UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE
_CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT_
ACCESS RESTRICTED TO _DV SECURITY CLEARANCE_
DISTRIBUTION WILL RESULT IN ARREST AND PROSECUTION UNDER SECTION 2b OF THE UNITED STATES ESPIONAGE ACT (1917) -
The following is a copy of a handwritten letter seized from Operator 734-812, callsign ‘Horus’.
March 11 2017
Hi Mom,
I’m so sorry that I haven’t wrote to you in a while, but this new unit doesn’t allow outside communication. They don’t know I’m writing this, so please, keep it to yourself, and don’t show or tell anyone, not even Dad or Steph. I miss you all so much, but please, you have to keep this a secret.
Honestly, I think I made a huge mistake in volunteering. I knew SEALs was going to be hardcore, but this new unit is on another level. I signed up to the military to serve my country and make Dad proud. I thought volunteering would be doing the right thing, but the stuff they make us do is just – wrong.
I don’t know who the hell I’m working for anymore, I don’t even think they’re subject to any kind of federal oversight. And then the kind of crap they got us dealing with? I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. It makes Syria seem like summer camp.
First operation was last night, and I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
We were attached to a section of the CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group, they’re the FBI’s counter terrorism guys - think SWAT but with more expensive toys. But instead of going in with our own uniforms and patches, we were given a bunch of their stuff to wear, then told to say we were part of a counter-IED team out of San Francisco. They were so nice to us, Mom, treated us like their brothers; and what we did to them was just – it was evil.
They kind of figured something was off when they saw we had helmet and weapon cameras attached to our gear. They’d had all their recording equipment taken away from them prior to the operation, but like any of us, they didn’t openly question it. “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die”, one of them said, told us it was from a poem, but I don’t know which one.
The CIRG guys thought we were there to handle any explosive materials found on-sight, but in reality, our orders were to ‘observe and contain’.
I didn’t really know what this meant at first, the only other thing we were told is that anyone declared hostile was to be immediately eliminated. I thought that might mean any bad guys we found at the scene, but Mom, we were the bad guys.
I don’t know exactly where the op took place, all I know is that we flew out of SeaTac up in Washington, then landed near some old cabin in the sticks.
The CIRG team was waiting for us there, and not long after we landed, we moved on the cabin.
The cordon around it was almost half a mile in every direction, and I figured this was to fool the CIRG guys into thinking there were some legit explosives on-site.
But now I know that cordon was there for a damned good reason.
They didn’t want anyone else to get – infected – by what was inside. I don’t exactly know how they guaranteed we wouldn’t be infected; I think there was something inside our helmet lining that kept it out. But whatever it was, the counter terrorism guys didn’t have it, and I know that was on purpose.
We figured almost right away that no one was living there. There were no signs of habitation whatsoever. But they still had us clearing the place like there could be bad guys around every corner. We were ordered to take it nice and slow; like old-school, methodical room clearing, kind of like back in SEAL training. But that wasn’t because command wanted to minimize casualties, they just wanted the CIRG guys in the cabin for as long as it took for – it – to infect one of them.
At first, the place looked like any other cabin in the woods; open plan stove and cooking area, bunks in one room, butchers table and meat grinder in another. All looked totally normal.
But then it came to clearing the root cellar, and that’s when things got real scary.
Whoever dug the place out had made it pretty spacious, but there were no storage spaces whatsoever. Everything was bare except for a few supports to keep it from collapsing, everything except the cellar floor.
Someone had laid down some partial wooden flooring in the shape of a big triangle. It was thick too, jammed down into the dirt so tight that it looked like someone had dug it out instead of fixing it into the earth somehow. Only when we got closer did we start to see all the symbols on it.
It was a real piece of work, like someone must’ve spent days, maybe even weeks, carving all that stuff into it.
I’ve never seen anything like it before, not even in the language school we got sent to for month to be able to recognize Arabic and Cyrillic and all those other kinds of letters. One of the CIRG guys said it looked like something a crazy person would make, no rhyme or reason to it at all. But to me, it looked deliberate, very deliberate, like someone had taken painstaking steps to ensure each one was perfect.
Then, for the first time since we landed, me and the other operator heard the voice of our commanding officer speaking into our ear pieces.
He told us to focus our weapon-cams on the triangle, and to not move them away until we were told.
We had to stand there for a good few minutes before we got new orders to back into the corners of the cellar, facing the CIRG guys. They, on the other hand, were told to just stand by to await further orders. We could hear everything they could, but they couldn’t hear every we could.
A few minutes went by, and the CIRG guys are just milling around, shooting the breeze, wondering out loud how long they’d have to stay down in that cold, camp cellar before the op came to a close.
Guys like us are used to waiting, Mom, you know that. All dad ever talks about when he brings up the Gulf is the whole “hurry up and wait” thing. ‘Wait’ orders are basically no orders, and that’s when that killer boredom sets in, but me and the other operator were told to observe, and not take our helmet cams off the CIRG guys.
I had a feeling something was going to happen with them, I just didn’t know what. But when it did finally happen, I swear to Jesus, Mom, I’ve never seen anything so terrifying in my entire life.
All the CIRG guys were talking among themselves, discussing family stuff, using each other’s kid’s names and stuff. Then all of a sudden, one of them stopped talking while in the middle of a sentence, and we all knew something was wrong.
The guy was all talkative and animated one second, then the next, he was silent.
He’d been saying something about how one of his kids was always unscrewing nuts and bolts around the house, how he was shaping up to be a regular handyman. He was miming the motion of little hands picking at a bolt, trying to unscrew it, then he suddenly started stumbling over one particular word, saying it three or four times over before his arms just dropped to his sides.
That’s when I noticed that he happened to have been standing almost right in the middle of that wooden triangle, the one with all the weird looking symbols on it.
Lit up only by the flashlights we had on their helmets and weapons, the CIRG guy started twitching; real subtly at first, but then the twitches got more and more violent. Then, he started talking again, only everything that came out of his mouth sounded like complete gibberish.
Only, it wasn’t just gibberish.
It was incomprehensible alright, but just like the symbols on that big, wooden triangle, it was like – purposeful. There was a meaning behind all that stuff he said, even if it was a meaning that none of us could recognize or understand.
The other CIRG guys tried to help him, asking what was wrong and trying to contact their command to call in help, but their communications weren’t working. Someone back at the cordon must’ve disabled them.
That’s when they asked me and the other operator to check our comms and to call in help if we could. I actually moved to do so, and that’s when I heard the voice come through my earpiece again. It just said – ‘Horus (which is my callsign), do not engage, observation only’. I just put my hands back on my weapon and did as I was told, focusing my eyes, and my helmet cam, back onto the CIRG guys.
Then, and I swear to God, Mom, I swear on Grandpa’s grave – I watched as the guy’s eye protection began to fill with some kind of dark fluid. It started slowly, but then it was clear for all to see, his goggles were filling up with blood; and as it started to leak out down his cheeks and around his nose, the CIRG guys started freaking out.
They were trying their comms again, screaming into their mouth pieces that they needed urgent assistance; and when they turned to us again, there was anger in their voices.
One told us - “don’t just stand there!”, another asked us “what the hell is wrong with you?”, but I just did as I was ordered, Mom, I just stood there and watched as the guy’s words were chocked off by something in his throat.
Then in an instant that horrified every single person in that cellar, something started to come out of his mouth. Not blood though, something solid and organic, like his own lungs were trying to crawl out from between his teeth. But they couldn’t have been his lungs, because although they were all fleshy and pink, just like regular organic tissue, the things that came out of his mouth were all long and thin, almost like the limbs of an octopus or a squid.
Right after that, we heard command say something into our ear pieces - “affected agent is declared hostile – open fire”.
I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They wanted me to shoot that guy, Mom.
Only, I hesitated, I couldn’t do it. They train you to shoot the bad guys, Mom, they don’t train you to murder your own.
Like I said, I hesitated, but the other operator didn’t, he just raised his rifle, and started shooting.
But he didn’t just shoot the guy a few times. He shot him until he fell, until the blue-white light flickered out and left his eyes; then he carried on firing into the guy’s head and neck as he lay in the dirt, and he kept shooting, until there was barely anything left.
The CIRG guys were about ready to execute the other operator right there and then. One even had his weapon pointed at the guy, telling him to put down his rifle and put his hands in the air. I think they actually thought they were going to arrest the guy there and then, but they had no idea what was about to come next.
Right then, as the CIRG guys are completely freaking out, ready to just about lynch the other operator (who I only know as ‘Apis’), the CIRG comms flickered back to life over all our radios, and told them all to stand down.
Orders then came down for the CIRG guys to remain in place while the C-IED operators (which meant us) were to exfil from the cabin. I was scared they might shoot us the back as we climbed out of the root cellar, but they didn’t, they just did as they were told. “Their’s not to reason why”, just like one of them had said.
As we walked outside, I got the first of many sick-to-my-stomach feelings I’ve had over the past twenty-four hours or so. About twenty yards away from the front entrance, there was another team from our unit, and in front of them were four body bags, enough to hold each member of the CIRG team.
Three of them were the jet black I’ve become all too familiar with during my time in the military, but another was unlike any kind of body bag I’ve ever seen before – bright orange. I don’t think I need to tell you which of the CIRG team was to go in that one.
Me and Apis were told to stand by as the other team, who all wore the same, all-black, unmarked uniforms our unit normally wears, went into the cabin to collect the body of the dead CIRG agent.
Only two reemerged carrying the bright orange body bag, and just as I started to wonder what the others might be doing, I heard a few screams unison, then the sound of a grenade going off. The explosion was followed by a few shots, before everything went quiet again.
That quiet was only broken by the sound of a voice coming from behind us, a voice saying “a find job you did in there, boys”.
When I turned, I saw the voice came from a short, middle-aged man, wearing a tweed jacket while flanked by two more black-clad operators. He looked like a librarian, and he spoke like one too; in this quiet, almost relaxing voice – one full of calm and confidence.
He told Apis to join the rest of the unit in loading what he called “the sample” onto a waiting chopper back at the cordon. Then looking at me, he smiled, and in that same calm, librarian’s tone, he told me something to the effect of -
“I know you’re a new member of the team, but I don’t want to see you hesitate like that again. Swiftness of obedience is crucial to our operator’s effectiveness, a requirement for moving forward. And that’s very, very important, because for you, there is no going back now”.
They don’t allow us to read any news from the outside here, Mom, but I can imagine what the headlines said.
“Four FBI agents killed in counter-terror raid”, while the article goes on to say how they made the ultimate sacrifice in some courageous attempt to bring in some dangerous terrorist. One who opted to blow everyone to pieces rather than be taken alive.
But the truth is, we killed them, Mom, we killed our own guys out there. And I can’t be a part of it. I won’t be a part of it.
I’m going to find a way of sending you this letter after I escape from the base here. But I know they’ll come looking for me, so I can’t come home just yet. Like that guy said, there’s no going back for me now, not if they have anything to do with it.
I promise I’ll be in touch as soon as I can, but please, when you’re done reading this – burn it. If there’s evidence that I've contacted you, that you knew I was going to escape, God knows what they’ll do to you to get me to come back.
Just please know that I love you, Dad and Steph with all my heart, and that I’ll do anything to make sure we can all be together again someday.
I love you, Mom. Stay safe. And don’t tell them a goddamn thing.
Your loving son,
Jake
Operator 734-812 was apprehended not far from the Foundation facility following his attempted desertion, on the night of March 18 2017.
He has since been terminated, with false records of mental health conditions being planted in his US Navy psych history.
To all outside observers, Operator 734-812 suffered from complex post-traumatic stress disorder following his return from Manbij, Syria, with these ongoing mental health problems causing a catastrophic breakdown around the same time he volunteered the foundation. Operator 734-812 has since been entered into the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, and will remain on said system until he is declared deceased in-absentia.
The Director has recommended a complete review of all recruit psychological testing programs, with new procedures set to come into effect by the end of this year. Although the encounter with SCP-427-195 was Horus’ first, we must more readily assure the psychological preparedness of potential recruits prior to their deployment.
The clandestine integrity of the Foundation is to be maintained at all costs. We must ensure that no other incidents of this nature are allowed to take place.
— Assistant Director ‘Aker’ 002-696
Hi, Sam;
This is a good story. Since Call of Cthulhu, the found footage/documentary—perhaps a "found letter"?—style has brought a whole new dimension to these kinds of cosmic horror narratives.
This story is good, but it feels like it's part of a larger whole, not one that should stand alone. I don't know if the analogy is accurate, but technically, it could be a collection of stories à la World War Z, with the horror escalating through different perspectives... I hope we get to read that whole thing.
Congratulations!
Wow, Sam. What a story. Sure to be truth in there, somewhere.😀