The SCP Experience - Undead Gearheads | SCP-3885

Episode Date: May 24, 2025

When a budget cut guts the night shift guarding Vulture Gulch—a walled-off ghost town of undead mechanics obsessed with weaponizing junk—the last few guards must face a containment breach that turns into a full-blown undead road war. This story was derived from ⁠⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3885⁠⁠ 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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Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I've been fired, Cotter says over the encrypted foundation satellite phone. What for? I asked casually from the confines of the little trailer baking in the Arizona sun. Did you spit in the director's coffee or something? I'm serious, Helm, Cotter says. Something in his tone causes me to pause what I'm doing. I turned away from the computer with tonight's schedule on the screen, putting my full attention on the phone call.

What happened? It's the new site director. He's cleaning house. He thinks we're wasting money, so he's aiming to cut the site staff down by 40%. 40%. I stand up from the desk chair and pace in the small trailer.

You're kidding me! I didn't even know there was a new director. Yeah, well, it all happened very fast. That isn't even the worst part, so listen carefully home. Half of tonight's shift has either been fired or reassigned. You'll only have four guys working tonight. I freeze, looking out one window at the concrete wall that keeps the residents of Vulture Gulch from leaving. Poor guys? What if...

I tried to warn him, but he doesn't want to listen. He thinks we're wasting money and manpower since there hasn't been a containment breach there in a long time. Honestly, I'm not even supposed to be telling you this right now. I'm supposed to be out of the building already. I bring a hand to my forehead and rub my sweaty temples. What the hell is he thinking? My hand drops to my side like a stone as a bad thought surfaces. Please tell me the junkers are still coming today. Cutter's silence causes the sick feeling in my gut to grow. When he finally speaks, it doesn't do anything to lessen that feeling. Today's shipment has been canceled.

There are no junkers coming today. Just, I'm hoping the council hears about this and steps in. But apparently he has allies there too. This is a fucking nightmare. Those shitty old cars are the only thing keeping them docile. I know. I hear a bang from Cotter's side of the phone, cutting him off. A distant voice says,

It's time to leave. Listen, I gotta go. Yeah, I can hear them. Shit, man. Good luck. I'll be fine, Cotter says. Good luck to you. Do what you can.

Hopefully they won't even notice the lack of guards. They're not the brightest skips, after all. I smile without humor. Yeah, thanks. Cotter kills the call. As I put the phone down, I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. I step out of the poorly insulated trailer and into the 105 degree temperature. A hundred yards distant is the northern border of Vulture Gulch.

There's a guard station in the middle of the concrete wall, and I can see the silhouette of one of the day shift guards in it. Shaking my head, I walk around at the back of the trailer, seeing that Dow and Bostick have carpooled and are getting out of Dow's Tacoma. Off to my left, the sun creeps toward the brown mountains on the craggy horizon. The sun will be down in an hour, and I'll only have four guys on shift. Please don't let anything happen tonight, I say in a silent prayer. Not tonight. Not until we get more shit figured out.

I greet Dow and Bostic with a raised hand and head over to give them the bad news. The setting sun paints Vulture Gulch orange, projecting stretched out shadows across the sandy, southern Arizona soil. The supposed ghost town sits in the middle of a stretch of desert and the southernmost portion of Maricopa County, the same county that encapsulates Phoenix. It is little more than a collection of ramshackle buildings, half of which are in the process of falling down. The inhabitants of Vulture Gulch don't have much interest in maintaining the shacks of their little village. They don't have much interest in anything but messing around with old cars. We call them gearheads, but even that is being generous,

because the things they make are just as likely to explode as they are to transport you from one place to another. So far, they've been content to stay within the dusty confines of Vulture Gulch, so long as they have old cars or other pieces of machinery to mess with. They didn't even flinch when we put up the concrete walls around them, probably because we did it right after bringing them a shipment of junkyard cars, broken household appliances, and faulty landscaping equipment. Ever since I've been on this assignment, and I've been on it since the skips were discovered

over five years ago, we've been giving them junk to keep them occupied. This will be the first week in all that time that they won't receive a shipment, and I have no idea how they will react to that news. But I've come to know some of them, as well as any human can know a skip, I guess. So I think I owe them a little honesty. which is exactly what I tell my crew, before approaching the big metal gate that serves as the only entrance or exit to Vulture Gulch. Ramon is in the guard tower to the right of the gate. He will be the one to open it when I give him the word.

Dow and Bostick walk with me to the gate, armed with automatic weapons, and sporting full armor just in case. Remember, don't let them see you. I tell the two guys as we stop next to the ten-foot-tall gate. It might rile them up. Why don't you let me come in with you? Dow asks. Just a few minutes ago, Bostick offered the same thing. I told him no, which is exactly what I'm about to tell Dow when he continues.

I'll take off the armor and go in there unarmed, just like you. Better to have both of us in there if something happens. I turned to look at Dow, whose most defining feature is a thick scar running through his left eyebrow and down to his cheekbone. He's been on this post almost as long as I have, and his offer gives me some much-needed confidence. I clap him on one meaty shoulder. I appreciate it, but I need all four of you to be on your shift if anything happens to me. I turn away and press a finger to the radio transmitter in my ear. Speaking of which, are you in position, Mancini?

Yes, sir. Mancini says over the radio. In Guard Station 5. I've got eyes on about two dozen of them right now. Things look normal from here. I take a breath, wishing one of the day shift guys could have stayed. When they came in to punch out, I asked them all if they would volunteer. But the answer I got told me just how messed up things were getting.

We've all been contacted already by someone at the site, telling us if we work more than our allotted hours, we will be fired. A day shifter named Reese told me. I looked at the other three guys. Is this true? All of you? They nodded. Sorry, boss, I need this job. I waved Reese's comment away.

No problem. It's not your fault. Go on home. We'll see you in the morning. Today's shift is pretty chill in Vulture Gulch. It's only when night comes that the skips inside tend to get rowdy. Maybe it's something about the heat of the day that keeps them relatively docile. When the sun goes down and the temperature eases from the triple digits, they get restless. I take another breath and look toward the horizon. The bottom of the sun is just touching the craggy brown mountains to the west. Better get this show on the road.

Okay. I say, looking up at Ramon in the tower. Open her up. I adjust the gun in my back waistband so my windbreaker covers it. Other than the pistol, I'm unarmed and unarmored. Bostic and Dow move to either side as the gate opens so they won't be spotted. The huge metal barrier, topped with barbed wire, rattles along its track until it's open about four feet. I step through, and the gate closes behind me. The dirt road I'm

standing on curves down into the gulch, about 20 yards away, where the ground levels out. The road is lined with shacks on both sides. Scattered between and behind these shacks are the skeletal remains of cars, washing machines, dryers, lawnmowers, and any other piece of equipment you could think of. Scattered among this junk is an occasional contraption that boggles the mind, scorched from long ago flames or half exploded. Gearheads, having heard the gate, come out of their hovels to investigate, surely expecting a tow truck with goodies. Instead, they see only me. I scan around for a familiar face as these figures gather in the road. Most of them look like your average American male.

if your average American male had been dead for anywhere ranging from a few months to a few years. I can see one guy's shin bone through the ragged wound on his leg. He also has a chunk missing out of his neck. Another guy's ear is missing, and his left eye dangles from its optic nerve, bouncing against his cheek as he walks toward me. There are women, too, also dead-looking. Like the men, their clothes are old and ratty and grease-stained. Most of the men wear jeans or camo pants with heavy metal t-shirts or short-sleeved plaid shirts.

Most of the women wear high-cut jean shorts that show off their greenish-blue legs, complete with multi-colored bruises and festering wounds. String tank tops and monster truck t-shirts seem to account for the female wardrobe. Finally, I see a face I recognize. A guy named Slim comes sauntering up to the front of the approaching crowd. He's a skinny bent thing. that looks like a walking skeleton with a black-toothed smile, and skin that appears as if it has been affixed to his bones with failing adhesive.

I raise a hand in greeting. Where's our stuff? Slim asks, stopping warily about five yards away, as if he's afraid I'll contaminate him. Even from this distance, I can see a couple of maggots squirming in the gory mess that had once been Slim's nose. That's what I want to talk to you about. Can we talk in private?

Slim looks around him as if seeing the crowd for the first time. It's not a large crowd, not yet. But it's more than I'm comfortable with at the moment. Nah, don't think so. What you've got to say? I swallow. Well, there's been a problem with this week's shipment. It has been delayed.

The grotesque gearheads groan at this news. They start shouting out comments and questions. How long? I need my stuff. This ain't right. Some bullshit. I step toward Slim and raise my voice. I'm working on getting you a shipment, but I need you to be patient.

Can you do that? Slim brings one skeletal hand up to his mouth and starts digging around absently, thinking. After a moment, he pulls one rotten tooth out, studies it with his eyes, and then drops it to the dirt road. You got one hour to get us our shipment, he says. Or we'll have to find somewhere else to harvest our equipment. Wait, I say, but he's already turning away. The crowd seems to swell, quickly doubling in size, as if the news has spread throughout the entire village already.

A chorus of nasty shouts rises from the putrescent crowd. A moment later, a rock comes sailing out. I see it just in time, ducking out of the way to prevent it from hitting me in the face. Permission to open fire? Ramon says from the tower next to the gate. Negative, I say, backpedaling. Just let me out. More rocks zip at me, and I realize they're not being thrown.

They're being launched. While I wait for the gate to open, I spot a couple of strange devices in rotting hands that look like mechanically enhanced slingshots. As the gate rolls open behind me, a man wielding one of these strange devices, aims it at me, and presses a button that pulls the sling back automatically. I tense, getting ready to dodge the incoming rock,

but it never launches. Instead, the device malfunctions and breaks apart, sending one piece of rusted metal straight into the man's face at the corner of one eye. He totters backward, groaning in pain before yanking the piece of metal out. With the gate now open, I dodge back through. Ramon closes the gate as I walk directly toward the trailer. What's up? Bostic asks as he and Dal fall in beside me. What's the plan?

I'm giving them my truck to hold them off, while you two go find a junkyard and get a shipment coming. You're giving them your truck? Dow asks, as if I said I was going to throw myself into a volcano. If they break containment, they're going to head straight for Midway. There are 2,000 people in that town. If it's a choice between my Chevy and saving even one of those people, I'll choose the former every time. How are we going to pay for the shipment?

Bostick asks as we near the trailer. I pull my wallet out and select a credit card. Use this. He takes the card. Both men follow me around to one. what passes for our parking lot on the other side of the trailer. Go now! I tell them.

They get into Dow's Tacoma, still fully dressed in their battle gear. I get into my Chevy Silverado and fire up the engine. As I head toward Vulture Gulch, the Tacoma drives in the opposite direction, kicking up a line of dust behind it in the quickly darkening landscape. Open the gate, Ramon. I say over the radio as I approach. I stop outside the gate and toss out all my belongings. Then I say goodbye to the Chevy as I drive it into Vulture Gulch.

I step out, leaving the door open and the engine running. This is for you! I shout at the still-gathered crowd. A peace offering! We've got more coming! Please accept this! We don't want any trouble! The crowd rushes toward my truck, shouting incoherently. Afraid I'll be swept up in the melee. I hustle back through the gate and watch as my truck is obscured by the undead gearheads swarming it.

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Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Incribe you at BMO.com bar-oblique concourse. The reglements of the concourse is applicable. It's after 10 o'clock when Mancini's voice comes over the radio. What is it?

I ask. Looking toward Mancini's position in Guard Station 5, although I can't see that far in the dark. I'm in Guard Station 3. But I also have a tablet nearby, so I can see the various camera feeds from around the Gulch. They're up to something over here, and they clearly don't want me to see what it is.

They built a shack big enough to fit a couple of vehicles, and they did it quick. Do you see it on the feeds? Check camera seven. As I grabbed the tablet and wake it up, I curse myself for not being more proactive over the last few hours. The denizens of Vulture Gulch have been particularly calm and quiet this night. That should have told me something was wrong. I should have done something to disrupt them, but now I fear it's too late.

Something bad is about to happen. I select Camera 7's feed and quickly find the shack that Mancini is talking about. When did they build that? Just now. A bunch of them did it really quickly. I've never seen them work together that fast before. Usually they bitch and bicker and fight. What was there before? Just a smaller shack with some burnt out car in it. As I stare at the screen, movement from inside the garage-sized shack catches my attention.

The strips of opaque plastic that hanged down. down over the entrance, move as a vehicle rolls through. That's when I noticed the steep hill leading directly from the shack to the wall where Guard Station 5 is. The skeletal car leaves the shack, and flames dance inside the vehicle as it gains speed, rolling down the hill directly toward the wall. Get out of there! Mancini, run!

I hear nothing for Mancini as a few quick seconds pass. Then the vehicle, having gathered significant speed, crashes into the wall at the base of Guard Station 5. The impact causes some kind of chain reaction, and the vehicle explodes. The blast is so strong it takes out the camera, so I have to shift my gaze up, looking at that side of the gulch as a massive fireball roils into the night sky. Breach! I shout over the radio.

Breach! Ramon! Get to Guard Station 5 now! I nearly fall off the ladder to my Guard Station as I scrambled to the ground, hauling ass toward the site of the explosion. Ramon, who at his vehicle parked nearby Guard Station 1, soon appears behind me, his SUV's headlights illuminating me. He comes up on my right, his window down as he slows. Hop on! I do as he suggests, planting my feet on the running board and grabbing the luggage rack with my free hand,

an M4 rifle in my other hand. We round the far corner of the concrete wall and bring the sight of the explosion into view. Smoke drifts close to the ground, obscuring the hole in the wall. if there is a hole in the wall. A moment later, when we're still a good 50 yards away, my question is answered as a large vehicle plows through the smoke. I recognize it as an old snowplow, but I was certain it didn't work. I guess they got it working, I think.

Even in the gloom, I can see that the bed of the snowplow, where the salt would normally be, is filled with undead gearheads. They shout in glee as the truck clears the wall. The blade on the front of the vehicle sends, bits of rubble flying in all directions, and I realize there's more coming. The plow is just clearing the way. Sure enough, three more vehicles emerge, all of them packed with living corpses that have an affinity for mechanics. I recognize one of the vehicles. It's my truck, but it has been modified with metal spikes jutting out of the body here and there, like something

from a low-budget rip-off of Mad Max. The other two vehicles, an SUV and a sedan, are similar to with the plow and the lead they head off through the desert landscape aiming directly for the small town of midway Dozens of gearheads pour out of containment on foot whooping and screaming and carrying handheld weapons Fuck me! Mancini do you copy? Mancini? I wait for an answer, but none comes. Ramon hits the brakes, nearly throwing me off the vehicle. What are we doing boss? Going after them? You goddamn right! I jump off the running board and race around, throwing myself into the front passenger seat. Let's go!

But keep a safe distance for now! I pray Mancini survived the blast, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I have the 2,000 people of Midway to protect. While Ramon drives, running down a couple of gearheads that try to attack us, I pull out my foundation phone and dial what was once caught his number, thinking I'll get his replacement. If there was ever a time for mobile task force intervention, this is it. But the phone just keeps ringing.

Nine, ten, eleven times. No one picks up. You've got to be kidding me. What? No one's picking up. I'm going to try another number. I dial the number for the site director's assistant. It rings once before it's picked up.

Something odd about the voice. But a too jacked on adrenaline to care. This is the security director for SCP 3885. I need a mobile task force now. There's been a containment breach. I'm sorry. I didn't quite get that. Did you say you wanted to speak to the security director for SCP 3885?

Oh, you're fucking joking. It's a goddamn robot. Ramon glances at me, then returns his gaze to the vehicles we're slowly gaining on. They're still about 70 yards away, and they're hauling ass, but we're closing on them. Let me speak to the site director. I'm sorry, but the site director is unavailable at this time. Would you like to leave a message? Transfer me to the Mobile Task Force. I'm sorry. I didn't quite cancel. that. Would you like to be transferred to the Mobile Task Force?

Yes! Hold, please. What are we doing? Should I get close? I shake my head. Not yet. It's transferring me to the Mobile Task Force Unit. I bring the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. The call was dropped. Shaking with frustration, I dial Bostick's number instead.

He picks up immediately. Hey, boss? Where are you? We finally found a place that was open. We're coming back with a loaded flatbed right now. About 10 minutes away. Okay, listen carefully. There's been a breach, and we have four vehicles headed for Midway right now.

I need you to go to Midway, but while you go, try to get on the line with a mobile task force unit, okay? I can't seem to raise one. You're kidding. Not at all. We're about to be in some deep shit unless we get some help. Got it. I'm on it. I'll let Dow know. He's following behind me in his truck. Great.

I say, and in the call. Then I look over at Ramon. We're on our own for now. So let's see if we can stop these undead motherfuckers. Ramon grins without humor, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Let's fucking go! He slams the gas, and the SUV lurches ahead. By the time we near the line of vehicles, the slower snowplow is falling behind the other three.

We need to head them off, I tell Ramon. He nods and veers off to the left, aiming to give the snowplow with its rowdy gearheads a wide berth. But the driver of the plow sees this coming and swerves to cut us off. The contours of the landscape, the jutting rocks and low hills, mean we will only have so much room to maneuver. Peering out the windshield, I see the lights of midway in the distance. We're running out of time.

Fuck it, I say. We got to take the plow out first. I shrug. Take out the tires. After my little jaunt into vulture gulch earlier, I put all my standard equipment on, which means I'm now wearing a ballistic vest, complete with pockets containing spare magazines for my M4.

I'm thankful for this as we come up on the plow on its left side. I roll down my window and stick my gun out, aiming at the back left tires. Before I can fire, something comes flying out of the truck bed toward me. I jerk back inside the vehicle just a moment before a metal spear plunges through the window and pierces the seat back right next to me. I stare at the item and look over at Ramon with wide-eyed wonder. He returns the gaze, which says, Holy shit, that was close.

The moment is shattered as another spear hits the windshield, piercing the glass and stabbing into the center console. Ramon swerves in reaction, and we nearly tip over, but he regains control soon enough. Up ahead of the plow, I can see the other three vehicles pulling away, racing toward midway. Fuck! I yell. Get me closer! Ramon does as he's told. While he drives, I yank the spear out of my seat and toss it out the window.

Then I lean out and fire at the back wheels. The bumpy desert ground does me no favors, and I miss with my first five shots. But now we're close enough for them to throw spears at us again. One comes sailing out from the crowd of undead in the truck bed, but Ramon is ready for it. He swerves, and the spear thunks harmlessly into the desert dirt. I aim my rifle at the tires and fire three times. The two rear left tires shred as the bullets punched through the old rubber. The plow sloughs towards us, and Ramon hits the brakes to slow us down quickly to avoid hitting the larger vehicle.

He whips the wheel right, and suddenly we're passing the crippled plow on its passenger side. I smile, thinking we've just passed one barrier. But before I can revel in our success, I see two figures fly out of the truck bed, sailing through the air to land on the SUV. One of them lands on the hood, while the other one lands on the roof. The one on the hood yanks the spear out of the windshield. Just as he's about to plunge it through the glass and into Ramon, I fire it through the windshield, putting half a magazine into the gearhead's chest.

Although the bullets won't kill him, he's already dead after all. The force of the shots sends him tumbling over the side of the hood. A split second later, a long, sharp piece of metal plunges through the SUV's roof and into the top of Ramon's right shoulder. He shouts in pain, somehow managing to keep us from crashing. I shift position and fire through the roof, emptying my magazine blindly toward the culprit overhead. I'm rewarded as I see a body fall off the left side of the vehicle. Looking back, I see the plow is still coming.

But it's moving much slower. We've bought some time. You okay? I ask, looking at the jagged metal, still sticking through the roof and into Ramon's shoulder. Grimising, Ramon shakes his head once and keeps driving. It's the only answer I'm going to get. I peer out the windshield and through the thin layer of dust floating in the air. The three vehicles are a couple hundred yards ahead. There's no getting around it. They will get to midway before we will. I just hope Dow and Boss to get there before the gearheads do. Square knows that in hospitality, efficiency is everything.

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Ramon says, I follow his gaze and see a large flatbed truck loaded with junk pulling in front of the three vehicles approaching the outskirts of Midway. Dow's Tacoma comes to a halt directly behind the flatbed. We've gained some ground, but we're still 80 yards behind the gearheads. And the illumination cast by Midway's orange streetlights, I see Bostic jump out of the flatbed with a rifle in hand. Holding the rifle in a non-threatening manner, he waves his free arm and points at the junk piled on the flatbed.

Dow joins him beside the truck, rifle pointing at the ground. They both gesture at the junk on the flatbed. The vehicles continue to speed toward town, showing no signs of stopping. They angle away from the truck, aiming to go around it. Seeing that their ploy hasn't worked, Bostick and Dow raised their rifles and fire on the approaching vehicles. One of the vehicles, my Chevy, changes direction and heads directly for the two men. They run around the back at the flatbed to use it for cover. But the Chevy doesn't slow.

There must be 10 or 12 gearheads standing in the truck bed. and they pump their rotting fists in the air as the truck powers toward the flatbed. With growing dread, I watch my modified Chevy smash directly into the side of the flatbed. It explodes on impact, the fireball rivaling the one from back at the gulch. The other two vehicles flanked the site of the explosion, soon disappearing into the streets of Midway. Ramon and I stare silently ahead as the flames die down, revealing a field of smoldering wreckage. The flatbed has been blown in half, and there's nothing recognizable left of my. Chevy. Bostick and Dow are dead. I have no doubt about that. As Ramon guides his SUV around

the site of the explosion, I see several gearheads that had been thrown from the back of the truck getting to their feet or crawling toward the town. Many of them are badly damaged, but it doesn't stop them. I watch as one finds a piece of burnt metal and jams it into his knee joint, where his lower leg used to be. He uses this piece of metal as a replacement leg and lurches off toward the nearest house. It's over, Ramon says, slowing down. We tried, but it's over. Fuck that, I say.

We can still stop them, or at least slow the spread. I'm about to pass out, Ramon says, gesturing at the piece of metal still sticking out of his shoulder. Can you get yourself to a hospital? I can try. Do it. He stops the SUV. I get out and look through the window. He nods at me. I nod back.

Then he takes off. heading toward the south side of Midway to get on the two-lane highway, which will take him to Ahho, where the nearest hospital is located. Holding my rifle, I start toward the outskirts of Midway. The gearheads won't just take anything mechanical they can get their hands on. They will also bite any humans they come across, assimilating them into their strange society. I can already hear the screams as the people of Midway are attacked.

If Midway goes and they get to Ahor or Heel a Bend, this could be very hard to contain. Although as I start toward the town, I know that Ramon is right. There's nothing we can do now. We need a mobile task force. I wonder if Bostick ever got through. Not willing to take the chance, I dig my phone out and call again. But as soon as the robot comes on, I'm distracted by the sound of an approaching jet.

Confused, I look up into the clear night sky, seeing the tapestry of stars across the heavens. Then some of those stars are blotted out as several military jets streaks. toward Midway. It only takes a heartbeat to realize what's about to happen. I drop my phone, turn around, and sprint away from Midway. Behind me, explosions erupt, shaking the earth, and producing a sound like the world breaking in half. A shockwave slams into me, and I go flying through the air, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring impact, and smacking my head on a rock. The gray suit I'm wearing contrasts nicely with the black sling my right arm is in. I didn't plan it like that, but I think it kind of works.

The cuts and scrapes I gathered on that night are fading now, along with the bruises, but there are deeper injuries that will take much longer to heal, if they ever do. I'm sitting in the new site director's waiting room. His assistant sits behind a desk not ten feet away from me. I chose a seat directly in front of her desk on purpose. I wanted to study her, and that's just what I'm doing now. I wonder where she was when I called to talk to him when the breach happened. Did she go home for the day, leaving a robot to deal with whatever calls came in?

Or had she not even been set up in the office yet? For the fifth time since I sat down, the petite woman glances up at me, a worried smile on her face. I'm staring, but I can't help it. Even if I know it's not her fault, she's not to blame for what happened. Not her. Not the assistant. Finally, I tear my gaze away from her and glance at the two besuited security guard standing. standing next to the waiting room door. They stare past me like members of the Royal Guard, trained not to react to anything but the

site director's needs. Director Fulton, we'll see you now, the assistant says. Thank you, I tell her, getting to my feet. I head to the office door that says Site Director Fulton on it and open it. Fulton sits behind a monstrous desk, talking on the phone. He glances up at me and waves me in, while keeping up his end of the conversation. I step into the large office and shut the door behind me. We're underground, so it's impossible to have windows.

But Fulton has the next best thing. Two of his walls have large 4K televisions that have videos of a lush forest on them. As if they really are windows, and we're in the middle of a magical woodland. Yes, Fulton says into the phone. Right. Sounds great. See you then. He puts the phone down and stands up, smiling at me as he buttons his suit jacket over a bulging gut. Fulton looks like your average executive for some Fortune 500 company, or a U.S. senator comfortably wielding his power to help those who gave him campaign contributions.

He rounds the table, holding his right hand out. When he notices my arm in a sling, he smiles and laughs an embarrassed laugh. Then we shake, using our left hands. How's everything healing up? he asks, heading back around the desk and sitting in his chair. Some things take longer than others to heal. I say, looking around from where I stand between two comfortable-looking wood and leather guest chairs. Isn't that the truth? Fulton says from his seated position. He gestures at the chairs, urging me to sit. I remain standing. An awkward moment passes before Fulton starts talking again. Listen, Helm, I just wanted to shake your hand and tell you that you did great under some

difficult circumstances. I wanted to thank you for dealing with a bad situation the way you did. eyes roam all over his office, but they fix mostly on his desk. It's very clean, other than a computer, a couple of family pictures, and a small brass award sitting where it would be impossible for any visitor to miss. The award is turned toward me, and I can see the little plaque on the thing's base. It says, for excellent service and personnel realignment. I understand that we've had to go through some growing pain since I took over this site, so please know that I really appreciate how you've held up these last couple of weeks. I mean, you and I both know

you could have played politics to make my life harder, but you didn't. It takes a real man to do what you did. I picked the award up with my left hand. It's about the size and shape of a baseball on a small wooden pedestal. But the spherical brass award has notches carved in it,

making it look like a stylized globe. Hefting the thing, I realize it has some weight to it. Oh, that old thing, fulton says, waving it away. Just a little thing I got for, what does it mean? I ask, cutting him off. What does what mean?

Personnel realignment. What does that mean? For the first time since I entered his office, Fulton looks truly uncomfortable. It means that I streamlined. His words cease as I put the award in my right hand and use my left to remove the sling strap from around my neck, freeing my right arm. There's nothing wrong with my right arm. There never was.

As I stepped to the side of the desk, I let the sling drop to the floor. You know how many people died that night? Of course, he doesn't answer. He's busy hitting the panic button on the underside of his desk. Yelling, I lunge at him, bashing him in the head with the award. The hit is enough to split his scalp open. Blood pours out. I hit him again, denting his skull.

The third hit cracks his cranium. The fourth and fifth are just for good measure. There for Mancini and Dow and Bostick. The sixth hit is for Ramon, who was caught up in the bombing as he tried to go to the hospital. I tried to hit Site Director Fulton a seventh time, even though he's already dead. But the two security guards yank me off and stomp me until I dropped the award. One of them puts flex cuffs on me and kicks me in the face before stepping over to try and resuscitate his boss. I lie on the floor of the now-dead site director's office and smile a bloody smile.

Let the healing begin. SCP 3885 is the small mining town of Vulture Gulch, located in Maricopa County, Arizona, USA. SCP 3885-01 is the collective designation of the humanoid entities living in Vulture Gulch. These entities outwardly resemble humans in a state of significant decomposition and desiccation. Many exhibit signs of bodily trauma, such as missing body parts or significant lacerations. However, some others display apparent mutations. mutations, such as highly increased muscle mass or additional limbs. All entities demonstrate greatly enhanced physical strength and durability, regardless of body type.

How they exhibit these properties despite their apparent state of physical decay and lack of conventional biological vitality is unknown. These entities inhabit the ruins of SCP 3885 and appear to adhere to a loosely structured communal society, which centers around the construction, repair, maintenance, and utilization of heavily modified automobiles. Lazzangue sur-goled, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. Oh, we'd say that's the lojo.

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