“’The earth shall tremble in the land of the people of Dae, and lo, all 
the peoples shall know the flesh that hates’... we believe this to be 
in reference to an anomaly currently contained by the Foundation in 
the region of Lake Baikal in Siberia.” Redmond motioned for Brown 
to come over. He did, handing Mary-Ann a tablet. The picture 
displayed on it was the inside of a house, with something like a man 
sitting at a table. The thing’s skin was brown and waxy, a blobby, 
grotesque amalgamation of tumors and scar tissue and dried vomit. 
There was no head, just a melting mass of red flesh coiled on the 
tabletop. Mary-Ann made sure to have it positioned where Naomi 
couldn’t see the screen as she went through more pictures of 
infected people and rotting villages. To be completely honest with 
herself, Mary-Ann couldn't help but compare these things to the 
Flood. Dangerous thinking, that. Thinking things operated on the 
same level as their fictional counterparts generally led to being 
dead. 


“The anomaly, designated SCP-610, is an infectious disease, 
something akin to a virulent, easily communicable cancer,” 
Redmond said. “610 cell growth is capable of consuming a person 
within five hours, turning them into what you see there. There is no 
cure, save complete immolation. Eventually, when infected 
individuals progress to the later forms of the disease and are 
gathered in a high enough density, SCP-610 will begin to change 
the local environment, in a form of terraforming. At this point, it is 
capable of spreading by air.” 


“Then destroy it. Just say it was a military test or something, you 
guys can get away with that, right? Or just a forest fire, | don’t know. 
Put more men on the job, double your security, put it on absolute 


lockdown... for the love of God do your jobs!” 
Redmond shook his head. 


“The outcome is pre-ordained, Ms. Lewitt. If we were to attempt 
more security and hope that all would be well without the ritual, it is 
inevitable that a single infected individual would escape. Events 
would twist themselves until it happened. Slips of the tongue, slips of 
the mind, building up until that one fatal mistake occurs. Destroying 
it without the ritual would likely ignite full-out war, or many other 
unforeseen consequences.” 


“You’re sure? There’s no other way.” 
“If there was, we would not be here, Ms. Lewitt. I’m sorry.” 
“How bad is it going to be? Maybe we can just wait it out...” 


“The nearest city to the containment zone has a population of a five 
hundred thousand. If the infection were to take hold of the city, it 
would easily reach enough density to begin aerial spread and 
terraforming operations. At that point, it would begin spreading into 
Mongolia and China, through the Middle East, and to eastern 
Europe. Were the infection to reach this point, it is doubtful that even 
a nuclear sterilization of the continent would be enough to contain it. 
The death toll by then would be in the billions.” 


Billions. It always sounded like a fake number, something so big that 
the average person couldn't imagine the size. Just a word, 
something that didn’t even really exist. But that was a lie. It did exist. 


“This can be stopped, Ms. Lewitt. Those deaths can be avoided.” 
Redmond straightened his tie. “Instead of a continent lost, instead of 
five hundred thousand lost, one life is given to save them. That is 
the definition of heroism, Ms. Lewitt. You and your daughter are ina 
position to save the world, or damn it. | do not say that lightly.” 


Mary-Ann said nothing as she stared a patch of carpet off to the 
side. She didn’t want to look into those Foundation cow-eyes, not for 
this. Naomi was resting against her chest, breathing softly. Already 
asleep, even though her fate was being decided. 


God, please, help me. Please. 


“Would you die to protect your daughter, Ms. Lewitt?” Redmond 
asked. 


” 


“Yes. 


“Would you kill to protect her?” 


” 


“Yes. 


“Not a burglar or a murderer or a kidnapper. An innocent person on 
the street. If your daughter were sick, and the only way to save her 
life would be to walk out your door, find a child, put a gun to his 
head, and pull the trigger, would you do that, Ms. Lewitt? Would you 
kill him, and then kill his mother, and his father, and his brothers and 
sisters, his friends, his classmates, his teachers...everyone he has 
ever known or met or heard of? And you find that it isn’t enough. 
Would you walk down the street, and start killing his neighbors, and 
their families? Could you keep killing and killing and killing until five 
hundred thousand people were dead, just to keep your daughter 
alive? And then find out that it wasn’t enough, that she was still 
dying, that you had to kill more, and more, and more, until you can 
look back on everything you’ve destroyed and everyone you’ve 
killed and say that you did it for her. When she grows up, will you be 
able to look her in the face and tell her that you did it all for her?” 


“Stop.” Mary-Ann looked up from the floor. “Just...stop.” There were 
no tears. The old hollowness was back, welcoming her into that 
gaping, toothless abyss with empty arms. Instinctively, the walls 
went up in her mind, the door was locked, but the cruel claws of the 
world tore down her defenses. There was no alternative here. The 
outcome was pre-ordained. 


No...please, God, no... 


She couldn't do it. She couldn't be that killer Redmond described. 
No sane person could. No sane person would wish for mothers and 
fathers and children that fate of life as a blob of cancerous flesh, 
mindless and undying. For a moment, her imagination turned Naomi 
into one of them, a lump of raw red meat and dead brown scars. Bile 


rose in Mary-Ann’s throat. No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be 
that monster. She couldn't pass that fate to another. 


But she would not live as the monster that killed her own daughter 
either. She would not live with that shame. She would not live with 
the guilt. 


No. She would not live with that. She would only hope that Naomi 
would forgive her. That Salah would forgive her. That God would 
forgive her. 


I’m sorry... 

| love you. 

“I’m going to call my husband,” she said, finally. 
“Of course,” Redmond said. 


Mary-Ann shifted Naomi on her lap, to reach over to where her cell 
phone lay. 


Pick up your phone...pick up your phone...Salah, pick up your 
phone...just pick up your fucking phone for once in your life... 


“Hello, this is Salah. I’m not here at the moment, so please leave me 
a message and I'll get back to you as soon as | can. Have a 
wonderful day.” 


“Salah, it’s me. There’s...there’s been some big stuff going down. 
Foundation’s here, they need me and Naomi to go with them. I'll call 
you again soon. We'll be okay. | love you. Bye.” 


“And so Ab-Leshal returns to us, crowned in triumph,” 
the slave-broker said as he looked out over the snowy 
city from his balcony, wine glass in hand. “The crowd 
goes wild.” 


He had read the accounts of what they had returned 
with. Twelve thousand slaves, five thousand 


greatmeasures of gold, seven thousand of iron, ten of 
bronze, the corpse of a god and the secret of true 
immortality. The greatest triumph of the age. 


The slave-broker sipped from his glass. From his 
perspective, he was able to see one of the great 
concourses that led to the high temple in the center of 
the city, filled to trampling density with soldiers and 
celebrators. Each man who so as much held a sword or 
musket would find himself welcome in any whorehouse 
in the city, simply for having served under the command 
of Ab-Leshal, the First Sword of Daevon. 


The slave-broker’s magecraft eyes allowed him far better 
sight than normal men so that even at this distance he 
could focus on the people around the altar that had been 
set up at the foot of the high temple steps. There were 
the high priests, covered head to toe in crimson and 
robes. There was Ab-Leshal, more wall than man, 
tattooed and craggy. The Fourth and Seventh Swords 
were also present, slim and effeminate Jad-kar Dark- 
Blade and the neurotic, wide-eyed Bergon Soulbearer, 
each standing a respectful distance behind Ab-Leshal. 
There was Odrahn Kahd the Master of the Keys, Pratan 
Dai the Craftmaster, the Master Generals Hradun, Vasig, 
and Khazes, Curix Noan, the artist called the mistress of 
ink, and dozens of other government and religious 
officials, all dressed in their finest. 


Surrounding the high altar were smaller altars, headed 
by towering idols of the gods: The King-In-Scarlet, the 
Nothing-In-All, the Hanged King, the Eternal Texts, 
Moluch the King Crowned in Shame, the Wonder-Maker, 
Gothog the Mighty, the Mother of Them All, Molug the 
Broken Fist, Carthac the Many-Faced King, and others. 


A gong sounded, followed by three blasts on the twenty- 
foot temple horns. Bonfires burst to life at the feet of the 
idols, clouds of incense rising into the air as the chants 
started and the blood began to flow, first from the 
mammoths that had pulled the idols into place, and then 


from the captives. They would work their way up, from 
the smallest to the greatest, finally sacrificing the pieces 
of the broken god itself. It would not end until long after 
sunset, when the gutters ran thick with scabbing blood. 


The slave-broker did not kneel with the crowd, nor did he 
feel like taking part in the following orgy and slaughter. 
He was a well-traveled man, who had seen, bought, and 
sold a great many wonders throughout the empire and 
beyond. His fear and awe of the gods was on a purely 
professional basis. 


The slave-broker drained what remained of his wine, his 
gaze lingering for a time on the bull-headed idol in the 
distance, before he turned and walked back inside. 


« Agricola In Insula Est Poeta | Hub | Empire of Dirt (Part 2) » 


Empire Of Dirt (Part 2) 


The artist called Curix Noan smiled as she watched the 
slaves shuffled out from their carts through the slush of 
her courtyard. Fresh bodies from Ab-Leshal’s conquest 
of the west lined up before her, men and women with 
heads bowed, arms and legs shackled, thick magecraft 
collars around their necks. Company mercenaries 
walked through the formation, barking commands. 


“Three hundred slaves, one hundred and fifty male, one 
hundred and fifty female, as you requested,” the slave 
broker said. His scarf and long coat fluttered in the icy 
breeze. 


“And your nine hundred marks, Ser Eutmun.” The artist 
handed the slave-broker the strings of coins. 


“My most humble thanks,” He bowed, sweeping the 
coins into his purse. “But | bring you more than simple 
supplies this time, mistress.” He motioned to a pack of 
mercenaries, who brought another man of the west 
before the artist. “Consider this this one a special gift.” 


The man was particularly gaunt, taller than both the artist 
and the slave-broker, with a scraggly black mane of hair, 
dirty, leathery skin, and dead eyes. His arms were 
magecrafted metal, all the way up to the shoulders. The 
artist raised an eyebrow. Such expense on a slave who 
looked as if he would topple over in a sharp breeze? 
Ridiculous. 


“It seems you are mocking me, Sir Eutmun.” 


“Not at all. This slave is worth more than all the others 
combined. His spirit is already broken, and so there is no 
need for a control collar. He obeys orders perfectly. As a 


Experiment Log 634 


Experiment 634-a: 

Subject: D- 

Subject instructed to feed SCP-634. 

0:00:00 Subject enters room and approaches SCP-634. 

0:00:24 Subject reaches SCP-634. Subject appears momentarily 
confused. Subject looks at fish food, nods head. 

0:00:53 Subject gives SCP-634 one serving of fish food 

0:01:24 SCP-634 finishes eating food 

0:01:33 Subject expresses confusion over what he is supposed to 
be doing 

0:01:43 Subject looks at fish food, nods head. 

0:01:55 Subject gives SCP-634 one serving of fish food 

0:02:16 SCP-634 finishes eating food 

0:02:23 Subject expresses confusion over what he is supposed to 
be doing 

0:02:41 Subject looks at fish food, nods head. 

0:02:58 Subject gives SCP-634 one serving of fish food 

0:03:36 SCP-634 finishes eating food 

0:03:42 Subject expresses confusion over what he is supposed to 
be doing 

[pattern repeats approximately every 70 seconds for the next 22 
minutes] 

Experiment halted when D- _ ran out of fish food. SCP-634 shows 
no signs of discomfort or injury due to the large amount of food 
eaten. Subject showed no lasting effects of experiment. Subject kept 
one month for psychological testing, showing no other signs of 
memory loss or impairment. 


Experiment 634-b: 

Subject: D- 

Subject instructed to place hand in SCP-634's tank. 

0:00:00 Subject enters room and approaches SCP-634. 

0:00:15 Subject becomes mildly confused at a distance of 1.5m from 
SCP-634, pauses to check his pockets, shrugs, and continues to 


servant he will pay for his magecraft swiftly.” 
“Who was he?” 


“A priest, or what passes for one among the savages,” 
the slave-broker said, circling the slave. “He was 
captured at the Battle of the Valley, where the bronze 
god was broken. He had attempted to strike down the 
First Sword with a rock. A rock! Ab-Leshal took pity upon 
him and only tore off his arms.” 


“I see. And he lived?” 
“By the First Sword’s command.” 


Special enough that Ab-Leshal would single him out? 
That was impressive. The artist did not see it fit to 
question the First Sword’s reasoning, and she felt no 
need to. This was indeed a great prize. 


The lights were off in the house when Salah pulled into the 
driveway. That was odd. It wasn’t all that late out. 


“’m home!” He called out as he opened the door. There was no 
response. The house was empty. He swept through the house, the 
empty space becoming oppressive with each room he passed 
through. Living room empty. Bedroom empty. Bathroom empty. Crib 
empty. No one out back. He checked the kitchen again, to see if he 
missed a note. Nothing. 


Probably just went out to a neighbor's or something. Or went out on 
a walk. 


Salah dug his cell phone out of his pocket. Ah, silly him: Forgot to 
turn it back on after the ceremony. He probably just missed the call, 
that’s all. 

One missed call was listed, from Mary-Ann. 


“Salah, it’s me. There’s...there’s been some big stuff going down. 


Foundation’s here, they need me and Naomi to go with them. I'll call 
you again soon. We'll be okay. | love you. Bye.” 


What? 


Why would the Foundation be involved? And if they were involved, 
where was the message from the Chapterhouse stating that they 
were involved? 


No. Something was wrong. 


He immediately speed-dialed her phone. There was just a dead tone 
on the other side. 


Oh no... 


Salah listened to the message again, trying to piece together what 
was going on. It was vague, she sounded distracted. Worried by 
something. Had the Foundation told her to say those words? 
Probably. She would have explained everything if there weren't 
circumstances preventing it... but no contact from the Chapterhouse 
either...all cooperative missions went through there, so...this was 
something they didn’t want the Initiative Knowing about. And if that 
was the case, then... 


Salah felt a chill prickle its way up his neck. His body shifted into 
automatic defense, jumping into the living room, snatching a lamp 
from a table. He felt a sharp pain in his side. Wetness. Blood. He 
glanced up to see a shadow flow through the air. Not a shadow. 
Liquid, thin and black. 


Ink. 


The splotch moved, shifting from walls to floor to air to the form of a 
short, balding man, with his wrists slit, wreathed in ink. Salah swung 
his lamp. The man blorped on impact, head spraying across the 
carpet and body splashing to the floor.