but I figure the rest of them are students.

The man I talked to moments earlier, and two others look to be in their mid-forties. The rest of the seven people look young enough to still be in. in college. They seem to be each taking turns glaring at us from where they sit, surrounded by digging equipment and other tools of the archaeology trade. There's a big RV parked up past the pit, about 100 yards away from me. Other than the cruiser, Schaefer and I showed up in, there are no other vehicles. They must have all come in the RV. So what the hell are we doing here? I ask, turning back to Schaefer. Making sure no one leaves, he says with a shrug. Yeah, I got that part.

Why are we doing that? I don't know. Something about a possible infection or something? What? I say, stepping away from the pit and the people in it. You could have told me. Relax, rookie. We haven't even gotten close enough to them to catch anything.

Besides, it's probably nothing. What the hell kind of virus is going to be in the middle of the goddamn New Mexico desert? Nah, this is a false alarm. Someone here got sick and called the CDC. and then they called us to keep everyone here until they can come check it out. I've been on a dozen of these calls over the years. Nothing to worry about. We're not set up for this shit, I say, walking toward the cruiser.

We need to be wearing masks and gloves. Suit yourself, kid, but I'm telling you, we haven't been nearly close enough to those people to catch anything, even if they do have some crazy mystery bug. I ignore Schaefer, donning a surgical mask and latex gloves from the trunk. trunk of the cruiser before returning to my partner near the pit. I have my sunglasses on to protect my eyes. Shafor looks at me and laughs, his bulging belly rumbling. I wave a dismissive hand

at him and step to the edge of the pit, looking down at a section blocked off with small wooden stakes and tape. What is it? I call out to the people in the pit, pointing at the blocked off area. What did you find? The man I'd been talking to earlier looks up at me for a long moment, and then looks back down, inspecting something on his arm. One of the younger workers, a tall and skinny blonde girl, stands up and steps out from under the canopy. I put my hand up, palm out, just stop her from coming any closer. Just stay there, yell it to me. We don't know exactly, she shouts over the wind.

We need to take it back and get it properly analyzed. As she talks, she's scratching a spot on her upper left arm with her right hand. It's almost as if she doesn't realize she's doing it, just absently scratching an itch. But we think it's a meteorite. I nod, looking back at the dig site. It just looks like a regular rock to me. So who needs medical care? What's the problem?

I shout down at the girl. She takes two steps towards me and holds out her left arm, as if to show me something. She's still scratching the skin near her shoulder. Her fingers up under the sleeve of her short sleeve shirt. I take a step back and she's a step back. shake my head, telling her to stay put. She seems to sigh, although if she does, I can't hear it from where I am. We've all developed these strange bumps on her skin, the blonde girl shouts. You can't see? I lift my sunglasses and take a half-step toward her, bending forward and

squinting. I'm still a good 20 or 30 feet away from her, and about five feet above. The steady wind is still whipping around us. I think I see some discoloration of her skin, but I'm not sure. I I put my sunglasses back down over my eyes, straighten up, and shrug. How do you feel? I shout. Before she can answer me, there's some sort of commotion from the six people still under the canopy. One woman there screams. And before I know what's happening, five of the six people are running away from the canopy,

like they've just seen a snake there. Stop! I shout. Stop running. My right hand goes instinctively to my Glock 19. Everyone, calm down. Tell me what's happening. I can tell.

there's still a figure in the shade under the canopy, but the blonde girl is blocking my view. She turned around during the commotion and now stands staring into the shade, motionless, except for her incessant scratching. The other five people have stopped running, but they're all looking back at the figure underneath the canopy, revulsion and terror mixing on their faces. I stepped to my right, skirting the edge of the pit, trying to get a better look at what the hell is going on. At first I think the man under the canopy has dawned a Halloween mask, but it doesn't take long for my logical mind to dispel the notion. The man is sitting there on a folding camping chair, picking at the skin on his face. A long flap of bloody skin hangs off the left

side of his chin, dripping blood on his shirt. It's as if he got a fingernail under the skin at his temple and pulled it down, tearing a strip off and letting it hang there, revealing meat and muscle and tendons glistening wetly. As I watch, he grabs hold of the skin just under his left eye, and pulls it steadily down, ripping a large chunk off and leaving the bottom of his eye exposed. This piece separates as he yanks at it. He holds it up for a brief moment, looking at it with the disinterested eyes of a man, picking at the same lunch he's been eating for 20 years. He throws the flap of skin down on the ground at his feet and starts working on another area of his face. What in the holy god? Shaefer says for my elbow,

The blonde girl, apparently finally processing what she's seeing, screams, turns, and runs towards Schaefer and I. Stop! I yell at her, backpedaling as I do. She doesn't listen. She keeps coming. As she gets closer, I noticed that she's still scratching at that spot on her upper arm. Even as she's scrambling up the sloped side of the pit, getting closer and closer to us.

Stop now! Schaefer yells. She doesn't stop. She screams and runs. She's close enough for me to see the blotchy spots on her head. skin. She's close enough for me to see that she's bleeding from the spot on her arm that she can't stop scratching. She's almost close enough to touch me. A gunshot rings out, and a hole appears in the blonde girl's chest. She takes two more lunging steps forward and falls on her face. Her screaming

stops as she hits the ground, two feet away from me. I see the gory hole in her back where the bullet exited. I turned my head to look at Schaefer, who is standing slightly behind me and to my right, He still has his gun up, and there's a sick look on his plump face, his eyes wide with disbelief. She, she... He sputters. She was infected. I couldn't let her touch us. I couldn't. Oh, Jesus, I say. Just put the gun down, Jack.

Movement catches my eye, and I look over to see that the remaining people, aside from the man still peeling his own skin, are running for the RV. They look over their shoulders at us, nothing but fear there. Oh, shit. We can't let them leave. I run for the cruiser parked on the dirt road as the RV starts up in the distance and lurches ahead. I jump behind the wheel of the cruiser and start it up,

trading looks between the RV rumbling over uneven ground and Schaefer running to get in the cruiser. The RV takes a wide arc, staying well away from us as it aims to get back on the even ground of the road. Come on, Schaefer. I call. Moments later, he yanks the passenger door open

and throws himself inside. I hit the gas as soon as his foot. feet are inside the vehicle. The back tire spin, kicking up dirt as I yanked the wheel to the left to get turned around. As we straighten up, I see the RV bounce onto the dirt road about 75 yards ahead. I punched the gas, thinking about how the cruiser is much faster than the big RV. But the sheer weight of the other vehicle will make it difficult to stop. We'll have to shoot the tires out, I think. A great whooshing sound fills the air, followed by an enormous explosion as the front of the RV blows apart in a ball.

I slam on the brakes, just as another explosion disintegrates the back of the RV in a geyser of metal, glass, and fire. A sleek black helicopter streaks passed up ahead, skirting the smoke from the totaled RV. Shafer and I sit in the stationary cruiser, speechless, watching the billowing black smoke pour into the sky from the still-burning RV. The cruiser's radio comes to life with a voice I've never heard before. Officer's Brat and Schaefer? The voice asks, and then continues before we can My name is Fredricks. I'm in charge of infectious diseases at the SCP Foundation. I just want to say how sorry I am about all this. Really? It's cold comfort, I know.

But I couldn't in good conscience let this happen without a word to the two of you. I respect your service. I just wish this could have gone any other way. But it can't. There's no other way. We can't take any chances. I'm truly sorry. Your families will be well taken care of.

That we can do. You don't have to worry. about that. What the hell is he talking about? I asked, turning to Schaefer. And what's the SCP Foundation? Schaefer shakes his head, swallowing hard. I don't know. Shaffer and I both look to the left and see the helicopter off in the distance, nose down, flying away from us. For a second, I thought they were going to... I stop, hearing a rumbling sound that's growing steadily louder. That sounds like a jet, I say, throwing the cruiser in park, opening my door and stepping out. I think we should go, Schaefer says from inside the cruiser. Off in the distance,

I see a small speck that's getting larger, growing with a rumbling sound. It is a jet, I whisper, staring as it speeds toward us. I watch in awe as the jet releases its payload just before it passes over the dig site. The two oblong bombs tumble down out of the sky and strike the ground next to the pit. A blinding white light erupts from the area, but I watch still. I watch as the blanket of fire races toward me, burning up the landscape. Shaver cries out from inside the cruiser. As the immense heat touches me and the searing pain starts, I scream. SCP 1121 is a previously unknown amoeboid protozoa, with very specific mutagenic qualities, triggered only by normally benign bacterium present on human skin.

SCP 1121 does not seem to procreate naturally and does not need fluid to survive. The SCP-1121 pathogen infects 100% of subjects exposed to it. SCP-1121 has proven resistant to all-known antibiotics, and at this time, no known cure for infections exists. A subject infected with SCP-1121 goes through a number of stages, culminating in the removal of the skin using the hands or, on occasion, nearby tools. This process seems to be painless and does not seem to be a conscious activity. Victims rapidly become disoriented and invariably hostile to anyone not infected by SCP 1121 as the process of skin removal progresses. In light of this, termination of all victims is necessary.