One of the only men with the moxie to stand up to the Outfit is 
Hymie Weiss — 'The Perfumed Burglar’. But moxie only gets you so 
far. Weiss' North Side Gang is the mom-and-pop store to Al 
Capone's Sears Catalog. Capone's got the muscle, the cash, and — 
unlike Weiss — hasn't managed to piss off nearly every crook in the 
Windy City. He's got Weiss on the ropes — and that's made Weiss 
desperate. 


And if there's one thing desperate men are good at, it's filling up 
morgues. 


Place stinks of chemicals. | pull out a foil-sleeved stick of gum from 
my pocket, unwrap it, and shove it into my mouth. Meanwhile, Dr. 
Dalewood — Chicago's pre-eminent forensic pathologist — makes 
his way toward the large metal plates that line the wall. He 
disengages the locking mechanism on one of them, then casts a 
glance back my way. "You sure you're up to this?" 


| mash the gum against the back of my mouth. "You sure you want 
that twenty?" 


A week ago, a stoolie set to testify against one of Capone's boys 
ended up in the hospital over a case of ‘acute lead poisoning’. Four 
slugs in the brain. Doctors didn't expect him to make it through the 
night. Suddenly, Hymie Weiss shows up with his own personal 
physician. Two days later? The stoolie walked into the courtroom 
and sang his little heart out. Must have been a stressful performance 
— he croaked the next day. 'Brain aneurysm’. 


The doctor grabs hold of the handle and heaves back. The tray rolls 


out with a loud, obnoxious rattle — revealing a shrouded corpse 
stretched across the slab. 


Two days ago, Capone sent a specialist to 'ventilate’ one of Weiss' 
Northboys. Witnesses claimed the bastard ate over twenty rounds 
before buying it. Police are keeping it hush hush, but Mr. Gallant has 
it on good word that the corpse was still crawling two hours later. 
They eventually just set the damn thing on fire. 


Dr. Dalewood pulls the sheet back. He has to work at it; some of the 
linen sticks to the corpse's face and chest. Underneath are the burnt 
remains of Mr. Charles Montgomery — one of Weiss’ personal 
body-guards. 


Not much to work with. But I've done more with less. 


| fish the wad out of my mouth and walk on over to the body, sticking 
the gum to the side of the tray. Then, reaching down, | squeeze Mr. 
Montgomery's blackened, blistered cheeks. Bits of charred flesh 
crack and splinter under my fingers. His jaw pops open like a 
released spring, exposing crooked teeth inside of a still-pink mouth. 


The doctor takes a few steps back. Out of the corner of my eye, | 
see him making the sign of the cross. 


Words never meant to be spoken by a human tongue leave my 
mouth. | follow them with a question to Mr. Montgomery: "Who gave 
you life beyond life?" 


| lower my head and kiss his melted lips, breathing warmth into his 
lungs. 


My hands go to his chest. As | pull back, | push down against his 
sternum. Bones creak and pop — something gives. A surge of fetid 
air gushes out from him, accompanied by a raspy whisper. 


Volo... dya... 


Satisfied, | retrieve my gum and step away, poking the wad back 
into my mouth. But then | hear Dalewood cry out. 


"Mother of God!" 


but liquid or gas instances can be destroyed with extremely light 
impacts. 


Solid instances of SCP-862-1 can register pain and survive trauma 
far exceeding that of regular rats, such as loss of limbs, heavy 
trauma and dissection. Over instances of SCP-862-1 are 
currently present in the containment bunker, which include, but are 
not limited to: 


° instances composed of concrete 

* instances composed of cement 

* instances composed of tarmac 

* instances composed of glass 

* instances composed of wood 

* instances composed of plastic 

° instances composed of metal 

° instances composed of suspended water 

* instances composed of the remains of the original recovery 
team 

* instances composed of the uniforms of the original recovery 
team 

* instances composed of the weapons of the original recovery 
team 

* instances composed of the ammunition of the original 
recovery team 


Instances of SCP-862-1 composed of air are regularly created, but 
are destroyed near-instantly, as they collapse when exposed to the 
slightest pressure. 


« SCP-861 | SCP-862 | SCP-863 » 


| turn. Mr. Montgomery seems to have regained his zeal for life. His 
upper torso convulses; he's trying to breathe on his own. 


| grab the bone chisel from the surgical tray next to me and slam it 
down between his eyes. It sinks in about an inch. He keeps jerking. | 
seize a nearby hammer and start beating at that chisel, forcing it 
deeper. After the seventh hit, his convulsions have dwindled to tiny 
spasms. After hit number sixteen, he's just a twitching heap of 
cooked meat. 


"God in Heaven." Dalewood mumbles a prayer to himself. 
Meanwhile, | hold the hammer up, ready to strike again. 


Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. 
Nothing. 


That's when | see it. Something wriggling inside of his mouth. At 
first, | think it's his tongue — but it's the wrong color. A sickly, pearl- 
like white. Too pale, and too long. Leaning forward, | narrow my 
eyes and get a closer look. 


A segmented worm pokes its head out from the back of his throat. It 
looks like a bloated, over-sized pupa. The thing stretches and 
undulates, squeezing bulges from its tip down to where it's gotten 
stuck — trying to push itself free. | tap Mr. Montgomery's mouth shut 
with the hammer. 


Dalewood's looking a little green around the gills. He's flattened 
himself against the far wall, staring at me and the corpse. 


"Alright," | tell him. "We need to stitch his mouth shut, quick. Also, 


you got an incinerator down here?" 


After | clean myself up and pay Dalewood for his trouble, | climb the 
steps back up into the police station and use their phone to call the 
number Mr. Gallant gave me. 


September's voice responds: "Mr. Hartliss. You'll take the case?" 


"Ten dollars a day to cover expenses. Three hundred when the job 


is done. And I'll need a hundred up front, right now.” 
"Those terms seem rather excessive." 


"The case is excessive. You're asking me to take on a lot of risk." | 
glance around to make sure none of the flat-foots are listening in. "I 
can track Weiss' new ally for you, but it won't be easy. Whoever they 
are, they're dangerous." 


"You already have a lead?" She sounds surprised. | savor it. 
September isn't the sort who's easily impressed. 


"Yeah. It ain't the Spirit. How much do you and your boss know 
about Sarkicism?" 


The line goes quiet for a while. 
"September?" 
"You suspect Sarkic involvement." 


"| don't 'suspect' a goddamn thing. | Know. I've also got a name: 
Volodya. You recognize it?" 


Again, quiet. 


"Look, lady, | don't deal with dramatic silence that well. You familiar 
with the name or not?" 


"We are familiar with Iga Volodya's work," she tells me. "I'll have my 
office forward you our information on her, and wire the money to 
your account. We'll need daily reports from you — you are to locate 
her and determine her involvement with Mr. Weiss. Nothing else. 
Are these terms agreeable?" 


"Nothing about this is agreeable, September. But it'll do." | hang up. 


Finding out that Weiss' silent partner isn't the Chicago Spirit is a 
relief. Guys like Capone and Weiss will spill your guts, sure — but a 
guy like Richard Chapell1? He'll putrefy those guts, blend 'em 
into a milkshake, then make you drink while your family watches. 


Not like the Sarkites are much better, though. They're older than dirt 
and use words like ‘quaint’ and 'rustic' to describe acts of 
cannibalism. They've got dynasties spanning back hundreds — if 
not thousands — of years. Their only saving grace is that they're too 
old — modernity baffles them. | once watched one struggle for ten 
minutes to figure out how to answer a goddamn telephone. 


After a night of rest, | arrive in the Polish Downtown. Crowded 
tenement housing looms on either side of the street; the scent of 
sauerkraut and boiled hot-dogs wafts from a nearby food-cart. A 
newsboy stands on the corner, trying to pass yesterday's papers as 
today's news. 


| reach into my coat pocket and squeeze my pistol — taking comfort 
in its weight. 


The Gallant Society has been keeping tabs on Iga Volodya since the 
1800s. September's file on her reads like a pastiche of half a dozen 
horror stories. Mothers giving birth to bulbous knots of mandrake 
root — their unborn children snatched from their very wombs. 
Babies sown into blood-drenched soil, only to grow into sobbing 
saplings that bleed when cut. Human heads sprouting from the 
branches of trees. 


Y'know, basic Sarkic stuff. 


Volodya was born in Russia, but left with her kids and grand-kids for 
Poland. Immigration papers describe her as ‘a simple turnip farmer’. 
To everyone else, she's Baba Yaga. September's files hint that 
she's had a hand in everything from Rasputin's rise to power to the 
influenza pandemic of 1918. Whoever she is, she's a fully ordained 
Karcist — the Sarkic equivalent of a Catholic Cardinal. 


In other words? I'm to her what a card-sharp is to Harry frigging 
Houdini. 


But even a card-sharp can pull a fast one on a master when the 
master isn't paying attention. 


| slip past the store-fronts and tenement complexes, making my way 
through the alleyways that weave in and out of the spaces in- 


between. Closing my eyes, | walk and breathe — counting back 
from a hundred. The scents and sounds behind me shrink away. 
Little by little, the world dissolves. 


Most people who live here only see one city. A few can see two or 
three. If you're rea/ clever, you know there's more than can be 
counted — each stacked on top of another, like an infinitely nested 
Matryoshka doll. 


| hold my breath, peel back Chicago's layers, and open my eyes. 


The alleyway is now crooked and wrong. Pink veins snake through 
the walls to my left and right; they pulse with a hidden heartbeat. In 
the distance, a heavy, yellow smog obscures the skyline. What was 
previously a dead tom-cat is now alive and growling, lazily grooming 
its spilled entrails. 


| pull out my .45 and start walking. 


Volodya immigrated here from Poland in 1921. She claimed she 
wanted to spend time with her family. Five bucks says Weiss — a 
Polish immigrant himself — is part of the family she was referring to. 


Finding her won't be hard. | tuck the .45 under my sleeve and follow 
the veins, tracing them back to their source. They lead me around a 
corner — past a bakery where all the pastries are stuffed full of 
glistening viscera — past a man selling toys with blood on his 
hands. 


All the veins stretch out to meet a single building. It's a slouched 3- 
story tenement in the poorest part of town. As | approach, | can hear 
the faint beat of a heart. It's getting louder with every step. 


| slip in through the back door and up the stairs. The railing is made 
of cracked, splintered femurs; they are fastened together with wet, 
slick sinew. On the walls, a symbol is scrawled over and over again 
— acrooked spiral of yellow. The boards under my feet whimper 
with pain. 


The heart-beat is deafening. | enter the hall; the walls and floors are 
made of pale, pulsating flesh. Root-like fibers dangle from the ceiling 


above. The door where all the veins converge is a misshapen, 
bulbous thing; it's covered in tumors and pustules, each throbbing 
with the pulse. 


| breathe. The world around me shudders and collapses. | am 
standing in an ordinary hall, in front of an ordinary door. There is no 
one with me. | reach out and knock on the door. 


No answer. 


| Knock again. "Ma'am? This is Officer Dalewood, with the Chicago 
PD. | was hoping to ask you a few questions." 


Still no answer. 


| give the hallway another look-over — still no one around. Then, | 
take a step back and slam the heel of my boot into the space directly 
beneath the lock. After three solid kicks, the wood splinters. After the 
fifth, it snaps and gives. 


The door swings open. | step in. 
Iga Volodya's eyes meet mine. 


She's tied to a bed on the other side of the room, surrounded by a 
dozen or more sticks of smoldering incense. The space is filled with 
stacks of glass cylinders framed in brass — each filled with a pale 
yellow liquid. Segmented worms are suspended in the fluid — the 
same kind of worm | found in Mr. Montgomery's throat. Numerous 
medical textbooks litter the floor, with surgical equipment arranged 
neatly on a nearby tray. 


The incense is for the smell, I'm guessing — but it's not nearly 
enough. Iga Volodya is split open from throat to pelvis, folds of flesh 
pinned back with needles; her organs throb with every beat of her 
still-functioning heart. Inside of her, more of the white worms — 
smaller pupae — wriggle and twist inside of her guts. She stares at 
me from where she's bound, watching me with those pitch-black 
eyes. 


She's not the one helping Weiss. She's being used — harvested. 
Someone's kept her locked up here, using her to grow and cultivate 


these things. 


Her cracked lips peel back to expose yellow, broken teeth. She 
opens her mouth, starting to make a wheezing sound — is she 
trying to speak? It looks like her tongue's been carved out. 


No, she's not trying to speak. 
She's laughing. 


| see the length of loose tripwire on the floor. | see where it attached 
to the now broken door. And then | see the grenade bolted to the 
wall to my right — the grenade that's missing its pin. 


As the world explodes around me, | suck in a breath and dive 
deeper into Chicago than I've ever dived before. 


Next: The Long Goodbye 


Hats 


| have not been here long. 

| do not know much. 

But if there's one thing | know, it is this: 
Alto Clef cannot die. 


The guy is immortal, | swear. He can sit in 682’s containment cell for 
an hour and not get eaten. He can mess with that witch kid and not 
be ripped limb from limb. He can pull off basically anything and the 
O5s can’t do a thing other than give him a slap on the wrist. Now | 
was cool with all this. 


Until he took my hat. 


Clef said that it was nifty enough for him to claim as his own. But 
that hat. That hat was ME. That was what made me, a lowly level 1 
researcher, memorable. | was the guy with the hat. 


And now I’m no one. 


So | went to get the hat. | begged. | pleaded. | bribed. | offered my 
soul to the man. And he said that the only way | was getting this nifty 
hat was to kill him. 


So | shot him in the head. 


My hat reclaimed, | was happy for once. | went about my business 
then. | mean, | wasn’t going to defame his body and carve ‘| WAS 
HERE. CLEF IS ALOSER!!!’ into his chest. | left him. 


And the next day he walked up to me and said, “You'll have to do 
better than that.” He walked away, my hat on his head. 


Something snapped then. | was on a mission. | walked to his office 


and shot him at least eight times, emptying the magazine in my 
handgun. | doused his office in gasoline and threw a couple of lit 
matches in there. And he came back the next day, simply taking my 
hat off of my head. | tried everything | could think of. | filled his office 
with water and watched him drown. | poisoned every thing he ate or 
drank. | sent 076-2 in there after a while. And every time he ‘died’, 
he was back again the next day, the same old Clef, looking like he 
had never been burnt or shot or drowned or sliced into itty bitty little 
bite sized pieces. 


So finally | went up to him. He asked casually, as if it were alla 
game to him, “How are you going to try and kill me today?” 


| replied, “I’m not. Keep the damn hat. It’s lame anyway. | got a 
different one today. It’s better than that one.”