Bruce grabbed his suitcase and allowed himself to be led through a 
painfully bright hallway, up three flights in an elevator, past a waiting 
area with a receptionist desk — deserted at this late hour — and 
through a series of rooms marked with biohazard and radioactive 
trefoil warnings. Down a flight of stairs. Left turn. Right turn. He 
began to suspect the layout was purposefully confusing and 
intended to disorient. They arrived at another door, this one with a 
Judas window, and a guard on the other side had to buzz them 
through. 


They entered what appeared to be a dormitory, with tiled floors and 
fluorescent lighting. Numbered doors were evenly spaced along a 
hall that stretched the length of half a city block. All of the doors they 
passed were closed, the cadence of heavy breathing emanating 
from a few of them. At door number 306 Leonard stopped. He 
opened the door and flicked on the light. 


Bruce's assumption of a dorm was accurate, although one he'd 
expect to find in a prison or state-run hospital. The floor was bare; 
walls cinderblocks with a coat of white paint slapped on. There 
wasn't even a window or desk, just a locker at the foot of the bed. At 
the sight of the thin mattress with its cheap motel sheets Bruce's 
anger and resentment flared, escalated by the shame he felt toward 
his own fear. This wasn't what he'd agreed to at all when he'd first 
met Dennis and signed his name on the dotted line. 


"Hey, what the hell is this?" he said, backing out of the room. "I'm 
not sleeping in here. If you don't want to pay for it I'll spring for a 
goddamn hotel room myself." 


He glanced over his shoulder, back down the hallway. The guard sat 
in a chair reading a newspaper and picking his nose, and Bruce had 
the disturbing revelation that he wasn't there to keep people out. 


He was there to keep people in. 


Leonard said, "The nearest hotel is more than fifty miles away, and 
there're no roads leading from the facility, other than the one you 
took to get here from the airport, of course. No, the only way in or 
out is on foot, by air, or by sea. We have a dock, but there're no 
boats berthed there tonight, and I'm afraid the current would be 
fighting against you. Are you a good swimmer, Mr. Hand?" 


"No roads? Where is this place?" He'd been wondering this for quite 
some time, but hadn't had an opportunity to ask since departure. 
When he'd inquired about his destination to anyone back in New 
York they'd all responded that they didn't know. 


"I'm sorry, Mr. Hand, I'm not authorized to disclose that information." 


Bruce laughed. It was either that or scream. He would've strangled 
Leonard if he didn't have to crane his neck just to look him in the 
eye. The bastard reminded him of Lurch. 


"Am | a prisoner?" he forced himself to ask. He didn't really want to 
know the answer, but the uncertainty was even worse. 


"No, you're not. If you'd like to leave right now we won't physically 
stop you. We'd certainly try to convince you otherwise, and | 
personally advise against it. We hope to have the matter that 
necessitated this meeting resolved within a day or two, and after that 
you'll be returned home, along with a sizable gratuity based on your 
performance. Your cooperation, of course, is expected and could 
further expedite that resolution." 


Leonard spoke monotonously, and yet there was an implacable 
strength projected through his stoic and infuriatingly polite mien. He 
would've made a great butler, and again Bruce was reminded of the 
mute Lurch from the Addams Family cartoons he used to read in the 
New Yorker. 


Bruce said, "| never consented to this CIA covert bullshit, okay? I'm 
an American citizen. I'm a taxpayer. You can't treat me like this. If 
you don't take me to your supervisor immediately I'll contact my 
lawyer." 


"Mr. Hand, we are not the CIA." 
"What? Who the hell are you, then? FBI?" 


"No." And as if that settled the matter Leonard directed his attention 
back to the room. "This is where you will be staying while you're 
here with us. Number three-oh-six. Remember it. There're no locks 
on the outside, but inside you'll find there is a deadbolt if you're so 
inclined. | do apologize for the lack of amenities." 


Oh God, thought Bruce, have | been working for the KGB this whole 
time without knowing it? That would certainly explain the room's 
austere décor. Is he going to address me as comrade and tell me 
that if | don't play along they'll report me as a traitor? A vivid image 
flashed in Bruce's mind. In it he hanged from a gibbet, his pants 
dripping with urine, face bloated and tongue lolling on his lips like a 
dead fish left out in the sun. A crowd of people cheered and waved 
American flags. 


"Who are you?" he repeated, voice reduced to a whisper. 


Leonard ignored him and pointed to the end of the hall, opposite of 
where the guard idly thumbed through the sports section. "Down 
there you'll find the bathrooms. Why don't you go there now and 
freshen up? Shave, shower, do what you need to do. I'll meet you 
back at your room in half an hour and we'll begin." 


"Begin what?" 
"Your orientation. Welcome to the Foundation, Mr. Hand." 
3 


The moon was rising, had reached halfway to its zenith, wnen Echo 
Unit from the Mobile Task Force "Man-Eaters" arrived at Silver 
Creek. At the tail end of the last century, following the discovery of a 
silver vein, the town had experienced a moderate surge in 


immigration. But by the middle of the roaring twenties the lode had 
been exhausted, the mine was shut, and the population dwindled 
until the post office eventually closed in 1948. 


Irvine parked the M38 next to a tar paper shack behind what had 
probably served as the town's church, community center, and town 
hall, all rolled into one. He hopped out, and to the pair of jeeps 
pulling up along side of him said: "Tsavo and Bruin, you men 
continue the chase. We'll meet up with you in a couple of minutes. 
Good hunting." The rear tires spun in the sand before catching, and 
the two vehicles drove off to the east. 


"Leslie," Irvine called. He thumbed the wheel of his Zippo and 
cupped his hands protectively around the flame, lighting a cigarette. 
"Go around and lower the pressure in the tires by another pound or 
two. They're still sinking." 


All of the men in the task force were expected to serve ina 
secondary capacity. Leslie — whose real name was Lesniewksi — 
pulled double-duty as the unit's mechanic. 


"I'm on it," Leslie said and notched a salute. 


Irvine strolled to the edge of the Silver Creek cemetery and swept 
his eyes over the grounds, trying to solve this new puzzle. The 
cemetery was illuminated by the jeep's headlights, a half acre of 
land overgrown with weeds and scrub, enclosed by a split-rail fence. 


Sergeant Kontos approached a section of fence that had been 
knocked down and pounded into splinters. "Our target definitely 
came through here," he said, stating the obvious. Behind him 
Anderson began rolling with his camera. 


Irvine nodded. He entered the cemetery through a small gap that 
had once been a gate — he could still see the rusted hinges 
screwed into the post on the left — and threaded his way between 
the plots. Brambles and Arizona thistle snagged at his boot laces 
and pants. Far away a group of coyotes yipped and howled at the 
moon, while a cold wind combed the desert and drove the top layer 
of sand across the flat like a rushing blanket of mist. 


SCP-864: Efficient Washbasin 


Item #: SCP-864 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-864 is to be held ina 
standard containment chamber, located in Site-77's Euclid SCP 
wing. This chamber is to be kept devoid of any moisture, and 
inspected once a day to check the seal. During testing, no personnel 
are to enter the testing area. In the event that articles of clothing 
manifest, they are to be stored as non-anomalous artifacts. 


Description: SCP-864 is a 20 cm tall washbasin with a 10 cm 
radius, composed of red metal commonly found in washbasins. The 
words "Made in China" and "Cherry Imperial Goff Applications" are 
imprinted on the bottom with black ink. No company of that name is 
found anywhere in China. 


When SCP-864 contains at least 200 ml of water, it will manifest an 
instance of SCP-864-1. Instances of SCP-864-1 designates a series 
of appendages which have appeared from SCP-864. Instances of 
SCP-864-1 may attempt to seize a human subject within their reach, 
and violently pull them into SCP-864. Instances of SCP-864-1 do not 
always attempt to take the subjects, with tests showing that the 
majority of SCP-864-1 instances will make no attempt to attack 
human subjects. No subjects taken through SCP-864 have been 
recovered. 


Instances of SCP-864-1 known to have manifested include: 


¢ Four human arms, estimated to be 60 cm long. Lurched after 
a D-class personnel, but were not able to catch him. 
Retreated into SCP-864 after being engaged by 4 security 
personnel. 

* Humanoid appendages resembling SCP-1193. Did not 
respond to stimuli and withdrew during SCP-1193's next 


He counted fifty freshly exhumed graves, coffins torn open from the 
inside and the bodies missing. It was as if they'd suddenly been 
resurrected and clawed their way out. 


"That must be why she zigged when we needed her to zag," 
Martinez said, jettisoning a wad of snuff from the pocket of his 
cheek. "Smelled the fuckin' corpses." 


"They don't need to be...y'know, alive?" Boyle asked. 
"See for yourself,” said Martinez, indicating the shallow holes. 


The Foundation had scoured the surrounding land for any human 
within a fifty mile radius of the Chimney Sweep corridor. They'd 
closed highways and mandated the evacuation of towns under the 
pretense of impending tornados. After airlifting two men from a 
broken down International Harvester on Route 32 and a group of 
paleontologists digging up fossils outside the town of Charlton, the 
Reconnaissance and Survey department had announced the area 
was Clear except for the presence of limited Foundation personnel. 


Irvine hunkered down next to one of the pits. He removed his hat — 
a black Resistol — and scooped up a handful of the disinterred 
earth, inhaling the rich clay scent. The dirt was cool and damp; it 
hadn't been exposed long enough for the air to dry it out yet. 


"You think Martinez is right, sir?" Boyle said. 


He tipped his hand and let the soil spill like a cataract from his 
spaded fingertips, hollowly pattering against the lid of the empty 
casket. On an impulse Irvine pulled off the ivy that covered the 
grave's marker, a flat piece of granite with a horseshoe engraved in 
one corner. The marker had been split into four fragments. The 
epitaph was worn but — when combining all pieces — still legible. It 
belonged to a veteran of the Spanish-American war. 


Irvine exhaled twin contrails of blue cigarette smoke from his nose. 
"Yeah. Yeah, it seems Mr. Martinez is right." 


A splash of red caught his eye among a patch of Indian tea. He 
plucked it from the leaves, thinking it was an odd place to find a 


child's toy, turned it over in his hand, and immediately dropped it. 
Kontos said, "What? What was it?" 
"Nothing," he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. 


What he'd mistaken for a ball was actually a small head lacquered in 
blood, like a candied shell around a rotten apple. A millipede crept 
across its cheek. The lips were missing, and its milk teeth were just 
starting to come in through the gums. It wasn't from the graveyard, 
as it couldn't have been dead for more than a day or two. Irvine 
should've known better than to touch it. He told himself that even if 
Chimney Sweep had been successful it wouldn't have made the 
baby any less dead. Death didn't work on a sliding scale. 


He sighed, put his hat back on and stood up. Nobody said anything. 
The Foundation was apparently unaware that dead bodies were 
affected by the phenomenon. They'd only searched for living people, 
and had performed a cursory examination of the Silver Creek ghost 
town before declaring it empty. Now the anomaly was off course, 
and tonight, instead of celebrating a successful mission over a 
couple of pints, Man-Eater was stuck wandering around the desert 
in the dark. 


"So how come it didn't take all of them?" Kontos said. 


It was a good question, one that Irvine had been mulling over 
himself. Almost half the plots had been left unscathed. And although 
most of the headstones had been toppled from their plinths and laid 
smashed to gravel among the weeds, there were a few that he could 
still make out. He compared the surviving stones on some of the 
undisturbed graves to the ones that'd been exhumed. 


He said, "Most of the ones it left alone are older. A lot older. Look, 
this one's death is dated 1876. Maybe they're too far gone for it." 


"It likes the fresh meat," Martinez said. 
Irvine shrugged. "I don't think taste has anything to do with it. Boyle." 


"Yes sir?" 


"Get on the horn with Mercury. Tell them the news, and that it 
seems to be dependent on the state of decay." Anticipating the 
base's response, Irvine added, "And no, we don't know at what point 
in the decomposition process they become...ah, inedible. 
Inconsumable." 


He could see it unfold if he closed his eyes — the skip battering its 
way through the graveyard, plucking the corpses from the ground 
like so many rows of ripened crops. 


"Leslie!" he shouted. 


"What?" came the response as Leslie returned from the jeeps, 
wiping grease off his hands with a rag. 


"You finished deflating those tires?" 


"Yes sir. Also topped off the fluids, fixed Damnatio's headlights, and 
replaced the fan belt on Mugger. If you guys continued this circle- 
jerk much longer | probably could've gotten a fresh coat of wax on 
‘em, too." 


He was exaggerating, there was no time to complete all that, but 
Irvine chose to ignore it. "All right. No one likes a show off." 


Leslie stuffed the rag in his back pocket. "Roger wilco. We do have 
one problem though, sir." 


"Just one?" he said. "Well, that comes as good news to me. Come 
on, spit it out man." 


"We're low on fuel." 


Irvine frowned beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. "How could that 
happen?" he said. 


"It's Chimney Sweep all over again. We didn't plan on having to 
drive beyond the corridor." 


"So how much gas do we have?" 


Leslie said, "Less than half a tank." 


"And where will that get us?" 


Leslie completed the simple arithmetic in his head. The fuel tanks 
held fifteen gallons, and in this terrain the jeeps got about fifteen 
miles to the gallon. "We're looking at around a hundred, a hundred 
and ten miles. Maybe." 


"What about the bikes?" 


"The bikes get better mileage but they've got smaller tanks, so it 
evens out." 


They might make it on that. Then again they might not. There was 
no way for them to condense the number of M38s to four, nevermind 
three, to try and save on fuel. Not without breaking up the task force. 
There were sixteen members of Man-Eaters in the unit, and what 
little space in the jeeps they didn't occupy was packed tight with 
their supplies, gear, equipment and ammo. The rear seat of the jeep 
that Lesniewski drove had been removed specifically so that extra 
canisters of gasoline could fit. 


If it came down to it, Irvine would just have to siphon gas off from the 
other jeeps and leave the rest of the unit behind. 


Hopefully it wouldn't come down to it. 


"Come on," Irvine said, "| don't know about you but I've had enough 
of this place. Let's get the hell out of here and catch up with Tsavo 
and Bruin." 


The wind would've long erased the tread marks left by Tsavo and 
Bruin. Not that it mattered. The skip itself wasn't hard to find. 


All you had to do was follow the trail of the dead. 
4