Grayski

Untitled as yet

March 17, 2077

I’m not really sure where to start this. I guess with my name: Dr. Marisha Evenford. I am a lead researcher and epidemiologist with the SCP Foundation, or… was is more accurate. I think it’s safe to say my employment’s been terminated.

Three weeks ago, site-66 received information of a new anomalous pathogen, SCP-XXXX that had infected a town in Northwest Virginia. I was never told the town’s name; above my paygrade I guess. Our Biohazard Containment Lab sent in four researchers with two MTF teams, from the Omega-Gamma unit, for protection. I remember hearing a couple of the members retch upon entering the town. They described a chilling scene: corpses littered the streets and houses, pretty standard stuff for MTF units. The part that really freaked the teams out was the condition of the bodies: pre-mortem, each infected individual had dug a hole in the ground and climbed, feet first, into it. Have you ever buried someone at the beach and left only their head of ground? It was like that.

Where each of the bodies’ heads should be a colorful and horrifying amalgamation of what looked like flowers appeared to be growing, tangling and snaking their way in-between the flesh and other stalks. Upon closer examination the researchers found the system to act like a fungal growth, connecting all of the “flowers.”

OG-3, the first team on the site, approached one of the bodies. During the inspection, a flower released a brightly colored cloud of what we’d find to be spores causing two members of OG-3 to vomit. They were the first infected cases of foundation personnel.

Of course, after this interaction, all further teams were fitted with proper PPE, hazmat biohazard protection suits, and masks. The remainders of OG-3 and OG-6 searched the town for survivors, finding none, and the research team collected a few of the bodies for research purposes. The bodies were brought to site-66 for examination, and the exposed personnel were transported to site-66 and placed under strict quarantine measure.

The bodies had seen little signs of decay, predominantly caused by the pathogen or subterranean organisms. The flower-like structures were removed from the skulls of the bodies, revealing a complex root-like structure composed of brain matter and hardened sugar crystals, some of which pierced through both skin and bone, coiling throughout the body. The roots were torn, showing signs of an interconnected root-system spreading beyond the bodies. Immediately, site-66 sent MTF units OG-1 through OG-8 to excavate and obliterate the remnants of the town. The records of which have been entirely expunged from all foundation systems.

Three days after quarantining the infected personnel, they began showing symptoms of infection. It started light: their pupils became increasingly dilated; their heart rates increased, and they developed something resembling a smokers cough.

On day four, the cough was replaced by brief fits of violent laughter. This period lasted for two days. No known antibiotics, authorized medicine, or clinical trials showed any signs of relieving the illness.

Towards the end of day six, the infected personnel, each separately (two hours apart) began talking about images of colorful, silent flowers with blurred and distorted faces appearing in their minds. These mentions began after each personnel developed multi-hour fits of laughter, as opposed to the minutes it was before. Neither personnel found the images frightening, instead claiming the flowers “asked them to laugh” and then “asked them to stop.”

On day seven, one of the personnel asked if he could bring him dirt, then began hysterically laughing while clawing at the cement floor. He clawed for twelve hours straight until his fingers were broken, with… with bone splintering out. He said the flowers “needed to reach their friends.”

The other infected agent was given a high dosage of amnestics as a test. She claimed the images stopped appearing but said someone was “crying in their mind.” This agent’s dopamine levels were taken the same day, revealing a fifty percent decrease in dopamine-related brain activity, and on day eight, cameras watched as the agent purposefully fractured her arm, leaving a sharp bone protrusion. She subsequently stabbed herself to death. Her last words were “bury me with my friends.” We cremated her corpse.

On day nine the remaining agent began sprouting the same flowery bulbs on his head, curled into a corner, and died laughing. CoD was a seizure.

A week past with no reported cases anywhere else. The following week, one-by-one, reports of strange growths and hysterical fits of laughter appeared in ten separate towns along the southeastern seaboard, ninety-five in Virginia, twenty-seven in North Carolina, and fourteen in D.C. Two were bodies found on Roosevelt Island. The foundation attempted to detain the remaining cases, only retrieving 56 of the infected. A dripline of mild amnestics was tried on one patient with semi-productive results.

Two days ago, multiple site-66 personnel developed symptoms and were confirmed infected; that leads me to today. I have personally evacuated site-66, and do not believe I’ve contracted SCP-XXXX. I took four sets of PPE from the laboratory for my husband, Mitch, and my two kids, Lora and Evelyn. We’re getting away to… somewhere. I’m not sure why I’m documenting all of this, but I’ll try to write updates as things here develop.

March 19, 2077

We’ve packed a car, and as of today, have decided to head toward Maine. I don’t think the foundation can respond to this outbreak. My remaining friends in the foundation are telling me it's hectic right now. All the medical staff are on day-in day-out shifts. Any reported personnel cases are “terminated immediately.” I figured as much would happen. Already cases have been reported across eleven states on the east coast. Florida has just reported their first case, with spring break beaches running at high capacity.

The kids are freaking out. The little one, Evelyn, is asking why we brought her home early from school and where we’re going. How do I respond to that??? Lora’s trying to stay tough and sullen, in her classic fashion, but she flipped out on Evelyn yesterday and made her cry. None of us need that right now, but this is scary for everyone, so I’m trying not to blow up on her.

We’re getting on the road now. It might be a few days until I open this journal again. We need to get situated and figure out a plan after Maine.

March 22, 2077

It’s been a few days, and, for the most part everything has seemed pretty normal. We avoided Atlanta two days back because reports of standstill traffic and violent car robberies have been flooding in. Luckily it seems like the world hasn’t fallen completely into chaos…

We passed outside of NYC and we saw the night-time skyline. It was haunting. All of the skyscraper lights were off, and no one seems to be moving or even driving around the city.

Evelyn started crying today because she missed her friends. Mitch said, “we can’t have friends anymore.” I just about slapped him. How can you say that to an eight-year-old?! Let alone your own kid.

Lora’s been silent, lost in the Game of Thrones series. Good luck ever finishing that. If I wasn’t concerned about an impending apocalypse, I’d tell her she’s too young for it. What’s the difference between fifteen and fifty at this point?

March 27, 2077

We made it into Maine a couple days back and spent the time looking for a town not infested with national guard. Mitch and I know they can’t do anything except get in our way. We just want to keep our family safe, whatever the cost.

We finally stopped in a small coastal town in North Maine. We stocked up on food supplies and as much water as we could carry. We found an old farmhouse of some kind in the countryside and have been living there. The phone service is spotty, and our portable chargers are almost dead.

I’ve lost contact with the majority of my contacts in the foundation. Either they’ve blacklisted me or everyone is reaching the point of no return. I hope it’s the former. When this is all over, if this is all over I should say, I’ll have no regrets about deciding to up and run.

April 6, 2077

There’s no more gas. Anywhere. I’ve driven all around trying to find somewhere that has any left. All of them are bone dry. Not to mention no one’s working anyway. I saw one body at a countryside gas station not five feet from the edge of the concrete, buried in the ground with his head sticking out. I don’t know how much longer here or anywhere is safe.

April 13, 2077

We’re running low on food and supplies, so Mitch and Lora are going to walk around and scavenge local towns for food. They took our two most functional sets of PPE and biohazard suits. It’s going to be okay. They’re protected in the suits. I’ve taught them both how to seal them properly, and they understand the danger.

Evelyn and I have been bonding doing some woodworking. We found some tools and sandpaper in a shed out back and have been trying to repair the house as best we can. She’s got an eye for feeling the grain and listening to the wood, just like her momma! She’s been talking about missing her friends again, and I almost broke down trying to explain to her that this is the new normal for the foreseeable future.

April 17, 2077

Mitch and Lora got back this morning, with loads of food and water. It should last us another two or three weeks if rationed properly. According to Mitch, there’s plenty of food in the two nearby towns, enough that we can make trips for the coming months. That’s good news.

They said they came across sick and dying all over the town but stayed a safe distance away. They saw a clump of six, what they guessed were heads, in a discordant circle in the ground. Growing from it was a mass of the flower-like bulbs growing together and a small crystalline stalk growing some feet in the air. Thank god they didn’t get any closer.

April 19, 2077

Lora’s developed a cough. It could just be a cold, but the timing’s scaring me. They just got back from their outing a few days ago. Mitch and I have decided not to scare her with isolation, and even if we did, the disease doesn’t spread until the spores are released.

April 20, 2077

I forgot to check her eyes. I was just so happy to see them back safely that I got complacent, stupid, fucking ignorant.

April 22, 2077

She’s gone. We had to. She was laughing and snuck off to our supplies. She found the hazmat suits and started poking holes in it. We caught her before she made it to any others. Mitch carries a pistol in the glove box. Her last words, as indiscernible as they were: “TheHAHAHAH wAHAHAHAH you HAHAHAHAHAH…”

We decided we can’t stay here. We buried her yesterday and have started heading back South. We don’t have any real plan, but we need one soon

April 28, 2077

We’re all taking this a different way. Evelyn’s gone silent. I think she’s trying to bring her back by imitating her or becoming her. Mitch has been singing the classic “Come on Get Higher” by Matt Nathanson for days. It was her favorite song, or at least their favorite song together.

What am I doing? Am I just ignoring her death? Yeah I’m destroyed, but did we share nothing in common? Nothing that my hearts begging to remember her by?

April 29, 2077

She shouldn’t have been with him. I should have gone instead. She could have watched Evelyn. She’s old enough.

Mitch won’t stop singing to tell me when she could have gotten infected. All he’s said is that they wore their suits the entire time. I almost wish it would’ve been him. I don’t mean that. I’m just angry, fucking angry.

May 8, 2077

We’ve been walking for two weeks or so now. Maybe a bit more. We’ve avoided towns as much as possible. The sight of colorful spore clouds floating aimlessly in the air and heads poking their way out of the ground doesn’t phase us anymore. It’s the quiet, the loneliness even surrounded by family. It's starting to consume us. Evelyn hasn’t smiled in weeks.

Mitch started singing the same song in different keys out of boredom, nearing insanity. I’ve taken to writing some thoughts down in another journal I carry.

We passed far west of Boston, far enough that we couldn’t see the state of the city, but we’ll be passing close enough to New York soon to see the damage. All communication has been down for a while now; I can’t really remember how long. I don’t think any of us here would have been alive if I was still working for the foundation. I’d probably have been terminated pretty early on.

May 11, 2077

I made the second hardest decision of my life today. The three of us were walking on I-95 heading South. The closer we got to NYC the more we risked coming into contact with infected and other survivors.

About 10 miles outside of the city ( a day's walk with an eight-year-old), a man stopped us, crouched behind a barricade. He held an automatic rifle, the really decked out military kind. He pointed the rifle at us demanding that we give him one of our suits (we’ve been wearing them constantly since her death, careful not to puncture them in anyway). Mitch gave me a look that said “Don’t.”

He put his hand on his hip, reaching for his pistol, but I stepped out from behind the cover of nearby vehicles. I slowly began removing my suit, knowing he’d kill us all if we didn’t comply. Mitch’s pistol wasn’t going to save us at that range. I left the suit on the ground, and the man told us to head on our way. We left.

I left the two of them after that. I knew it’d only be a matter of time without my suit, and I couldn’t guarantee finding another.

Evelyn cried, and I told her to be strong and to listen to Daddy. Mitch teared up too, but quickly got his composure. I gave her my wooden necklace that I made on a beach when I was a kid. Something to remember me by I hope.

May 13, 2077

This might be my last update for a while. I’m running out of pages in this journal. I just passed New York City, and something’s changed. The amalgamated bulbs have started… moving. On them are faces, but not really faces. I don’t know how to describe them other than blurry and distorted combinations of faces, constantly shifting. They wander aimlessly, laughing in harsh and emotionless voices.

The city skyline is covered, now, with spires of what I guess is the same crystalline structures of brain matter and sugars. They weave together in a mosaic of parti-colored beauty, clouded in a haze of reds, oranges, yellows, and greens. It fills me with an odd sense of wonder and an even greater feeling of despair. I think the whole city has been swallowed up. I swear I could even see those spires moving.

I’ve decided that in the remaining time I have left, whatever that is, I’ll be searching for a way to warn other versions of our world of this pestilence. I’ve heard a few reports over the years of SCPs that can branch into other realities or dimensions. I don’t quite understand it. It's not my specialty.

I think my best bet is 507, if I can find him. Maybe he’ll stumble upon some Earth that hasn’t lost all hope.

It's gotten lonely in just a couple of days. I’m not looking forward to the future weeks to come. At least I can make a fast pace, and maybe save my family in another world.

June 27, 2077

It’s been a few months since I’ve journaled. I haven’t seen another person in some number of weeks. Somewhere between one and three. I’ve been slowly diving into madness.

The last person I came into contact with was a young woman laughing hysterically before climbing inside one of the walking monstrosities. It turned towards me, as if looking at me, but instead looking through me or into me. I ran and hid inside a nearby pharmacy. I found some extra clinical masks in the pharmacy, hopefully I can survive with those a bit longer.

I miss Evelyn. Her bright smile was the only thing that gave me happiness since we left. I haven’t felt joy since we lost her. Maybe one of these days I’ll understand what all the sorry shits who got infected felt.

October 4, 2077

There’s some good news and some bad news. Good news is I found site-11. It took me a while to get here, but I found out some useful information. I found one surviving medical personnel inside the foundation facility. Her name was Dr. Haust. She was a recently promoted resident of the facility before the outbreak. Her boyfriend and family all dropped contact while she was working here, and, so, decided to stay, slowly losing her companions to either the pathogen or suicide.

We had a couple drinks (shots of Vietnamese vodka) and she told me she’s seen 507 sitting in a field southwest of the facility alone with a bottle of sunscreen and a flashlight. She has been bringing him food but told me she’s not sure how much longer it’ll last or how long he’ll be here.

I plan to head out tomorrow morning in search of him. Hopefully I’m not too late.

October 5, 2077

Dr. Haust didn’t tell me how long the hike will be, and said she wouldn’t come with me. I guess it’s getting too dangerous for her to leave the site. She thinks he’ll be travelling soon. Whether he’ll disappear in a day or a week or a month, she couldn’t say. No one really can with him. She outfitted me with some remnants of protective equipment available at the site. Our last conversation went something like this:

“Will you be coming back to the site once you’ve found him?”

“No. I’m looking for something else now.” I responded.

“What could you possibly be looking for? Everyone’s dead, dying, or soon to be one or the other.”

“Happiness.” I turned around and left with that one word hanging in the air. I’m not sure if it’s true or even possible. I just don’t want to die locked in some site like thousands of personnel have over the years. I’m going to die. I know that. I don’t know when, and I frankly don’t care.

October 6, 2077

I’ve developed a cough. I must have caught it a few days back before entering site-11. There’s no evidence of transmission before becoming symptomatic, so hopefully Dr. Haust can stay alive and drink herself to death in peace.

I’ve been wandering the forests southwest of site-11 for two days now with no sign of a break in the foliage. It’s getting close to sundown, so I’ll make some kind of camp soon.

I have five days maximum before I’m totally incapacitated. I’m going to document the infection daily until I either die or find 507. I have to keep the protective gear on at all times now, to keep from infecting this journal.

October 7, 2077

I understand it now, exactly the reports given by the infected at site-66. They are there in my head, smiling at me, or trying to. It’s funny, actually. The faces make me laugh. I haven’t smiled like this in months. They don’t speak, but they communicate. They’re saying “You have to laugh. It’s the only way.” The images, their images, look like the wandering bulbous masses around New York. They almost seem friendly with their magnificent colors and eldritch faces and shapes.

I’ve found a clearing, but it’s getting too dark to see. I’ll find 507 in the morning. i don’t expect to sleep, but rest will find me soon enough.

The early dawn light is playing with my eyes. I can see shadows moving across the silhouetted trees, large shapes staying a respectful distance from my fire. They’re waiting. Waiting for me to give in, to slide into the darkness and join them. I will soon enough. I’m wondering if this is the only happiness left, created by a disease that will kill me, sure enough. At least if each creature is interconnected then maybe I will find my daughter in there, in the dark. Or, maybe, I’ll become my daughter. Maybe we’ll finally understand each other.

October 8, 2077

I can see him sitting there, now, this morning in the field. I guess I should consider myself lucky. I’m going to approach him. Maybe he’ll kill me before this does. Maybe I’ll die there next to him.

The images are there always now. Just one day after. I can feel my brain beginning to drown. It’s drowning in laughter… and smiles.

He won’t understand much of what I say. Just writing this is taking more strength than I thought I had. I’m going to him now. This is the last you’ll hear from me. Whoever finds this… know that it’s not the end of the world. It’s just an alternative, a changing of the guards. At least we’ll be together now.