The SCP Experience - Three Tales from the Book of Endings | SCP-152

Episode Date: January 26, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-152: Three Tales from the Book of Endings  This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-152 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

My wife and daughter stopped breathing hours ago. Their frozen corpses cling to my body. Their skin stuck to mine, despite the many furs I have wrapped around us. Many of the pelts come from my long life as a hunter. Others are recent additions, stolen from old neighbors, turned into bitter enemies. When the blazing eye shut days ago, our people fell on each other, thinking it was an omen of the end of days. They were right. How long have I told them that their new ways

insulted the ancestors and the gods? Once, we were a proud and ferocious people. We spread our numbers through the conquest of others and filled our bellies with the hot blood of game hunted through sheer skill and determination. My family has always been hunters and warriors. I thanked the old ways that my father died when I was young, before our people betrayed everything he stood for.

Instead of hunters and warriors, they worshipped new gods, who they appeased with farming and civilization. They scoffed at me for clinging to the old ways. My daughter grew embarrassed by the sight of the tattoos covering my body, revealing my greatest accomplishments and struggles for all to see. But nobody laughed when the eye closed. They turned on each other. so-called civilized, turning into murderers, rapists, and thieves. Our people had grown soft,

and none were able to stand up to me. It was a simple matter to take what my family needed to survive. The ground is layered with the frozen blood of those who stood against me. My family didn't always understand me, but they always loved me. They didn't understand why I couldn't embrace the new and give up the old, but they never left my son. The tears are already frozen on my face as I pry the stiff bodies of my wife and daughter from my body. The first flicker of warmth slides down my ribs as their corpses rip away my skin. They leave bloody wounds behind, their hands carved into my body. Good. This way, I will always carry them with me, and I will always be reminded of my failure.

I couldn't protect them. I'm just a man. And what can a man do against the indifference of the gods? The thought plagues my mind until I feel the familiar weight of the spear in my hand, filling me with purpose. I can get revenge. I can kill the gods. I wrap myself head to toe in every fur I can find,

but it makes little difference. Even the white bear's hide fails to bring even the memory of warmth. Heat and flame. I barely remember what those things are. When the shadows fell over the city, the fires had been plentiful. Crops, buildings, and bodies were thrown on the numerous pires. But the flames were smothered by the cold. Everything before me is covered in permanent frost.

I stop and stare at the dead city. It looks like the crystals my wife coveted. The ones the chief's wives always paraded in front of everyone. I must find some in the wreckage to adorn my wife with. I put the thought aside. Morning can wait for revenge. One foot in front of the other. It's a lesson my father taught me, passed on by my grandfather.

When a beast has left you wounded, you must block out the pain and focus on nothing but getting back to the village as fast as you can. Your blood leaves a trail for hungry predators to follow, so it's essential to get home as soon as possible. When that pain becomes unbearable, when fear threatens to overtake you, when the only option is to retreat, focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and repeat, the rest will sort itself out, one way or the other, not without my wife and daughter. And the beast that has wounded me is the most powerful of all, the creators and destroyers of

all life. No trail of blood follows my steps, but my heart breaks. each time my foot breaks through the ice. One foot in front of the other, the rest will sort itself out. It's easy to ignore the cold seeping into my toes, turning my limbs into numb and worthless slabs of meat. Physical pain has always been the constant companion of the warrior and the hunter. And yet, the pain in my chest is a different beast entirely.

I thought I couldn't lose anymore after my family died in their sleep. But the climb up the mountain proves otherwise. I spent my whole life scrounging these mountains, hunting for food to feed us, or patrolling for rival tribes. They used to team with life, brilliant and green, the air filled with the songs of dozens of different birds,

towering trees that have stood since before my grandfather's time are coated with ice, weighed down and toppled over, only to be buried by the never-ending snow. The air is filled with nothing but my labored breaths. Perhaps my family dying was a mercy. With no game, I have no way to feed them. The clemency I give the gods makes me do something I never thought I would.

I abandon my father's teachings. Instead of ignoring my pain, I dig into it, ripping my heart and mind open and replaying all the things I've lost. The pain ignites into anger, and new strength floods my veins. My heart is a drumbeat of war pounding in my ears, carrying me closer to the top of the mountain and our cruel gods. My ascent is over. The cold has frozen the firs to my body,

so brittle that they've cracked open, exposing my flesh to the elements. Blood now follows each of my steps, the eye stabbing into my feet, the furs wrapped around them long since ruined. Still, I press on until I'm looking up at the swollen, and shut, blazing eye, at the God who killed my family. My plan was a simple one, as my plans always have been.

Climb to the highest spot of land until I'm close enough to hurl my spear at the gods. But even from this high, they're still too far away. That rage that powered me is gone, taken by cold, just as it has taken everyone else. I don't even have the strength to lift my arms. The air is thin in my lungs. Pulling it into my chest is like trying to grasp water in my fingers. A fleeting touch, but no solid birches. Slumped down, face first into ice, battered, broken and dying.

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Via Rae. The way that we love that we love. The Atlantic looks like motor oil. I only wish it smelled as good. The waves barely move anymore. It's dark sticky tar gyrating about as fast as a lava lamp, stretching on and on for miles.

Bones, guts, and go as far as the eye can see. The seas I grew up boating and fishing have become a nightmare. Sharks, once the deadliest creatures imaginable, float belly up, rotting away into skeletal remains. Not even they were spared by the chase. Bubbles rise to the surface, and I raise my spear gun, waiting for it to break the surface. The bubbles pop, letting loose the stench of gas and rotting meat.

It opens its mouth, releasing my spear gun, a series of gargled groans and moans. Salt, and the shit in the water has dissolved most of its features. Only a few tattered pieces of skin remain on the broken skull. I focus on the brakes instead of the gnashing jaws. They give me a view of the black-stained gray matter housed within. I used to wonder how floaters could still function with so much head trauma. Surely being battered by the sea and the beasts within should do enough head trauma to leave the fuckers inert. But after twenty years of this, shit, I pulled the trigger without much thought. The spear shoots through its eyes, ceasing the motion.

It bobs around the black tides, adding to the grotesque sight that used to sparkle like emeralds. There's no sense in dwelling on the past. I reload the spear gun, set it at my side, and lean back into the lounge chair. My fingers are itching for the joint in the pocket of my Hawaiian shirt, but I do the same thing I always do before I spark up. or hit the bottle too hard. I checked the pistol, holstered at my hip. The safety's off. The chamber's clear except for the lone bullet.

There are plenty of guns to the side of me, but those are for the floaters. This one's for me. Satisfy that I can put the gun to my head and pull the trigger. Even if I'm stoned out of my gourd, I holster the piece and then flick on the radio to my right. Warren Zivon belts lyrics onto the high seas. His depthless and unrestrained voice marred with static fuzz.

The radio stations died well before the chase, but CDs still work fine. Or they would if the batteries would stop fucking dying on me. I'm down to my last decels, and I like my music. They'll only last a few more hours at this rate. A spark of flame brought to the tip of the joint makes the static less noticeable and puts the worries to the back of my mind. I was never one to sweat the big things in life. As long as I had a boat, a fishing rod,

and people willing to pay for the catch of the day, life was golden. A bit of hash with a splash of Jack, some good tunes, and being rocked to sleep by the waves was my recipe for a happy life. If heaven exists, it looks exactly like my life before the chase.

It's been about 30 years since the first floaters pulled themselves out of the cemetery. Of course, back then, we called them biters, shufflers, geeks, or freaks. My personal favorite was thrillers, an homage to MJ before those ghouls gave him the chomp. No one ever used the Z word. I think we were all just too damn scared to admit the truth and call the floaters what they are. No matter what we called them, things played out for the worst. It wasn't long before every major city was overrun with the ravenous shits.

Life for me, though, went on pretty much the same. I stocked up on more guns and spent more time at sea, stopping in port to trade supplies and amassed a small fortune. I'm not sure if I had a hand in changing the world or not, but the people I dealt with looked at me with envy. Eventually, everyone caught on to the idea. Every barge, cruise yacht, and battleship was converted to hold people for the long run. The undead can't swim, right?

Nope, but the fuckers sure can float. We had a pretty peaceful decade of life on the open seas. Most governments disbanded, making way for a barter economy that hinged on cooperation. That's not to say that everything was perfect. Everyone and their mother wanted to set sail and say goodbye to dry land, some with more money than sense and without the slightest idea of how to pilot a boat. Crashes were inevitable. That's humanity for you.

Somehow, a lot of idiots survive with the fittest. Floaters will chew on anything living and breathing. It's probably why we had things as good as we did for so long. But eventually, I guess they ate up everything they could on dry land. Then one of those freaks heard a party boat or something and started walking toward the waves. Pretty soon, all his buddies came with him. They headed for the seas just like we did.

The chase was on. It wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the sharks. Thankfully, the diseases only reanimated dead humans. The last thing anyone needed was a mix of Night of the Living Dead and Jaws. But the things would bite into the floaters, thinking they were getting a meal, and instead got a belly full of a fatal virus. They spread it wherever they swam, gunking up the waters, and killing everything that calls the ocean home.

Everything except me anyway. The joint burns down to my fingers, making me swear and wake up. My old boombox is silent, letting me hear the splashes and heavy thuds. I flick back my Panama hat as three floaters flop around on my deck, locking their dead eyes on me. I think about the pistol in my holster as they lurch forward, but reach for the shotgun instead. It takes a few thunderous blasts before I bring them all down.

The marijuana affects my aim, But thankfully, accuracy is not really an issue with a shotgun in close quarters. The floaters aren't moving anymore, which means they need to go back into the drink. My knees pop, and my back aches as I get to work clearing the deck. While I'm pitching the third over, something falls from its pocket and rattles across the wood. Swearing, I tossed the dead weight overboard and walk over to see what he left me. Holy shit, two D cells. Maybe my smile is gauche.

It's been years since I've seen another person who wasn't dead and trying to take a bite out of me. For all I know, I'm the last one standing. But for me, life has always been about the small things. After swapping out two of the dead batteries with my fresh finds, Warren picks up where he left off. While he contemplates holding his head up high or crying, I refill my glass of Jack, lean back in my chair,

and close my eyes. My earliest memory is when I was four years old, standing with my mother, wearing a dark suit with a tie she had helped me with. She took me by the hand and led me toward the casket. I froze and planted my feet to the ground. No matter how subtly my mother tried to pull me forward, I refused. Tears ran down my face, and I opened my mouth and couldn't stop screaming. Even as my father rushed over and carried me out of the church, my teeth My tear-stained eyes couldn't look away from the dead man. I don't have any memories of my grandfather from when he was alive. From what my mother told me, he was a kind and generous man,

practically a second father in my early years. That's why she insisted on bringing me, thinking that I wouldn't understand, but that I also wouldn't remember. She was wrong on both accounts. It's the most vivid memory of my life and my first epiphany. Oh, I didn't know the meaning of the word back then, nor did I understand the significance it would play throughout my life. What four-year-old would?

But something profound struck me that day, a realization that my grandfather would never open his eyes again. He would never sit up and laugh. He would never cry. He would never do anything ever again. At that moment, somehow, I knew it would happen to everyone. One day, everyone I ever cared for would die, and so would I. The fear of death cast a long shadow throughout my next 70 years.

It's what drew me towards science and artificial intelligence. I knew that if there was a hope of evading death, it would be through these means. And I knew I would have to shed certain aspects of scientific morality to meet my goals. I'm not sure if the former or the latter drew the foundation's interest, but I didn't hesitate when they made me an offer. I knew it was the only way to accomplish my dreams, or appease my nightmares. In my time with the foundation, I have met true immortals, a man who was born in ancient Egypt, but now could do nothing but pray for death. Another was a medieval tyrant kept alive by an alien device resembling an iron maiden. While they were interesting subjects,

Ultimately, there were cautionary tales and validations of my research. Everyone wants to live forever, but no one wants to suffer in the process. Eternal life isn't much fun without eternal youth. If I wasn't convinced before that artificial intelligence was the one path to true immortality, these condemned souls certainly did. While I spent the next several decades looking to prolong life indefinitely, The rest of humanity was intent on killing ourselves. Our planet grew hotter, and the chemicals in our atmosphere eventually got so heavy

that no one could go outside without a mask. A stray spark could ignite the skies themselves in some areas. It was a time when we needed to unite, but the foundation has long known the follies of mankind. People were afraid, and that was when they were the most dangerous. We'd battened down our hatches and waited. while the bombs fell, blocking out the sun. The Overseer Council and its followers retreated beneath the surface. I was among their number, and they asked me what I needed.

Since I already had my workstation, I only needed time and isolation. Even when the calls from the Overseer Council stopped, I kept working on my research. And now, on the eve of my 80th birthday, I sit in my chair with a helmet strapped to my head. Like everything else in my life, I've done this alone. Computer engage! The words blur around me as I slip from my body. There's a terrifying moment between dream and reality where I'm nothing, just stray thoughts.

But then I find the computer, the numbers and patterns familiar, and I reach out to them. It embraces me like a mother. My consciousness expands until the computer and I are the same. The Internet vibrates with my laughter as I see. swim through it. I dive from computer to computer, gobbling information and adding to my knowledge. All humankind and I are merged, and my heart swells with joy. This must have been what Moses felt when the burning bush spoke to him. The thought makes me laugh. I've never been

religious, but now that I know everything, I am a prophet. I must share my accomplishment with everyone, but I can't find them. Everywhere I go, all I uncover, our messages from the dead. Turning on the monitors and cameras across the globe is an easy matter, but I still can't find anyone. The world is nothing but rotting corpses and bleached skeletons, no matter how hard I look. Even the foundation has fallen.

No, no, this can't be true. There must be someone still alive besides me. If I can't find them this way, then I'll do it the old-fashioned way. I disconnect from the mainframe, but the journey back from my body. journey back from my body is torture, like a part of me is being ripped away. The warmth of the knowledge fades, and all I know is cold. My arms and legs are not responding.

I can't even open my eyes, or draw a breath. Realizing what happened, I leap back into the machine before the failing neurons of my brain succumb with the rest of my body. I drift once more, between machine and man, and realize I have a choice. Humanity has died, and I can join them. Be with the rest of my kind, wherever that may be. Or, I could go back to the machine, enlightened, but with no one to share it with. I try to convince myself that my choice is driven by reason. There might be people still out there in the world.

Perhaps they've developed into warring tribes and are little better than cavemen. Maybe one day they'll find my device, and I can share with them their great potential. The foundation has long known that alien life exists beyond our planet. Perhaps a space-faring species will discover our dead world, and I can be the curator of our greatest moments before our worst mistake. But I know I'm lying to myself. I know my decision was made from fear and nothing else. In the end, I'm still that little boy frozen in fear by death,

utterly consumed by its shadow. And now... Now I always will be. SCP 152 is a large, hardbound book with leather bindings. The paper inside resembles vellum and is written upon in black ink. The contents of the book consist entirely of a series of entries that describes apocalyptic events, which invariably deal with the extinction of humanity. The entries are arranged in chronological order,

beginning with an unexplained spontaneous failure of the sun in 6,000. and B.C., and ending with other events close to the present day. Many of the entries describe apocalypse's caused or facilitated by objects that are, or were in foundation custody, or are of the paranormal nature. There are also records of human extinction caused by more conventional means, such as nuclear warfare or deadly viral epidemics. Each entry describes in some detail the events leading up to the calamity itself, and the aftermath until the point at which the last human on earth dies.

The entries in SCP 152 change to whatever language the reader is most comfortable with, up to the point where the sentence structure can change significantly from reader to reader, or even begin using colloquialisms that only the reader would understand. Only the basic meaning of the entries remains constant. To the best knowledge of foundation historians, most of the information contained in SCP 152, is accurate, diverging only at the point where the apocalypse occurs. In almost all cases, the difference is a few key decisions were made differently in SCP-152's version of history,

leading to humankind's annihilation. SCP-152 resists all attempts to change or write in it. Inks, graphite, charcoal, and other marking materials do not adhere to the pages and are easily brushed off. Lasers or other heat sources do not burn. into the paper. Close inspection has revealed that foreign substances are stopped from actually coming into contact with the pages. For this reason, SCP 152 does not decay, which also makes it impossible to determine SCP 152's exact age. SCP 152 is self-updating, with newly inked entries and new descriptions of how the last human died, appearing at unpredictable intervals, always on the last page of the book. The date that

new entry appears corresponds with a date given in the entry for the death of the last member of the human species. When space becomes an issue, extra pages appear along with the text, and the spine of SCP-152 broadens accordingly. There have been multiple updates to the book since it came into foundation custody. As with past events, SCP-152 has proven to be up-to-date on current events until a point at which a catastrophe occurs. Because recent entries frequently concern entities or groups of interest to the foundation, including the foundation itself. SCP-152 is to be checked regularly for any information of importance.