Sandy said nothing this time. Minutes passed as Kytes tried to 
imagine what Sandy looked like beyond his ruined eye sockets. 


Kytes finally broke the silence. "The device is still by the nuke. | 
dropped it when we were ambushed. If you can get it and bring it 
back here to me, | can try and help you finish what we came here to 
do. I'm not going anywhere." 


Sandy didn't say anything at first. Then Kytes heard the man slowly 
walk away, his footfalls gently cushioned by the pine needle floor. 


To Jordan Kytes, time stretched like a highway across the dark 
space of his thoughts as he waited to see if Agent Sandison would 
return. Hopefully he would come back with the device he had 
managed to procure thanks to the remaining members of O5 
Command's dwindling resources and connections. It would be 
difficult to try and use it without the aid of his own eyes, but it was 
the best prospect—no, the only prospect they had left. 


"I've got it." The words startled Kytes so much that he yelped. He 
had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the man's 
muffled footsteps. "Sorry, really wasn't trying to frighten you," Sandy 
apologized. 


"Give it here," Kytes commanded. Sandy handed the device to him 
without question. "You're going to have to help me out here, 
Sandison." 


"Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?" Sandy knelt down 
next to the blind man, and listened. 


Far away from the two men, well out of ear shot, something moved. 
It twisted and grew in the darkness. 


Kytes awoke from another dream; this one had actually been 
pleasant. The sun was out, and the air was hot, and he had been 
wearing sunglasses. A dream of summer time. The sound of shifting 
pine needles broke him from the rare visitation of good thoughts. 


"Having second thoughts, Sandison? Or did you already forget how 
to work it?" 


The voice that answered was not Sandy's. It was ancient and bitter, 
and wreathed in a raspiness that made Kyte's think of pumpkin 
vines. 


Blind man and beggar, you flounder in doubt 
Your fumbling confusion will bring you no clout 


Transgressors will fall like the leaves from a tree 


Piled up on the ground with your dead victory 


"Did you come here just to gloat? Or are you going to finish me off?" 
There was certainly real defiance in Kytes voice, but his fear bled 
through the words. 


No need for bloodletting, no need for a boast 
| come here to show you the thing you fear most 
Your eyes now acquired, your- 
"You've lost, did you know that? | made sure of it.” 
Your faith in your friend is so sadly misplaced 
His resolve will falter, so truly disgraced 


"He's not my friend. | have no faith in him. I'm sure his resolve will 
falter, and he is a fucking disgrace. You still lose. You're de-" 


Something grabbed Kytes tongue, and he tried to scream. 


Sandy's head buzzed. His second experience with the teleporting 
device was even more disorienting than the first. He struggled to his 
feet, and gazed around at the large room he had found himself in. 
This wasn't right. 


The large barn was gently lit by the glow of hundreds of jack-o- 
lanterns. Seeds littered the floor, and the carcasses of many 
unnaturally large pumpkins were haphazardly scattered about 
among the rusted farm equipment. In the center of the barn, the 
largest pumpkin Sandy had ever seen hung from the ceiling. 
Hundreds of feet of vines tethered it to the rafters, and it seemed to 
expand and contract like a giant heart. It was black and green, with 
knobby bumps marring most of its soongy-looking surface. 


Sandy was both relieved and terrified when he realized what had 
happened. He looked down at the nuclear device, which had 
unexpectedly arrived with him. He laughed as tears formed at the 
corners of his eyes. 


"You were right about me, Kytes, well played. It's good that you 
knew. | wish | could have told you what | did. | never tried to kill it. | 
was too angry and lost and broken to try. | sabotaged the QES so 
that everyone could feel the despair that | was going through. Even | 
didn't think | could ever be that selfish, but there it is." 


Sandy closed his eyes. "You gave me another chance, and | tried to 
run again. | thought that-" 


Sandy's world became brighter than it had ever been. 

Whatever had grabbed Jordan Kytes' tongue suddenly let go. He 
heard it collapse to the pine needle floor in front of him. 

Guess | won't need my sunglasses after all. It sounds like November 


will be here soon. 


« Bones of Autumn 


Setting: Rough 

Output: A pile of wheat, a small pile of yeast, a puddle of 
water and one (1) segment of twitching, bloody flesh 
(later identified as tuna musculature). 


Input: One (1) tuna sandwich. 

Setting: Coarse 

Output: A small loaf of bread, and chunks of cooked 
tuna. 


Input: One (1) tuna sandwich. 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: One (1) salmon sandwich, on rye bread. 


Input: One (1) tuna sandwich. 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) tuna sandwich. Tuna was later revealed 
to be of the highest quality, with light, soft bread. Testing 
on D-class personnel resulted in dramatically increased 
cognitive capacity; further chemical analysis revealed it 
to contain unusually high levels of Omega-3 and 
Omega-7 fatty acids. 


Input: One (1) tuna sandwich. 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One small loaf of bread baked into a very 
realistic shape of a tuna. When the door was opened, it 
immediately began "swimming" around the room and out 
the door. Subject presumed missing. 


Name: Dr. 

Date: 07-01-2004 

Total items: Five (5) adult SCP-939 specimens. Test 
cleared by O5 Command. 


Input: One adult SCP-939 specimen was placed within 
SCP-914 on each setting. 


Setting: Rough 
Output: A mass of bone splinters, broken teeth, and 


Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black And Lights Are 
Guttering Low 


Four Score and Eleven years ago our fathers brought 
forth on this land, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and 
dedicated to the proposition that all men are created 
equal. 


This portion of the battlefield is where a great man, only 
one year past, laid down his life for this nation. The 
normal course of our lives has become steeped in death. 
Engaged as we are in the great civil war, we lay down 
our lives in the defense of the propositions of our fathers. 
That equality and freedom has begat strife and discord is 
a cause for despair, but the land under our feet is proof 
that we must stand steadfastly beside those principles. 


This land flourishes. It receives the sun and yields up the 
fruits of the earth. Only one year past the greatest loss 
this nation has ever known, the land grows. | do not say 
this to diminish the memory of those that fought here. 
Great men consecrated this land with blood that will call 
out to us until eternity falls and we await god's 
judgement. Yet their loss did not destroy this land. It did 
not render unto us the fruits of that violence. Like our 
fathers before us, those who lost their lives here gave 
their fullest devotion to the principles of freedom. 


It is in their names that we must devote ourselves fully to 
the preservation of those principles. We must bring forth 
on this land a new birth of freedom. We must come 
together with our brothers and ensure that the 
proposition of our fathers does not pass forever from this 
land. 


Abraham Lincoln, 1867. Remarks at Gettysburg on 


the one year anniversary of the assassination of 
Ulysses S. Grant and the Second Battle of 
Gettysburg. 


The sun was sinking low on the horizon when the president stopped 
speaking. If for no other reason than avoiding an assassination of 
his own, she thought it was a good idea when he left to re-board the 
train that had brought him directly to the stage. 


Private Joanna Kirkland finished clapping and looked around for the 
newspapermen. That a gaggle of men had followed the ist 
Suffragette Brigade to various events had bothered her only in that 
she'd went to fight because there supposedly weren't enough 
fighting men left to conscript. 


She thought about the president, his speech, and the days to come. 
The sack of Richmond had turned the war against the South, 
perhaps for good this time. In days, she imagined, she would be 
fighting the Southern bastards in Maryland under General Sherman. 


She gave only a little thought to what she might do after the war. 
Maybe go back to Pennsylvania. Maybe go into the west. 


PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO RIDDLE WYOMING 
STOP INVESTIGATE LOSS OF SEVERAL AGENTS 
AND PARCELS STOP LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT 
PROVIDING ASSISTANCE STOP KEEP LOGS OF ALL 
ACTIVITIES THROUGHOUT 


Telegram to Agent Kirkland from the office of the 
Union Investigative Unit, 1878. 


Mark Mayfield and Jim Johnson wondered at the beauty of the 
eclipsed sun, staring a bit too long at the sky. The hoof beats of a 
horse that wasn't hitched to their postal wagon stood out from the 
sudden silence. Both looked down at the horse's rider. A single man, 
unarmed, galloped towards them on a black horse. 


Neither man raised their rifle to draw a bead on the rider. Neither 
man wished to provoke a violent end, nor appear to be fearful in the 


eyes of the other. The rider came closer. 


Joseph cleared his throat, "It's a frightful day to be riding alone! 
What uh, what business have you with us?" 


The rider didn't respond or slow down. He was almost upon them 
now. Both men gripped their rifles a bit tighter. The rider failed to 
slow. The eclipse was still ongoing, and in the darkness they 
couldn't make out the details of the man's face. Phillips felt sure, 
though, that the man was branded across both cheeks and along his 
hands and arms. 


The two men relaxed when the rider passed them by. Joseph looked 
at Phillip and shook his head in amusement as the left side of his 
face exploded outward in a bloody spray. Phillip's motion to turn 
around and face the now stopped rider was interrupted by a bullet 
entering and exiting his neck. He slumped over, gurgling a protest. 


The gunman produced a match from his pocket, and struck it near 
the canopy on the back of the wagon. The cloth lit up immediately, 
and in a few moments the entire back of the wagon was ablaze. 


The horses at the front of the wagon, either out of fear or sensing 
the heat, neighed and bolted down the road, carrying the men and 
burning cargo along with them. The rider smirked under a wide 
brimmed hat and dropped the pistol he'd used. It disappeared before 
it reached the ground. Before the sun began to peek out from behind 
the moon, the man himself had also vanished. 


Hell's own train-ride, | surmise, would be less troubling 
than that which | undertook last night. 


From sundown to sunrise horsemen engaged in dogged 
pursuit of the locomotive. Hidden in the darkness, as 
they were, the men proved impossible to identify. A 
fellow passenger with more laudanum than sense spoke 
of their pursuit as a regular occurrence. The trainmen did 
not seem particularly flummoxed by the development. 
Perhaps she recited some truth that only they know. 


Regardless, the rise of the sun also brought with it a 
nearness to our destination that made sleep a forlorn 
hope of its own. My vigilance overnight has evolved into 
a sense of weariness that will only be sated after the full 
development of my day's task. | hope this deviation from 
routine was not as much of a folly as | suspect. 


Excerpt from the journal of Agent Joanna Kirkland. 
August 9th, 1878. 


Agent Kirkland set one unsteady foot on the landing. She followed 
that step with another. No one gave her a second glance as she 
disembarked and dragged a bag behind her containing most of her 
belongings. It thumped onto the landing as she left the train. Agent 
Kirkland looked up at the town in front of her and rested her left 
hand on the pistol at her hip. 


The town's construction was haphazard, with hasty construction 
peppering the main thoroughfare. The majority of business 
appeared to be performed out of or inside the dozens of tents 
pitched along the mud road. A cluster of buildings halfway down that 
road was her destination. 


Joanna hefted the bag over her shoulder and leaned forward when a 
bald man in a dusty but expensive coat stepped in front of her and 
produced a bottle with a bright red and white label carrying the name 
"Dr. Wonder's Miracle Cure-All!" in plain letters. Joanna waved her 
hand and moved to go around the man when he stepped once more 
into her path. 


He lifted the bottle up as he inched forward. "Good lady! | believe 
you could stand to benefit from Dr. Wonder's curative tonics! Your 
countenance betrays your weary nature." 


Joanna rolled her eyes and stopped. "I'm sorry. You have me ata 
loss. Mister...?" 


"Cozen. We may not yet be acquainted but | have here," he 
motioned to the bottle with his free hand, "the one thing you truly 
need, if not desire." 


"Mr. Cozen. My countenance is no one's business but my own. | 
have important matters to discuss with the marshal. If you would 
kindly remove yourself from my path and inflict your opinions on 
other visitors, | would appreciate the favor." 


Mr. Cozen seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then stepped to 
the side. Joanna walked past him, dusted herself off, and continued 
down the thoroughfare towards the city marshal's office. 


Dear Mrs. Kane, 


It is with heavy heart and great sorrow that | must report 
to you the loss of your son. Sergeant Kane was a good 
soldier and a great friend to those under his command. | 
feel the need to impart to you the level of heroism your 
son displayed during the Second Battle of New York. 
When his position was overrun, and those under his 
command faced certain death at the hands of the 
Confederates, he led a piercing action through the 
enemy lines. If not for that bravery his men would've 
likely perished. 


lt was brought to my attention that Jacob's brother was 
also lost in the same battle, but as part of the opposing 
force. | cannot imagine the level of grief you must feel at 
this time, and only wish to offer my condolences. Please 
know, that even as this war continues, these lives are not 
lost in vain. 


Excerpt of a Condolence Letter. 
Captain Malcolm Fisher, the Army of the Potomac, 
1867. 


Just as Jacob said it, he knew he'd provoked a response he wouldn't 
appreciate. But he'd said it anyway. Jacob's partner was cooking a 
snake over the fire at the small camp they'd set up overlooking the 
mine. Their horse was already saddled, and the bags along the side 
were weighted down with gold. 


The old man cocked an eyebrow and scoffed. "And | expect you 


think that makes you different?" 
"From?" The younger man stood up from the fire. 


"Different from me. From the rest of the poor souls traveling the 
wastes." 


"It doesn't, as far as I've seen, endear me to my fellow man. 
Something I've come to accept." 


"You're not special." The old man poked at the fire. "Nobody wants 
to be different than they was. We spend our lives trying to move 
forward without letting the air or water or fucking earth we pass 
through alter us in some way." 


"I'm not talking about alteration." 
"Then what the fuck are you talking about?" 


Jacob reached down and grabbed his rifle and canteen. "| just don't 
want to change." 


"Yeah. You and every other poor sod that's walked the earth. But 
that mine," the old man pointed to the opening behind them, "that'll 
change any man. There's gold in there. A few weeks of this and 
maybe | won't have to live like a prehistoric." 


Jacob walked to their horse and hooked his canteen and rifle along 
the side. "This ain't how they lived." 


"How the fuck would you know." 


"I'm just saying, this living feels a bit too comfortable. A little too 
safe." Jacob mounted the horse in one swift motion. "I figure they'd 
be watching the horizon looking for danger."