“Why’d he do it this early? Better to stay among us for 
longer, then fake his death later. | think he’s dead, Ayad.” 


“Fine... but if we see him again, kill on sight.” 
“A bit extreme, | think, Goddard. We'll tie him up.” 


“Woah, Thornton, waaaay too much information of what 
you two got up to last night,” said Sellars with a smirk. 


“| think if | had, I’d be dead at this point. | mean, Reiben 
is testament that the gay guy always dies, and having 
sex pretty much seals the deal. At least he wasn't black.” 


Rawley said, “Nah, I’m gonna die last. If there’s anything 
| learned, it’s that the black guy is going to die just before 
the climax.” 


“On to the practical side of things; was anyone 
accompanied for the entirety of our search?” 


“No, we all split up,” said Ayad. “Except, actually, did you 
two-?” 


“Nah, we split up as well. Stupid. Really stupid. Sellars 
suggested it, and then he just started walking off on his 
own before | could say anything else.” 


“Right, | think we need to go over this logically,” said 
Rawley. “We must consider if anyone has an alibi. 
Nobody was with someone else for the entirety of the 
search; anyone could have done it. Even considering 
that the four of us would have a difficult time sneaking 
over without being noticed by anybody, it remains a 
possibility. 


“Anyone could have placed the book in Shevchenko’s 
room. Anyone. Nobody can be ruled out from Clay’s 
death, either. The only people who have proved beyond 
all doubt that they are innocent are Daniel Clay and Lev 
Shevchenko. | have the suspicion that Reiben is still 
alive, but in all honesty the killer probably offed him in 
such a way that would make us suspect him.” 


She had no idea just how right she was... 


They searched for Reiben afterwards; nobody left the 
party. After the search uncovered nothing except a 
second shoe, they proceed to bed. 


Goddard had no plans of sharing Shevchenko’s fate; or, 
for that matter, Rogers’. 


He gathered Rawley, Devers and Thornton in his room. 


“Right, I’m pretty certain at the point it’s gotta be one of 
those three. So, safety in numbers, right? All of us 
should stay the night in the same room.” 


“Right, so then if it’s one of us, the killer can kill all of us 
in our sleep. Good plan,” said Thornton. 

“No, we'll keep two people awake at all times. Look, all 
I’m saying is that it’s much safer than us sleeping alone.” 


“Seems to me the killer would try something exactly like 


this,” said Devers. 


“In what way would | benefit from having everyone in the 
same room? I'd have to follow the poem, remember?” 


“| don’t know. But, anyway, I’m not risking it.” 
And Devers retreated to his own room. 


“He’s got a point. Plus, | really don’t fancy staying up half 
the night.” 


“But being murdered is an attractive prospect?” shouted 
Goddard as Thornton left. 


He turned to Rawley and said, “Look, please don’t go.” 


“I'd do it if they were, but locking myself in with someone 
with a mad killer going about doesn’t sound like a good 
idea. I'll see you tomorrow.” 


Goddard locked his own room the second she left, and 
lugged a chest of draws in front of the door. He placed 
his revolver on his bedside table, made sure the lamp’s 
switch was in close proximity to his hands, and 
cautiously flicked it off. 


Goddard survived that night, even if he hardly got any 
sleep. Most of the others were in a similar situation, with 
the obvious exception of the one person who had 
nothing to fear. 


However, one of them didn’t get any sleep that night, nor 
ever again. 


Anderton flicked her light off, and stumbled through the 
darkness to her bed. All lights on the island were 
switched off; only the dim glow of the moon offered any 
illumination, but all that did was stop her eyes adjusting 
to the darkness. She walked twice the distance she 
should have before realized something was wrong. 


Oh Jesus. Lost in the dark. She was going to die 
because of some stupid fucking idiot who decided 
resetting the fucking death clock to midnight that fucking 
fuck fuck fuck. 


She brushed past a plant. God, she was outside? How 
the hell did they do that? Her vision was total darkness; 
she could only feel the damp soil between her toes and 
hear something running, something that wasn’t human, 
something that was going to Oh Jesus please no eat her 
and then- 


Whatever the hell it was, it roared, and Anderton felt a 
bolt of pain shoot up her leg. 


After that, she didn’t feel anything. 


3. Harry Thornton punched him in the head 


Goddard had been expecting someone to die that night; 
his guess had been Rawley, or possibly himself. 
Anderton he had expected to see in the final three, but 
he knew that she almost certainly wasn’t the killer. 


They gathered in the dining room, almost knowing that 
one of their party would not be joining them. 


“Shit, it’s Anderton,” said Thornton, almost unsurprised. 


He, followed by the other five- Christ, were there really 

only six of us left?- ran up to her room to find it a tangle 
of undergrowth and darkness, which expanded far past 
what it should have. A dismembered leg lay caught on 

some brambles, blood staining the cloth. 


Thornton shut the door as quickly as he had opened it. 
“Okay, what the fuck was that?” 


Devers explained. “Something that’s basically theoretical 
at this point. Called Walton portals. Essentially, you can 


create an entire separate world by reengineering an 
already existing portal, although it’s difficult as hell do to.” 


“Wait, just how hard are we talking here?” 


“We’ve had our best personell working on it for the last 
three years. Nothing. Mainly because we have nothing to 
base it on, and because the only actual research we 
have on it was taken from some random Cl mook’s 
USB.” 


“Jesus. These things could be used to create infinite 
farm lands, stop all overcrowding issues... and this 
bastard used them to murder somebody. The sick fuck.” 
Ayad said it with the first genuine anger he had 
experienced since arriving. 


The genuine anger was echoed with genuine guilt from 
the person who had created the portal in the first place. 


They went back to the dining room and sat quietly. 


“So, bees next. Heh. So many annoying bee-related 
memes, and the killer didn’t go with any of them. Have to 
give them credit for that,” Thornton said almost 
humorlessly. 


They went back to the table, and they sat silently. 
Thornton had reduced himself to simply eating 
everything he could; Devers drummed his fingers until 
Rawley asked him to please stop that; Sellars read a 
book, which he complained about endlessly to Goddard 
(“Okay, see, look at this, Meeks’ wife is suddenly dead 
for no reason and then Barnes begins killing everyone 
and | have no idea what Moore and Harland and Strasse 
are doing, they sort of...”); Ayad remained totally silent. 


“I’m going to the toilet,” said Sellars. 
“I’m going to pray,” said Ayad. 


“I’m going to my room,” said Devers. 


Goddard, Rawley and Thornton all had a very strong 
instinct that was telling them only two were returning. 


Sellars wasn’t going to the toilet. 


He ran into his room, found his phone that he had left on 
his bedside table, and walked downstairs playing the 
third level of “Please Solve the Game.” (Or PSTG as he 
liked to call it.) 


Devers entered his room and thought of what he did that 
landed him here. 


“Infection has spread throughout the ship...” said the 
voice of Howard, like had only happened yesterday. 


“Survivors are already disembarking. Could possibly be 
infected. Sir, if this thing escapes...” 


He had to do it. Right? There was no other way. 
Everybody on there was already dead anyway. 


Before he could ponder the morality of his choice to 
launch the torpedo, he noticed the box on his bed. 


Before he could even say, “Oh shit,” it snapped open on 
its own, and they emerged. 


They all heard his screams. 


Goddard raced towards its source immediately, while 
Thornton and Rawley looked at each other momentarily, 
before joining him. 


Goddard arrived at Devers’ room to see Sellars and 
Ayad already outside. An intense buzzing noise emitted 
from his room, punctuated by screams. 


Ayad was pulling desperately on the door; it didn’t 
budge. Goddard shoved him aside, and had a go 
himself, as if he was somehow going to unlock it. 


Thornton and Rawley had arrived by the time the 
screaming had stopped completely. 


“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Thornton. 


“| don’t have a fucking clue,” Goddard said, quickly 
running his hands over his cropped black hair. He 
slammed himself against the door, to no effect. 
Repeating the action twice showed a slight buckle and 
some splinters, but Sellars stopped him before he could 
finally break it. 


“What if whatever is in there gets us too?” 
Goddard considered it, before stopping. 
“Okay, so what do you suggest we do?” 
“Wait until the... hang on, listen.” 
Goddard did. “What?” 

“Buzzing’s stopped.” 


Goddard gave the door another kick, and it finally 
subsided. 


“Oh Jesus.” 


Devers’ body was covered in ugly lumps and bruises, 
with thousands of bees littering the floor. 


Goddard turned away before he could no longer resist 
the urge to vomit. 


“Genetically modified bees, most likely. Die in a few 
minutes... or something like that...” Ayad remarked. 


They didn’t move his body; none of them would dare 
touch it. 

Again they sat on the dining table, just as the sun began 
to set. 


however, instances that rise at non-room temperatures will have 
chances of developing mental disorders and/or increasingly non- 
average IQ, with greater chances resulting from greater deviation 
from room temperature. There are currently no identified factors that 
appear to control whether the IQ will increase or decrease. 
Instances of SCP-613-1 separated by slicing or tearing, where the 
mass of the separated segment is greater than 50 grams, will form 
disparate identities distinct from the parent instance of SCP-613-1. 
Instances of SCP-613-1 produced in this manner have been 
observed to engage in erratic movements and vocalizations 
indicative of physical pain. SCP-613-1 are just as vulnerable to 
spoilage and other forms of damage as regular loaves, and will lose 
all anomalous properties when either completely spoiled or 
destroyed. All instances of SCP-613-1 do not correspond to any 
individuals listed in any database within Foundation access. D-Class 
personnel fed instances of SCP-613-1 report a taste "virtually 
identical" to normal white bread, but often express discomfort at the 
instance's vocalizations during consumption. 


Instances of SCP-613 have been sporadically appearing 
internationally at a rate of once every 5 to 7 months. Operations are 
Ongoing to investigate if there is any individual or organization 
actively producing or spreading SCP-613. 


Recovery: SCP-613 was first observed during a baking fair in 
Wisconsin where one baker was reportedly selling "living bread" to 
customers, prompting MTF _ - to take action and retrieve the object, 
interrogate the person producing SCP-613-1, and dose all involved 
with Class-B Amnestics. Since then, more instances of SCP-613 
have appeared internationally in possession of various individuals 
with avid interest in baking. All individuals in possession of SCP-613 
instances have refused to reveal where or how they acquired them, 
or claim to have no knowledge of such. 


« SCP-612 | SCP-613 | SCP-614 » 


“Goddamn...Goddamn...” Goddard muttered. He rubbed 
his neatly trimmed beard, before sighing. “We can’t just 
sit here waiting to die. We have to do something.” 


“Like what?” Rawley asked. 


“Swimming. Yeah, actually, swimming. The shore’s what, 
ten miles away? If we get something buoyant, we could 
make it.” 


“Too risky.” 
“Stay here, and that bastard’s gonna get us.” 


“Go out there, and the weather’s gonna get us. Look, | 
reckon | can get the bastard.” 


“That's your choice. I’m gonna have a go at swimming.” 


“What if you’re the killer? What if you’re just trying to 
escape?” 


“Hey, come to think of it,” said Thornton. “Didn’t the next 
guy fake his death?” 


He had just finished saying it when his head exploded. 


2. Daniel Clay hesitated to fire when he started to scream 


A small bullet wound was punched into his left temple; 
there was nothing left of his right other than some 
exposed brain matter. Skull fragments and blood littered 
the floor. Thornton’s corpse slumped forward. 


They all stared at each other, and at Thornton. 


Ayad screamed, and they scattered. Goddard scrambled 
backwards, falling onto the floor, before righting himself 
and sprinting to his room. Rawley sped off instantly. 
Ayad, trembling immensely, nervously hurpled towards 
his room. 


That left Sellars. He grabbed an apple from in front of 
him, and took a bite out of it. He had the feeling it might 
be his last. 


Rawley reached her room first, and instantly flung open 
her draw and grabbed he revolver. It was already loaded 
with six bullets; she’d only need three. 


Goddard arrived in his room seconds later. His revolver, 
too, was loaded. 


Ayad’s plan was rather different; namely hide until it was 
safe to come out. He had just ran into his room, and was 
just about to shove his bedside table against the door 

when he noticed the plastic paddling pool in front of him. 


In the last few seconds of his life, his mind raced for an 
explanation; it had just reached one when he was 
pushed. 


As he fell towards the pool, he didn’t scream; for some 
odd reason he found himself totally calm. He only 
glanced back at the killer, and thought, “I really should 
have known it was h-“ 


Goddard and Rawley both reached the empty dining 
room at the same time. 


“Where’s Ayad?” he asked, his hand firmly gripped to his 
holstered revolver. 


“Where’s Sellars?” she asked, her hand firmly gripping 
her holstered revolver. 


They both drew at the exact same time. She remained 
rooted; Goddard dove for cover in the form a nearby 
pillar. 


She shot twice, Goddard not even aiming as he returned 
the same. 


Neither moved for a few seconds, enough time for 


Rawley to shout, “Drop the gun!” 


Goddard didn’t respond, so she slowly edged her way 
forward. A bullet hole marked the exact centre of his 
forehead. 


“Jesus,” she muttered, looking at her gun with disgust. 
The fact that she had killed him floated around aimlessly 
in her mind, but didn’t cement itself. It didn’t feel real. 


A sharp jab in her neck brought her out of it. 


“Ow! What the-“ 
Her legs fell out from under her, and she collapsed. 


“What... what the fuck...” 
Sellars stood above her, a syringe in his hands. 


“You couldn’t have just waited a few more minutes, could 
you?” 


“W-what?” 


“It was all set out! Ayad was supposed to pray, and then 
I'd push him into the pool. Goddard would pick up the 
spoon, which’d kill him. But noooo, you had to fucking 
ruin it, didn’t you?” 


“It’s... it's you, isn’t it? You're the killer?” 


“What, the person who is currently talking about killing 
people after stabbing a needle in your neck? Yeah, no 
shit.” 


“What the fuck was that?” Rawley said, raising her hand 
to the injection’s source of impact. 


“Your legs are paralyzed, and that’s not the worst of it. 
Ya see, remember those six Class-D you sent into that 
mysterious doorway of doom and death? That didn’t kill 
them, no matter how much they wish it did.” 


“You fucking hypocrite. They were murderers, just like 
everybody you killed.” 


“At least mine are actually dead. Anyway, three of those 
Class-D were totally innocent Cl POWs. They committed 
no crime-“ 


“They killed my friends! They’re fucking murderers!” 
“It was an act of war, Rawley."” 
"War? How the hell can you call that war?"