"Jesus Christ!" Howard said, holding up his hands. 


"Doubtful," the man retorted. "Tunneling company, you said? Where 
are your orders?" 


"| have them," Sargent Jameson said, looking at Singh. "Please, let 
me put him down, they're in my pocket." 


The man with the shotgun nodded, and they laid Singh down on one 
of the vacant cots, before Jameson took a set of papers out of his 
shirt pocket and handed them to the man. "...Sergeant Jameson, 
then?" 


"Yes, sir." 
"Says here there are eight on this mission. | see four." 


"...we r-r-ran over unexploded munition," Howard swallowed. "The 
other transport was decimated, and our car is wrecked. We're trying 
to walk to Adamsborough for help—" 


"Adamsborough is lost," the man said, letting his shotgun hang at 
his side, his other hand extending to Jameson. "Captain York, 9th 
Containment Corps." 


"Never heard of you," Jameson said, shaking his hand. "But, if 
you're a captain, | suppose I'm your subordinate." 


"Hmm," the man said, looking out the windows, into the mist. "Good 
thing you came in from the fog. Something tore Adamsborough to 
bits, and it may still be out there." 


"The butterfly munitions?" hazarded Douglass. 


"Yes," York lied. "But there's something else out there; Something 
that can kill a man in an instant, but leaves buildings completely 
intact." He shook his head. 


"Is ita gas?" Howard swallowed, looking at the fog outside. 


"No. Hounds." York growled. When he saw the company flinch, he 
shook his head. "Not bad enough that Jerry's dropping bombs on us 
now, they started parachuting dogs in, too. Curs ate half the village." 


"Oh god." Douglass gaped. "Those poor people..." 


"We've not got all of them,” York continued. "They're vicious. We're 
awaiting reinforcements to exterminate the damn things. In the 
meantime, we've got tea, biscuits, some rations." He shifted aside. 
"Help yourself.” 


"Thank you," Howard nodded, taking his canteen off his side and 
undoing the top, taking a long sip from it. Then, he gasped with pain, 
and dropped it. His hand burned from cold. Frost had formed on the 
metal. 


The corporal smelled tea deeper in the sanctuary, and departed to 
find it, to warm his burnt hand. As he left, Captain York confiscated 
his canteen and took it to someone who was wearing a tweed coat 
and looking through a microscope. 


Captain York stood in the foyer of 19 Wensley Way, looking 
thoroughly unimpressed as his lieutenant made his way in from the 
kitchen, stuffing something into his pocket. "Captain," he nodded. 


"Lieutenant Catchlove." York sighed. "What are you doing?" 


"I'm simply looking around for any cause of the anomaly. We're 
being very thorough." He pulled his hand from his pocket; it jangled 


loudly. 


"Yes, | can see that." York reached for the man's pocket and tore it 
off his pants, causing its contents to fall onto the floor; a gold chain, 
pieces of silverware, a wedding band, and a gold cross deposited 
themselves onto the floor. "God's sake, Catchlove." 


"I'm sending all my money to my sister!" he snapped. "I've got 
nothing left over. And everyone in the Army's doing it, over on the 
continent. Not like they'll need it." 


"I'll not have any of this looting on my watch. We're the Foundation; 
we're not some common soldiers who pillage the dead." York 
scowled at Catchlove. 


"You can espouse that to me when the Foundation decides to pay 
me enough that | can buy new boots." He scooped up cross and 
stormed towards the door. 


It was as he crossed the threshold that the howling started. 


Singh was awake, head bandaged, tea in his hand. A boffin had 
been attending to his wounds for the past half hour, while the 
members of the Tunneling Corps had been conversing with 
members of Captain York's squadron. There was an odd hodge- 
podge of nationalities; the man in the tweed coat was a Pole, 
someone spoke Czech by the door to the church's foyer. A 
Frenchman played cards with Douglass, and a pair of Americans 
was in the back of the room, standing on chairs to look out the high 
windows in the cathedral. Howard wasn't sure what they would see 
out there, between the tinted glass and the fog. 


Howard had a suspicion that something was wrong, but couldn't 
figure out what it was. There was a chill in the air that was unnatural 
for summer, but then again, the weather in the North England was 
fickle; it could just as easily have been due to a squall in the sea 
blowing in cold air. 


The feeling of wrongness became concrete once he realized he 
could see his own breath. His eyes went wide, and he looked out the 


windows, into the fog beyond. It was August; even with squalls 
blowing in cold wind, he shouldn't be able to see his breath. 


A low howl came from outside. Several members of the 
Containment Corps stopped what they were doing and took up 
arms, making their way to the cathedral's front entrance. It sounded 
like dogs were howling, but there was an eerie tone in the bray; 
something that made the hair on Howard's arms stand on end. 


"Don't worry," one of the Americans said as he passed by. "We're 
just going up front to try to shoot a few of the dogs. Make the 
reinforcement's jobs easier." 


"You have any spare rifles?" Jameson asked. "I'm a fair shot." 


"We can take care of this," York assured him, hefting his own rifle 

and making his way into the cathedral's foyer. He knelt in the back 
of the cathedral, and signaled for the poor fool who had drawn the 
short straw to open the door. 


When they did, they were met with a loud thunk sound, as a man fell 
in, ascream frozen on his face, his fingernails bloodied, his pants 
soiled. His eyes were burnt, blackened by some foul force. York 
almost dropped his gun. 


"Jesus Christ." 
"Is it one of ours?" a member of the corps asked. 


"|... oh sweet god." York observed a glint of gold in the dead man's 
hand. "It's Catchlove." 


With a loud growl, a cadet was dragged back into the fog by 
something with far too many teeth to be mortal. A single gunshot 
was heard from the mist. Not even a scream. Even if there was one, 
the rest of the corps were too busy running up the hill to the church. 


None of them had time for throwing blame or on-foot interrogations. 
They were running from a cloud of death to the one place in the 
hamlet that might provide sanctuary: the fortified, millennium-old 
church. They had already set up a temporary headquarters within. 


Document 860-III and IV 


Below are the transcripts of exploration III and IV into SCP-860-1. 
Exploration Ill realized on / / 
Exploration IV realized on / / 


Exploration Ill 


(D-2562 is a 35-year old Caucasian male of strong build. 
Psychological background indicates [DATA EXPUNGED]. Subject 
shows a record of violent behavior under pressure and is 
responsible for the murder of people. D-2562 is equipped with an 
LED flashlight, a handheld camcorder fitted with a transmission 
stream, an audio headset for communication with Dr. at Control, 
and a fire axe.) 


D-2562 inserts SCP-860 in the door leading to the house of Mr. 

, located on Street, , England. He turns the key and 
opens the door, revealing SCP-860-1. D-2562 hesitates, then 
proceeds through the door. After he takes two steps, a loud bang is 
heard. D-2562 turns. The door is closed and attached to a large 
concrete wall. 


D-2562: Now... what? 

Dr. : Please use the axe provided to try to destroy the door. 
D-2562: Uh... you sure? 

Dr. : Please do as instructed. 


D-2562 places the camera on the ground, facing himself and the 
wall, and proceeds to hit the door with the axe. He hits the door four 
times before quickly turning around. 


D-2562: ! Did you hear that? 

Dr. :Nosound came through the audio feed. 

D-2562: It was a loud roar, man, how could you not— 
Dr. : Please calm down and proceed with your task. 


Another soldier fell with a loud scream, begging and sobbing, far 
less dignified than the one before. They dared not to look back at 
the advancing fog, ignored the sounds it made. 


They came upon the doors. A young man rammed them in with his 
shoulder, and fell into the flagstones. York helped him to his feet, 
and guided him into the chapel, ushering in the rest. The mist, 
mercifully, stayed away from the church's threshold. 


York began a headcount once the last soldier was in; his heart sank 
as he realized that it was not a common soldier who was begging for 
his life, but Lieutenant Catchlove. He looked out into the mist, and 
for a spit second, saw a hand reaching out from the fog, before 
being dragged back in. 


Were it not for the size, York would have slammed the oaken door. 
Instead, he shoved it closed, not thinking about his subordinate's 
fate. 


York took too long to respond to Howard's question. "Who's 
Catchlove?" 


"A lieutenant in the company; he was ambushed by dogs on one of 
the side streets." York made his way over to the man, and extracted 
the golden cross from his fingers. "Dammit all." 


Singh, by this point, had made his way over to the foyer, and was 
looking outside at the fog. He swallowed. "There are shapes out 
there." 


"Where?" One of the cadets swung his rifle about frantically. "Where 
do you see 'em?" 


"|..." the man's head swam. "| thought you said they were dogs." 
"They are," York assured him. 
"No." Singh retreated with a whimper. "They're massive. Not dogs." 


"| don't see them!" another cadet protested. "Where are they, you 
daft ass?" 


They soon all saw it; as if condensing from mist, a large, black dog 
with dark, glassy eyes walked through the doors, and looked upon 
those gathered. They hesitated as the hound growled. 


Douglass's eyes went wide. "That's a Grim." 
"What?" Jameson asked. 


"Church Grim. We had one at my old parish. They..." Douglass 
swallowed. "They're harmless, unless provoked." 


"Well, let's hope they've not provoked it." Howard stared. 


The dog came up to Catchlove's corpse and sniffed at it, before, 
with a loud growl, it opened its mouth. In a clatter of metal, the Grim 
deposited at least half a dozen butterfly munitions onto the ground. 


"That's impossible," Howard gasped. "They should have all detonat 


"DOWN!" Jameson yelled, tacking Howard to the ground, while 
Douglass shielded Singh. 


The explosion was tremendous. A single butterfly bomb could take 
off a man's head; the shrapnel from these scattered all over, striking 
Captain York in his hand, and tearing the face off of the poor soldier 
who had opened the door in the first place. At the same time, neither 
the church's stonework, nor the Grim itself, were harmed. The Grim 
barked, and then lunged at a soldier who had escaped most of the 
blast. 


Howard was thankful the explosion had deafened him; he could not 
imagine the screams the man must have made. Those who had 
survived the attack alternatively ran or limped from the church. 
Howard looked down at Jameson, who had a gash running down his 
leg, with a piece of bomb sticking out; adrenaline kept him going. 


"Where are we going?!" Howard yelled. 


He could not hear the reply. He ran, hoping to not get lost in the fog. 


Captain York ran into a garden wall after two minutes of fleeing. He 
hadn't seen it until his nose was pressed against it; the fog had 
blinded him. 


He recoiled from the wall, looking up at it; it was on a corner, with 
signs pointing down each street. The sign he had run into was for 
Sherman Street, and the other was obscured by the layer of fog. 


The man from the tunneling company had called it a Church Grim. 
Harmless, he had said, unless provoked. So, what provoked them? 
They had been what had wiped out the village, that much was 
certain. But then they took off, until Catchlove had tried to make off 
with the cross from the house. 


York looked down at his hand. He had been clutching the ornament 
so tightly that it had left impressions in his hand. He sighed, and 
wrapped it around his wrist. The man in the ambulance was from the 
house that the cross was from. Perhaps his death had provoked the 
Grim? Or Grims? He wasn't sure of how many there were. 


Feet fell on flagstones behind him, and a shape emerged from the 
mist. Captain York drew his pistol and fired on the shape in front of 
him; it ducked down with a loud yelp. "Don't shoot!" they protested. 


"It's you,” York sighed. "God alive. Thought you were that thing." 


"S-sir," Singh stuttered. "I-] got separated. Douglass — from my 
company — was with me, and he tripped on the way down the hill. 
I'm not sure if he's alive." 


"Damn it all." York shook his head. "| know where we need to go. 
Just... careful where you step.” He looked at the garden wall above 
him, where a chunk of brickwork was missing, and casings from a 
butterfly bomb sat on the pavement below. "There are still munitions 
about." 


"You need a tourniquet," Howard said, removing his shirt. 


"No," Jameson growled. "I'll not weigh you down. Find a vehicle and 
get to safety. Failing that, find a phone, and call command, tell them 


that Adamsborough is lost." 
"Sir, | can carry you—" 


"I'm not about to have you eaten by a dog that vomits bombs 
because you can't carry me fast enough." 


Despite Jameson's protests, Howard finished tying a tourniquet 
along his leg, along with a stick as a makeshift splint. "Well, if you 
feel that way, you can walk with me, sir." 


Jameson barely held back a scowl. Couldn't his generation let there 
be a martyr among them? Why did they insist on saving lives? There 
was no glory in returning from war, only a hollow hole in your soul. 
He'd seen it when he was only sixteen, in the Somme. A man laid 
down in front of a tank. He didn't even scream. At least, if he died, 
he could inspire others to keep fighting, or to stop. 


He took up a tree branch that had fallen on the street, one end 
bearing burn marks from a bomb, and limped after Millpond. "Where 
are we going?" 


Howard reasoned, "If we can find a house with a car by it, we may 
be able to find keys. Live another day." 


"Abandoning your post?" Jameson shook his head. "In light of what 
we've seen, | don't blame you." He lurched along on his three legs. 
"Why did you join a bomb disposal unit?" 


"I... I've my mum to support." He sighed. "We lost it all at the start of 
the Blitz. Our house was one of the first shelled, and it's a miracle 
we survived. I've got to take care of her, so | volunteered for a 
tunneling company so that..." 


"So that you wouldn't have to write letters?" 


Millpond shook his head. "This is a dangerous job. | don't want her 
to wait six months for me to be home in a casket. At least if | die 
here, | can get a proper burial." 


Jameson sighed. "After what | saw, in the last war. Just thinking of 
setting foot in France or Germany again..." 


Howard nodded. He had been born after the Great War, but he 
understood the pain it caused. He continued down the street, 
keeping Jameson in his sight. 


There were a pair of gunshots a street away, firing seconds after 
each other. They looked at each other, uneasy, before moving on. 
Howard kept turning, delaying them, swearing he heard another set 
of footsteps behind them, in the fog. 


York and Singh stopped. "What the devil was that?" 


"Rifle fire." York shook his head. "It won't do them any good. The... 
entities. They can't be killed, as far as we can tell." They stood 
before 19 Wensley Way, unaccosted by either dog or munition. He 
made his way up to the front door; a burn mark was on the handle, 
from where one of his men had been consumed by the mist. "I've... 
no idea if this will work." 


"From what you told me, it started after Catchlove stole the cross? 
So bringing it back might..." Singh wrung his hands together. "What 
if we need the corpse as well?" 


"Well, then we're fucked." York spat on the flagstones, and entered 
the house.