Jonathon Walters had been best friends with Bud Jacobson ever 
since they were assigned as partners by Divison "P". The two men 
had covered their true allegiances so well that even their wives 
didn't know, nor did they suspect anything when the friends got a 
wild hair and went off camping and hunting for a weekend in the 
desert without warning. Just boys being boys, after all, and the men 
certainly knew better than to cheat on their wives, or if they did, not 


to bring anything home with them. The fact that their hunting gear 
was rather more professional than would be expected of casual 
hunters escaped their wives, who were just grateful to have a 
weekend to themselves. 


After leaving home, Jon and Bud stopped at a nondescript house on 
the outskirts of Las Vegas and swapped cars, putting their Buick in 
the garage before driving off in an equally nondescript pickup truck 
that disguised a powerful engine and bullet-proof cabin. 


They spent the next few hours chatting amiably about various local 
sports teams and the relative merits of their favorite and least 
favorite players. It wasn't until the final hour of the drive that Jon 
finally broached the subject of their mission. 


"Group leader says that this dog, or whatever the critter is, is being 
held at that UIU facility outside Salt Lake that they think we don't 
know about. It's supposed to only be lightly fortified, so I'm thinking 
smash-and-grab?" 


"Nah," Bud replied. "Maybe if we knew where exactly it was inside, 
but if we have to search for it, it'd be better to do it sneakier. 
Knockout gas in the vents?" 


"That could work, but | bet they have windows open with this heat. 
One-on-one knockouts would be better, | think. I'm pretty sure the 
safe house in Salt Lake has some gas masks, so we can stop by 
there first. It'd be better to do this tonight, too, so there's fewer 
people to deal with." 


"Sounds like a plan, bud." 


"Hey, I'm Jon. You're Bud!" Jon laughed at the well-worn joke. "Now 
keep your eyes on the road while | go over the floorplans." 


A grin on his face, Bud kept driving, the setting sun glowing red at 
their backs. 


Special Agent Walsh was not having a good day. After the surprise 
inspection by Director Hoover, he and Fredericks had been 


assigned as the official dog-wranglers. It wasn't like Walsh disliked 
dogs, but he was leery about hanging around one that could cover 
you in radiation scars while licking your face. It didn't help that he 
kept having paperwork forwarded to him that had nothing to do with 
any of his cases, so that he spent at least an hour a day just 
returning stuff to the mailroom. At least he didn't have to deal with 
the snail man, though. Just the thought of what he did to people 
made Walsh's skin crawl. 


Walsh had just finished transferring some dogshit to a lead-lined box 
and was typing out the internal transit slip when the lights flickered 
and died. He frowned in the sudden darkness and picked up the 
telephone receiver to call the switchboard for a line to the lobby, but 
the phone was dead. He retrieved his gun from the desk and groped 
his way over to the door leading to the hallway. He carefully cracked 
the door open and bent over to look through the crack at waist 
height. Wan moonlight was shining through a window at the end of 
the hall, but he couldn't see any suspicious movements. He didn't 
realize it was already so late, but it was easy to lose track when 
dealing with some of the things they had in custody. 


Still, it wasn't storming, and the facility had a backup generator 
anyway, so it was highly unlikely that both the power and the internal 
phone lines going out was a random occurrence. Walsh quietly 
opened the door the rest of the way, went through, and closed it 
behind him. He didn't have the key to lock it, but hopefully that 
wouldn't be a problem. He crept down the hall as quietly as he 
could, but even so, the slight tap-tap-tap of his footsteps seemed to 
echo in his ears. He paused before turning the corner, listening for 
anything around the other side. Hearing only silence, he ducked 
around the corner and faced another empty hallway, lined with doors 
to other offices. 


He went down the hallway slowly, glancing at each door to make 
sure none were suspiciously ajar. By the time he made it to the 
stairwell entrance at the end, his paranoia was oddly both 
heightened and lessened at the same time, precisely because he 
hadn't found anything to justify it yet. He opened the stairwell door 
as quietly as he could, but couldn't help but internally flinch at the 
slight squeak that was normally unnoticeable during the day but 


seemed as loud as a siren in the dark. The window across from the 
door gleamed with the same weak light as the hallway, barely 
illuminating the stairs. 


He made his way down the concrete steps to the ground floor and 
the thankfully silent door to the lobby of the building. He carefully 
looked through the door's window and didn't see any abnormal 
movement, which in itself was worrisome, as he'd have expected the 
overnight security at the front desk to be there. He left the confines 
of the stairwell and made his way to the dark area behind the desk, 
where he found the security guard slumped in the footwell, 
unconscious. Walsh checked him quickly and professionally, but 
didn't find any blood or lumps on the head. It must've been 
chloroform or something like it, but how did the assailants get so 
close without the guard getting suspicious? 


Walsh didn't even have to think about it; anyone invading the 
building at this time of night must be after one of the suspects in 
custody downstairs. Moving more rapidly now, he made a beeline 
for the depths of the ground floor, where the secure elevator to the 
custody cells was. Sure enough, the doors were pried open, held in 
place by an H-shaped metal bar at ankle height. A rope was tied to 
it, trailing down into the depths. He stuck his head into the shaft and 
saw the roof of the elevator 20 feet below, the emergency hatch 
open. 


He briefly debated waiting for the invaders to come back this way, 
but there was too much danger that they would kill or damage the 
beings down below. Cursing under his breath, he climbed down the 
rope and then dropped himself down the hatch into the pitch black 
elevator. He felt for the doors and found them pried open too, 
another H-bar holding them open at the bottom. He saw light 
reflected off the wall at the end of the corridor in front of him, where 
another hallway crossed it. The shape of another slumped body was 
beside the doors of the elevator. Walsh regretted passing it by, but 
he didn't have time. 


He drew his gun and crept down to the junction. He pressed against 
the wall right before the corner and listened carefully. There was 
silence, until he heard a sudden, distant angry barking. 


Oh for Christ's sake, they're going after the darn dog ?! Hope they 
brought their radiation gear. No, wait, | don't. 


Without many options available, Walsh spun around the corner, gun 
pointed down the corridor. He spotted two men in dark clothes and 
gas masks about halfway down the long corridor, one halfway into 
the entry chamber for the dog's cell, one facing back towards Walsh. 


Crap. 
"Shit." 


With that, the man facing Walsh went to draw some complicated- 
looking gun at his side while his companion dove into the doorway, 
taking himself out of the line of fire. Walsh's training took over and 
he aimed and shot at the man down the hallway. A graze to the 
shoulder rather than a direct hit. Walsh took aim again and fired, a 
fraction of a second before the other man did. Walsh saw the other 
man's shoulder jerk back as the small canister struck him right in the 
sternum and gas broke free of it. The strike huffed the air out of 
Walsh's lungs and he involuntarily took a deep gasp to recover his 
breath, inhaling the strange gas. 


Almost immediately he felt his head start swimming. As he fell and 
felt consciousness slipping away, he saw the man walk towards him, 
his silhouette menacing in the light of the flashlight dropped to the 
ground by the open door to the cell. 


Bud looked down at the ass who'd shot him. Everything else had 
been going smoothly, probably more so than could be reasonably 
expected, but he did not appreciate getting his shoulder hit like that. 
He kicked the unconscious man in the ribs before bending down and 
picking up the gas bullet. He put it in his pocket and walked back 
over to where Jon was crouched in the doorway. 


"He's down and gone. | think that shot broke my shoulder, though. 
Will you be able to get the dog up the elevator by yourself?" 


"Yeah, should be able to. There's a carrier in here and | can tie the 
rope to it. Let's hurry before anyone else shows up." 


And none but us even knew he existed. In the 
end, he dared to put a stop to the project. Saw 
the writing on the wall, knew he was losing 
control... 


Now go. | grow weary of conversation. Return 
later if you must. 


<End Log> 


Closing Statement: A fortuitous conversation, 
although its bombastic speech renders it 
difficult to discern how much was mere 
hyperbole. 

Dr. Paula Emerson 


Interview 03 


Interviewed: SCP-748-4/"Randolph T. 
Metzger" 


Interviewer: Dr. Emerson 


Foreword: Third official interview with 
SCP-748-4. 


<Begin Log> 


Dr. Emerson: Would you be willing to answer 
more questions? 


SCP-748-4: Ask and you may receive. 


Dr. Emerson: What can you tell me about this 
complex? What is its purpose? 


SCP-748-4: You call yourself a researcher? 
How can you not see its purpose? If you were 
my employee | would have you stripped of 
your position and thrown into the Crucible’ as 
scrap material! 


Bud nodded and took a guard position in the doorway while Jon 
collected the dog. He may not be as good a shot with his left arm, 
but it was still better than nothing. And he wouldn't be able to 
wrangle an upset dog into a carrier with only one arm. 


There was some low cursing behind him as Jon discovered that the 
dog carrier was significantly heavier than he expected. Given the 
limited info they'd been given about the target, he suspected that it 
was lead-lined, but he hadn't realized just how heavy that much lead 
would be. Nevertheless, he maneuvered the carrier over to a door 
leading into the next chamber. He'd seen some hanging full-body 
suits over on the wall, but didn't have time to get into one. He figured 
that if he got the dog into the carrier fast enough, he should be okay. 


It was some kind of airlock door with a big wheel in the middle to 
unlock it, like in a submarine or something. The wheel itself was 
easy to open, but the door was heavy. He suspected that it was 
steel with a lead lining, like the dog carrier. His skin started to feel 
warm and tingly as he pulled the door open, but once it was open 
enough to slip in with the lead box, Jon did so. The dog was ina 
corner, alternating between growling and barking at him. 


It took a few abortive grabs before he was able to grab the thing by 
the scruff of its neck and shove it into the box, but he finally did so 
after about five minutes. Once it was inside, he quickly slammed the 
door shut and flipped the latch so it wouldn't open unexpectedly. 
After that, it was a relatively simple job to half-carry, half-drag the 
box out to where Bud stood watch. 


Bud's shirt was visibly wet with blood in the light from the flashlights, 
but he was still upright, so he was in good enough shape for them to 
get out and to the safe house in Salt Lake. Getting out took longer 
than either of them was comfortable with, but between Bud being 
one-handed and the damn dog moving around in the heavy box, 
they did the best they could. Really the hardest part was getting 
back up the rope to the main floor. After a half hour they were back 
in the truck, the dog carrier in the back, and on their way to the safe 
house. 


Jon was starting to feel sick to his stomach, and his skin was itching 
something fierce, but he put it down to nerves about nabbing 


something as dangerous as that dog. He didn't even notice the 
weird sunburn-looking patches on his face and hands until they were 
back at the safe house and he'd finished vomiting into the toilet. 


He was having trouble thinking straight, but he was fairly sure that 
he was in trouble. 


« Where's The Shadow Government When You Need Them? | 
HUB | Where Your Eyes Don't Go » 


A Filthy Scarecrow Waves His Arms 


On the flight back to Headquarters, Agent Fredericks mused on how 
familiar the blurry outline of Washington D.C below him was getting. 


Every week, it seemed, Director Hoover wanted them to come back 
and talk to him about the case. What they'd uncovered, how close 
they were to getting the Red dog, and any other detail, significant or 
not, that happened to come into his head. 


The plane touched down on the runway, just as it had so many 
times before. Fredericks knew exactly where every potmark on the 
asphalt was, and he could feel every one of them as the wheels 
rolled out and touched down. 


Walking off the plane, getting baggage, of course Mister Hoover 
sent a car down, he always did. Fredericks hardly looked out the 
window as he pretended to be interested in his briefcase 
documentation. He just wanted to get back to the investigation. 


Why did Hoover care so much? There was so much new information 
flooding past his desk, and there was so much these days, with the 
internal investigations, that Hoover probably hardly had any time to 
look over individual cases. He just got to smile and nod as agent 
after agent paraded through his door, not comprehending or taking 
real interest in any individual report. 


Fredericks frowned loudly as he saw the FBI building come into 
view. At least he'd be out of this hole by the end of the day. He 
prepared his routine in his head as he got into the lobby. Just be in 
and out. As quick as possible. The elevator ride up wasn't much to 
talk about. Grey people in grey clothing. One had a briefcase. 


Hoover's office, end of the hall. Talk to the secretary and get buzzed 
in. Look at Hoover, smiling genially and trying to look like the team 
dad, with an office draped in red white and blue. 


Hoover paused upon seeing Fredericks enter the office. "You look 
troubled, agent. Penny for your thoughts?" 


Fredericks paused, tightening his grip on his papers and blinking 
twice. "Oh, uh, sorry sir. Just had a lousy trip over. They need to fix 
the potholes in this city." 


Hoover chuckled. "Don't | know it. What do you have for me today?" 


Fredericks slid over a pile of documents, which Hoover grasped 
tightly and pulled onto his desk. Hoover put on some reading 
glasses, and pretended to glance over the papers. Fredericks could 
tell when Hoover wasn't actually reading. His eyes didn't move. 


"You reported to my secretary over the phone, that you found 
something in Florida?" 


"Shipping, sir. We believe the spy ring, if there is one, may be 
operating from there." 


Hoover tightened his lips into a thin line as he pretended to study the 
documents again. "Is Agent Walsh already there?" 


"Yes sir. We arrived together, when you dr- recalled me, uh, sir, 
back to headquarters." 


Hoover leaned over the files. "So are you ready to move in, on what 
you might find?" 


"Yes, sir. | explained it to you over the phone." 


"Well, you'll be off again in the morning. It's always a pleasure to see 
you, son. Send Agent Walsh my regards." 


As he was returned his files, slapped on the back, and hustled out 
the door so that the next agent could waste ten minutes of their time, 
Fredericks contemplated the likelihood of solving the case if he was 
recalled every week. 


He decided it wasn't very likely.