William Blaine’s death was mostly painless. When he 
first noticed he was out a fuel, he had accepted his fate. 
Narracota had survived, but he wasn’t Narracota, he was 
Morris. He knew that the sandwiches given to him by Mr. 
Rios were poisoned with a particularly slow poison; too 
late. 


In a final attempt at spite, he released the ladder. He 
knew it would probably mean nothing, but his final image 
in his mind was of the poor sod who had been pushed 
into the water climbing onto the boat and finding his 
body. 


“Where’s Clay?” 


“He said he was going to the radio room, try and hail 
Blaine,” answered Rawley to Ayad’s question. 


They didn’t have to look for long. Daniel Clay the Third 
was found sitting on the radio room chair, his throat 
sliced open from ear to ear. His face was stoic, his eyes 
closed. Blood had splattered all over his clothes. 


Rieben vomited for the second time that day. Ayad fell 
silent. Goddard checked his pulse. Anderton looked at 
Shevchenko, who looked back. Rawley went to check on 
Devers. Thornton fiddled with the speaker in his hands, 
in a futile attempt to distract him from death. 


It was Sellars who said, “Clay’s dead... murdered, and 
somebody’s responsible.” 


6. Jane Anderton didn't look at him as he asked if it was safe 


Goddard and Reiben took Clay’s body to his room, both 
trying their hardest to avoid his- its?- vacant stare. 


“How the hell did a kid like you end up working for the 
Cl?” 


“Pretty simple, actually. Sam- yes, he was the guy | 
killed- said we should sign up. I’d always been interested 
in the anomalous since | was a kid, and | guess | saw it 
as an opportunity to really change the world in some 
way. You know what we were working on when Sam 
died?” 


“What?” 


“This gun we were making for the Mi- these guys, which 
was basically a really powerful tranq rifle. Like, it was 
brilliant. Had to break a few laws of physics, but it was 
worth it. Full auto. Just took one of the darts to hit the 
guy and he'd be out. Not strong enough to penetrate 
bones; biggest chance of injury was it smacking straight 
into your eye and blinding you.” 


“I’m guess something went wrong.” 


“Sam kept saying that he wanted me to shoot him, just to 
make sure it worked perfectly before we showed it to the 
buyers. Had a fatal allergic reaction to the sedative. Died 
before | could get a doctor to him. Cleared me of all 


blame, since Sam made a note saying he’d accept all 
responsibility. | just...just wish that | hadn't done it.” 


“Jesus. You were friends?” 
“Probably more than that, actually.” 
“Sorry.” 


“Nah, not your fault. So, what happened to you? How’d 
you kill Fred McPherson?” asked Reiben, laying Clay 
onto his bed. He had almost forgotten he was carrying 
him. 


“Can't recall it exactly, but | think I’ve got a good idea of 
what he’s on about. Back a few years ago, | was in 
South Africa chasing after this anomaly in this old street. 
Fired at it, must've accidently hit this guy. He was 
bleeding on the road, begging for help. Had a choice 
between either saving one life, or letting the anomaly kill 
more. Easy choice, don’t regret it.” 


“Do you regret it now that we've got this guy killing us off 
one by one?” 


“Fair point.” 

“JESUS!” 

Rawley’s scream was heard by everyone on the island. 
Ayad and Shevchenko sprinted in, only to find Devers 
sitting up on his bed and Rawley looking at him like he 
was a ghost. 

“Christ, Devers, you scared the hell out of me.” 

“So, uh, who poisoned me?” 


“We don’t know, but...” 


“Clay’s dead,” said Ayad suddenly. 


“What? How?” 
“Some bastard slit his throat.” 
“Who?” 


“We don’t know. Whoever it was is probably one of us, 
and probably isn’t going to stop at us.” 


The nine survivors gathered in the dining room. 


“Okay,” said Rawley, holding up Rieben’s pennant of the 
poem and his copy of the book. 


“The killer is obviously basing their murders on both this 
book and this poem. Now, one of us is dead, and they 
are going to continue to do so until we are all dead, 
minus themselves. That much is obvious. 


“| don’t know how many of you have read it, but I’m going 
into some serious spoiler territory, mainly because our 
lives are at stake. The first person to die had his drink 
poisoned; the killer anticipated this, used that as a 
distraction so he could get to Clay. 


“Now, seeing as the killer in the book faked his death, we 
will be thoroughly checking to make sure the dead are 
actually dead. We've all committed crimes, we all work 
for enemies, but if any of us want to walk off this island 
alive, we have to work together. Agreed?” 


There were a few murmurs of agreement. 


“| think we’re each meant to represent a character in the 
original,” said Reiben. “Considering that my murder was 
both accidental, and that my name is Edward, | reckon 
I’m Armstrong.” 


“But you’re not about to ally with the killer with the benefit 
of hindsight, are you?” said Shevchenko. 


“Good point, but | suppose he’s trying to subvert it on 


every count.” 


“It’s late,” said Anderton. “We should sleep.” 

“...m sorry, but have you been listening to a fucking 
word we’ve been saying?” said Goddard. “Did the part 
about the psycho killer running about become lost on 
you?” 


“If we are gonna sleep, we should all get in one room. 
Keep three people awake at all times.” 


“How will that help? The killer could just, | don’t know, 
drop a grenade and run,” said Sellars. 


“They have to follow the poem, remember?” cut in Ayad. 


“Yes, but what's stopping a particularly paranoid person 
whose goal is to simply off us all to ensure their survival 
doing it?” 


“The obvious lack of grenades?” said Goddard, but that 
did not stop them going to their separate rooms that 
night. 


Rawley looked around her room. Why had the killer 
hanged the pennant in Rieben’s room? Why poison 
Devers in particular? 


Probably just random. She locked her door, and pushed 
the bedside table next to it, locked all the windows, and 
did a final sweep of the room to make sure it was totally 
devoid of anyone but herself. 


She considered just staying up all night, pointing her 
revolver at the door until morning. 


But then again, “One got too tired, and then there were 
eight,” was next, and she didn’t fancy tempting fate, so 
she slept. 


When Shevchenko found a copy of And Then There 


Were None resting on his bed, he decided that skimming 
through it could give him some clues. 


It was 2 AM when Shevchenko read the epilogue. It was 
a single sentence that suddenly revealed to him who the 
killer was. God, it was obvious. Their motive wasn’t 
revenge, it was some twisted form of justice, mixed with 
a heavy dose of a- 


Lev Shevchenko turned the last page, and the memetic 
image stuck to it was the last thing he ever saw. 


5. Lev Shevchenko threw the torch onto the house 


The breakfast table had two empty seats the next day. 
Ayad said he would get Shevchenko, but everyone 
followed him. They had all been expecting it. 


“So, what killed him?”asked Reiben. 


Goddard checked the book, creased over on the last 
page. 


“This,” he said, holding up the image of alien geometries 
and impossible colours. 


“...What’s that, and why aren’t we dead?” 


“Mimetic image. Fatal to 0.5% of the population. | guess 
the killer did his research.” 


“Shouldn't we make sure he’s dead?” asked Anderton. 
“Good point,” said Devers, checking his pulse. 


“Nah, | was thinking more like stabbing him through the 
eye.” 


“...what? Why the hell would we do that?” said Ayad. 


“Because he’s either faking his death, and therefore the 


killer, or dead anyway, so it doesn’t actually matter.” 
Reiben was sent to fetch a knife, and returned quickly. 


Anderton drove it deep into his vacant eye. Nothing 
changed. 


“We should search the island,” said Goddard. “In threes. 
While the search in the book didn’t turn up much, the 
killer may- just may- be using reverse psychology. That’s 
how he got Clay. 


“I'll go with Rawley, Devers, and Thornton, give a brief 
search of the north. You four take the south. Oh, and go 
and get a mirror.” 


“Uh, why?” asked Sellars. 


“Lombard managed to actually get the mainland’s 
attention by heliographing. True, he wasn't there to see 
them arrive, but it’s worth a try.” 


The second Goddard’s squad exited the house to the 
small grassy field that composed the northern half of the 
island, he said, “It’s got to be one of them.” 


“What?” asked Devers. 


“It’s one of them. Got to be. Look, | think | can trust you. 
At the very least, | know I’m not the killer, and two of you 
must not be the killer, or I'd be dead at this point.” 


“Okay, you've correctly pointed out something that we all 
figured out when Clay died. What’s your point?” said 
Thornton. 


“My point is, their lives are not equal to ours. Anderton is 
a totally ruthless bitch; she killed that Kimball bloke for 
profit. Reiben work for the Cl, even if his killing was 
accidental. Sellars killed thirteen people for art, even if 
was an accident that amount of negligence probably 
means he deserves a bullet in his head. Ayad... well, we 


SCP-613: "Wonder Bread!" 


Item #: SCP-613 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Foundation assets are to 
monitor all reports of anomalies similar to SCP-613-1 and 
investigate if necessary. All instances of SCP-613 are to be kept in 
Safe Item Storage in Research Sector-96. All individuals found to 
have knowledge of SCP-613 are to be interviewed, dosed with Class 
B Amnestics and released. Instances of SCP-613-1 are to be 
interviewed upon creation and contained in a climate-controlled 
environment for observation, experimentation and research until 
such time as they cease to be viable due to spoilage. Instances of 
SCP-613-1 in containment are to be tagged with stickers listing their 
names and the temperature at which they rose. 


Description: SCP-613 is a piece of brand pad paper showing 
a handwritten recipe for a normal loaf of wheat bread and the words 
"WONDER BREAD RECIPE: PLEASE REFER TO THIS PAPER 
FOR OPTIMUM RESULTS". There are at present 10 instances of 
SCP-613 in Foundation custody. All instances of SCP-613 are 
identical. The recipe is completely identical to other common recipes 
for regular loaves of wheat bread; however, when a loaf of bread is 
created by a subject who is only following directions from SCP-613 
or memory of it without consulting any other sources, the loaf of 
bread will become an instance of SCP-613-1. 


SCP-613-1 are loaves of bread created while following the directions 
on SCP-613. Instances of SCP-613-1 can vocalize through unknown 
means and achieve self-locomotion by sliding across and rotating on 
surfaces, and are capable of sensation and perception of their 
environment. All instances of SCP-613-1 are fully sapient and have 
distinct personalities and identities unique from other instances. 
SCP-613-1 that rise at normal room temperature will have average 
mental states and intelligence as expected of adult human beings, 


don’t know him, do we? Always sticking to the shadows, 
always walking off with a weak excuse.” 


“So what’s your plan?” asked Devers, although he 
already knew what he was proposing. 


“That we kill all of them. I’ve got a gun, they don’t. Four 
against four, with our four better trained, better armed, 
and with the element of surprise.” 


“And if one of us is the killer, we will have murdered four 
innocent people for no reason and still end up dead,” 
said Rawley. 


“A risk we’ve got to take. It’s one of them for sure.” 


“Well, I’m not doing it. Jesus, Goddard, Ayad’s literally 
done nothing and you're saying we should kill him?” 
protested Thornton. “Like you're any better. Who was 
this McPerson bloke, then?” 


“Shot him accidently chasing an anomaly. Who was- 
Connor, was it?” 


“| suppose there’s no putting it off. Connors was a prick 
who worked for the Cl- part of the group Rawley sent to 
their deaths- and the Foundation handed him to us to 
circumvent some rules or something. Taggert and | 
brought him in, but he wouldn’t talk. So | tried beating it 
out of him. Taggert gave me some bullshit about 
“regulations” and how “He who fights monsters should be 
careful that he himself does not become a monster”, but | 
didn’t care. Beat the shit out of Connors; that | have no 
regrets over. He told us where their base of operations 
was, but then he had to bleed out anyway. | didn’t mean 
to kill him, but what’s done is done.” 


They stared at him for a few seconds. 


“We’re all going to die.” Rawley said it with no 
forewarning. 


“What?” 

“| mean, this is all a fucking game to this shit. Just a 
fucking horror movie, just because he got bored and 
couldn't think of anything else to do. And he’s just going 
to keep doing it and doing it and it’s never fucking going 
to stop, and we can’t stop-“ 


Rawley was hyperventilating. 


“Two people | talked to last night are dead. And | don't... 
| don’t feel... | don’t feel anything...” 


Thornton put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, we're 
gonna be fine.” 


Goddard spoke next. 


“I'll die fighting a war, I'll die slowly in bed, but | am NOT 
dying because of someone’s shitty game. I’m getting out 
of here, and | hope to hell | can take you with me.” 


“Well, | think we should actually explore the damn island. 
’Il check the cliff. Goddard, you try the trees over there. 
Rawley, Thornton, check the house.” 


Edward Reiben had finally caught the sun in his mirror. 
He stood a meter away from the cliff edge, the tide 
violently smashing against the jagged rocks. 


“Got it!” he shouted, only to find one of his three 
audience walking back towards the house. 


“Hey, Ayad, where the hell are you going? Gotta search 
the island, mate.” 


“| need to pray.” 
“Can't it wait?” 


“I need to pray.” Ayad walked out of view and back into 
the house. 


“Look, land’s about ten miles away, Reiben. They won't 
see you.” Anderton was already walking away as she 
was Saying it. 


“Just hold on a second.” 


Reiben spent a few more seconds angling the mirror in 
the vague direction of the land, before he realized he 
was alone. 


He was about to shout, “Oh shit,” and run towards the 
others. He was about to run back towards the house, 
thankful to have realized just in time what a stupid move 
splitting up had been. 


He never did any of those things. 


Edward Reiben was pushed. He felt his legs go out from 
under him, as his arm smacked against a rough 
outcropping of rock. He spiraled off the cliff, down into 
the icy cold waters of England’s winter seas. 


4. Jacob Devers spent one final moment with his finger on the trigger 


They gathered in the dining room a few minutes later, 
Ayad carrying a single shoe that had washed up on the 
shore. 


“Where the fuck is Reiben?” shouted Goddard. 


“We... we don’t know. We left him heliographing.” Sellars 
did not look up at Goddard; he looked solemnly at the 
stained tablecloth. 


“What?” Goddard said it with an equal amount of 
disbelief and anger. “WHAT? You fucking idiot! | told you 
not to split up!” 


His main source of fear was that he himself had been 
stupid enough to split up; the only reason it had been 
Reiben and not him was total luck. 


“Well, if you were all together, then it has to be one of us 
three, right?” said Sellars. 


Thornton looked at Devers who looked at Rawley who 
looked at Goddard. 


“We spilt up too.” Devers was totally deadpan as he said 
it. 

“You fucking hypocrite!” shouted Anderton. 

“Look, shouting isn’t going to get us anywhere,” said 
Thornton. “We need to think logically. We can presume 


Reiben is dead; “Tried to fly and join them” pretty much 
guarantees it.” 


“Could’ve faked it. Just like the killer did in the original 
book.”