"Disturbance on County Road 47"

Summary

Redwood Bureau Episode Summary

Podcast: Redwood Bureau

Episode: Disturbance on County Road 47

Host/Narrator: Agent Conroy (Josh Tomar)

Date: September 27, 2025

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Overview

In this chilling episode of Redwood Bureau, Agent Conroy leaks another harrowing case file from his time with the shadowy organization. “Disturbance on County Road 47” follows a deputy who responds to a call on a desolate rural road, only to uncover a secret laboratory, human experimentation, and monstrous bioengineered entities. Conroy warns listeners that many such facilities, once controlled by the Bureau, are now lost, abandoned, or claimed by rogue operators. The case is a stark reminder of the consequences when the infrastructure for supernatural research falls into the wrong hands.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. The Opener: Hidden Dangers of Forsaken Facilities

• Conroy reflects on how ostensibly mundane places like shelters or clinics are often covers for secret Bureau operations.
• Quote (Conroy, 02:15):

  "Because the easiest way to hide a thing is to make sure the public can point at it and say oh, that."

• The episode revisits the theme of abandoned infrastructure, where lost oversight allows nefarious actors access to dangerous technology and entities.
• Quote (Conroy, 03:37):

  "These facilities are outliving the organization that claims to control them. Paperwork goes missing. Budgets change names..."

2. The Incident: A Deputy’s Descent

• [04:42] The story shifts to the present-tense, first-person account of the responding deputy.
• The deputy heads to the only house at the end of County Road 47 after a distress call about a kidnapping.
• Early signs: isolated home, jammed comms, visible evidence of struggle, and an oppressive, unnatural environment.
• The deputy discovers disturbing signs—zip ties, scalpels, stains, and “indicators of restraint and possible torture.”
• Quote (Deputy, 13:59):

  "There's a sense of panic was starting to rise. Something was very, very wrong."

3. Underground Terror: Monsters & Mayhem

• [15:00–22:00] The deputy locates a hidden basement:
  • A long tunnel, lined with cells and empty rooms, leads to a gruesome encounter with a monstrous, inhuman creature—showing signs of surgical modification and impossible anatomy.
• Gritty action as the deputy fights for his life, using both firearm and knife, ultimately killing the monster after a brutal struggle.
• Quote (Deputy, 21:45):

  "It wasn't until I was out of breath and retching at the puddle of gore clinging to my boot that I stopped heaving for breath."

4. Deeper Horrors & The Captive

• [24:00 onwards] The deputy rescues a man held in a cage, discovering elaborate medical/surgical setups—evidence of serial experimentation.
• The two must navigate further dangers, including a monstrous eye in the next hallway, suggesting another (or worse) creature lurks beyond.
• They find a woman chained and hooked up to a vile medical apparatus, her DNA and body evidently tampered with.
• Quote (Rescued Man, 33:42, whispered):

  "The girl."

5. The Doctor's Entrance: Ethics vs. Survival

• [37:36] The main antagonist appears—a calm, clinical “doctor” responsible for the experiments. He offers a grim choice:

  "There are two exits...you might reach the first, but not unless you let everyone you think you’re saving die in the process."

• The doctor is unhurried, unfazed, and chillingly rational—contrasting the urgency and fear of the others.
• Descriptions of the creatures become more horrifying: mass of fangs, fused ribs forming weapons, double-jointed limbs—biological engineering to create obedient, superior life-forms.
• The next monster is unleashed; chaos ensues in a desperate fight for survival.

6. Escalation: Final Showdown

• [43:56] The deputy and his companion defeat another horrific creature, utilizing any tool at hand (bone saw, rib spreader, knife).
• The doctor injects the rescued woman with an unknown substance, triggering a violent transformation as alarms and security fail-safes activate.
• Quote (Doctor, 46:55):

  "You can't manage me and what's about to happen."

• The protagonists escape through a maintenance crawlspace as the lab goes into lockdown, barely evading pursuit.

7. Bureau “Rescue”: No Real Choices

• [51:30] The deputy and survivor are retrieved by what appears to be paramedics, only to realize—too late—these are agents from the Bureau.
• Subtle indicators: blank name tags, unmarked medical equipment, “secondary intake” and “secure processing.”
• The sedation is overwhelming and sinister, with the implication that the deputy’s fate is out of his hands.
• Quote (Deputy, 52:29):

  "I remember the front door upstairs, the lock that set itself and understood that some doors close from the inside and some from the outside, and sometimes you don't get a vote either way."

8. The Fallout & Agent Conroy’s Analysis

• [54:21] Conroy recounts how the Bureau erased the incident:
  • The deputy survived but was forced into the system for “secure processing.”
  • The house had been repurposed and modified by the doctor, who acquired it through black market contacts and exploited existing (forgotten) Bureau infrastructure.
  • The doctor escapes and is labeled “unconfirmed KIA”—Bureau-speak for “possibly recruited” as a rogue asset.
• The deputy is presented with a “choice”: disappear entirely, or work for the Bureau—a choice undermined by the threat implicit in a file containing photos of his family.
• Quote (Conroy, 57:43):

  “They made it sound like a choice. But when a file with pictures of your wife and kid is placed in front of you, they aren't really giving you the freedom of choice.”

• Conroy warns: this is not a one-off. There are likely dozens of such facilities, lost and waiting to be (mis)used.

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Notable Quotes & Moments

• “The easier way to hide a thing is to make sure the public can point at it and say oh, that.” —Agent Conroy, [02:15]
• “These facilities are outliving the organization that claims to control them.” —Agent Conroy, [03:37]
• “The bar stench. A narrow stair fell away into dark well below what a foundation this size would have been dug out for.” —Deputy, [15:31]
• “Whatever I thought this call was when I turned off onto 47, it wasn't that anymore.” —Deputy, [18:57]
• “He began his experimentation on people. Every subject was a failed step toward a final shape. Faster, stronger, more obedient, less human. That was the blueprint.” —Agent Conroy, [55:17]
• “Don’t fool yourself into thinking it was unique. There are dozens of locations like it. Maybe more.” —Agent Conroy, [58:35]

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Important Timestamps

• [01:03–04:42] – Conroy’s preamble: dangers of abandoned Bureau facilities
• [04:42–13:59] – Deputy’s arrival, finds signs of struggle and torture
• [15:00–24:00] – Discovery of hidden basement; first monster encounter
• [30:36–37:36] – Rescue attempt, monstrous eye, elaborate lab, and medical horror
• [37:36–43:56] – Confrontation with the Doctor and new monster
• [43:56–46:50] – Violent transformation and facility lockdown
• [51:30–54:21] – Deputy “rescued” by Bureau; realization of his fate
• [54:21–58:51] – Conroy’s wrap-up and warning: this is just one of many such places

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Episode Flow & Tone

The episode moves from ominous foreboding to raw terror, mixing gnawing suspense with bursts of visceral violence and philosophical reflection on institutional rot. Conroy’s narration is weary, incisive, and grimly committed to public warning; the deputy’s account drips with adrenaline, dread, and the fraught vulnerability of a lawman hopelessly out of his depth. The antagonists—both monster and man—are rendered with bleak, clinical detail, underlining the horror’s roots in calculated science as much as the supernatural. The conclusion is haunting, offering no easy answers, only the unsettling sense that the Bureau’s secrets are still out there, waiting.

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For Uninitiated Listeners

This episode functions as both a gripping supernatural horror story and a cautionary tale about unchecked institutions and the lasting damage of buried secrets. It’s structured as a “found file” leak—with a strong narrative core (the deputy’s ordeal), wrapped in Conroy’s broader warning about the world beyond the Bureau’s control. The monsters are memorable, but the real horror lies in the unaccountable systems and the moral compromises forced upon their survivors.

Transcript

[A]

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[A]

A secret organization which captures and researches creatures and objects that defy explanation. Their reckless procedures have led to countless innocent lives lost. I am Agent Conroy. I worked for the Redwood Bureau. But I have escaped them to leak their reports to the unsuspecting public. You have the right to know. Remember when I told you last year that not every shelter is built for shelter? That some places wear false faces? Storm bunkers, clinics, maintenance depots. Because the easiest way to hide a thing is to make sure the public can point at it and say oh, that. We called that case storm shelter. But an unused safety facility was just the mask. The heart of it was the work being done in secret. The dangerous experiments and entities housed far too close to civilization. Here's the problem that no one likes to hear. These facilities are outliving the organization that claims to control them. Paperwork goes missing. Budgets change names. A surveyor draws a box around a parcel and never gets told what's under it. And in the space between was and is. The kind of person who wants a ready made lab or access to dangerous objects and research can suddenly possess such things. They don't need to be brilliant. They just need to be patient, practical and mean. This isn't folklore and it isn't rumor. It's engineering corridors that funnel you where someone wants you. Doors that allow passage only at the whim of someone unseen. In storm shelter, we talked about facades. How a civic shell can hide a private agenda. This isn't a shell. It's a method. A purpose built environment forcing compliance one controlled variable at a time. Because the smarter monsters don't need to hunt. They lure. They measure. They don't want you dead. They need you. Useful, and the only thing they respect more than pain is repeatable results. How does a case like this start? The way they all too often do, with a voice that almost makes it through a cell phone ping near the end of an unused road, a dispatcher straining through static to catch an understanding of the situation, and a deputy who goes because that's what he's paid to do. Almost every county has a dead end with a mailbox that never gets the flag raised. Every county has a building that's still drawing power even though no one signed for it. If storm shelter was your warning label, consider this the follow up test. What happens when someone inherits the infrastructure and decides the lesson plan needs a little unsupervised tweak? You want a clean line between us and them, between official and obscene? You won't get one tonight. What you'll get is is proof of something that I never wanted to be right about.

[B]

I was halfway down Highway 9 when dispatch came through on the radio. Unit 4, possible 207 in progress. Female caller reports being held against her will. Unknown location. State she's unable to exit and may be actively pursued. Nuclear intel on suspect or exact address? Approximate location only, but the being was near the end of Country Road 47. There's only one house on a dead end. Your closest backup is at least an hour out. Please use caution. Copy Born Room, I said and activated my lights and sirens. Asphalt turns to gravel and the shoulders disappear into scrub oak and pine. Service gets patchy out there on the best days. I killed the siren. Didn't seem smart to announce a mile away that I was coming and just ran the light bar blue strobing over trunks and fence posts. The only sound was the steady rattle of equipment in the rack and the soft knock of gravel against the undercarriage. County 47 narrowed after the second switchback and pinched to one lane. I eased up on the gas, let the car idle forward, and took the last stretch. Trees pressed in from both sides, branches scraping the cruiser, creating a dark tunnel that drew me forward to some sort of inevitability. It appeared all at once, a two story surrounded by trees with a steep roofline and severely fading, damaged siding. The porch sagged at the center. No vehicles out front, no movement of any kind. If you'd shown me a photograph, I would have told you the place was condemned. But the front door was sitting slightly ajar and the dirt and turnaround showed a recent tire arc, one set only, like someone had back then. Spun and left. I keyed my radio. Dispatch unit four is 1023 at the house of 47. Single structure appears unoccupied. I'll be making approach. Start me a second car when available. Static came back with a half syllable of a reply and then nothing. I tried again, but this time I received only static. My cell displayed only a circle with a horizontal line through it. Great, I thought, hoping this was some high schooler's idea of a break. I put on my gloves, thumbed the hood, snap on the holster, took the mag light from the bracket, and stepped out. It was colder here than in the valley, a damp that came up from the ground and settled heavy in your lungs. Leaves were slick underfoot on the porch steps. I stayed left of the door and knocked with the base of the flashlight, causing it to open wider. Sheriff's office. Come out with your hands up. Red and blue lit the porch and the small sliver of the house through the cracked door. I waited. Nothing. I took the toe of my boot and eased the door open on its creaking hinges, leaning to sight the immediate corners with the light, the pistol resting along my forearm. Stale air pushed out, sweet and chemical at once. Bleach. Metal. The tale of decay. You can file that smell under a lot of names. None of them are good. Sheriff's department. I stepped inside, cleared left, then right, then the center of the room. What used to be a living room had been stripped of anything that made the name fit. A couch set against the far wall with its cushions ripped apart. A rectangle of slightly cleaner floor was the only sign a coffee table had ever been there. The walls consisted of torn and water damaged wallpaper with holes exposing the horizontal strips of wood. Everything was broken or damaged from years of neglect and moisture. Angling my flashlight down, I noticed footprints, recent and at least one long mark where something human size had been dragged away. I followed the edge of it with the light. It crossed the living room and vanished into a hallway on the right. I thumbed the mic without taking my eyes off the dark. Unit four, I'm in the home. Someone was definitely here, seeing signs of a struggle. What's the ETA on backup? The radio gave me a crackle and a pop, then fell quiet. It wasn't abnormal for the Hollow to refuse communications with town, but when you're alone out here it feels anything but normal. The hallway ran straight to the back of the house with doors left and right. I started with the first on the left, kept the wall at my shoulder, opened with my foot and cast the beam in wide figure eights. Bathroom. Shattered mirror over a vanity that was little more than pieces clinging to the wall. The bathtub and walls were in pretty much the same shape, with the pieces of it all covering the floor. Directly across was a bedroom stripped to the mattress. It sat on the floor and was covered in stains I shuddered to even guess at. The closet door was torn off and folded into a broken pile in the corner. Every inch of the carpet was stained in different shades and colors. I moved on. The hall opened into a kitchen where black mold colonized the ceiling and fractal patterns and rust colored water stains snapped continents down the walls. A faucet dripped steadily into a sink base, encrusted with something I hoped was once full food. Roaches scattered at the beam of my flashlight, disappearing into gaps in the pilling with nolium that curled away from the baseboards. Instead of a table, there was a metal slab on a welded frame bracketed by four still rings bolted to the corners. A refrigerator was against the wall, with three lines of duct tape crossing the door, holding it closed. The putrid odor was strong here. The pantry was empty except for several glass jars. Some held cloudy liquid with hair floating in it. Some held dark gelatinous clumps. A drawer near the sink was pulled out and on the counter inside, zip ties, a box of gloves, a handful of scalpel blades still in the paper sleeves, and a roll of cloth tape with the first two inches stained like someone with body fingers had recently used it. Dispatch, if you're hearing any part of this, I vent indicators of restraint and possible torture. Start me. Fire an EMS asap. I've got a bad feeling about this. Saying it out loud made my mouth go dry. No response on the radio. I couldn't be certain if my message got through or not. You learn pretty early on in law enforcement not to ignore those gut feelings you get. I pulled my sidearm from my holster and prepared to finish sweeping the house. Gun first. Something scraped under the floor. A long drag, then a pause, then a thud. It reverberated from under my feet, but the sound also traveled from down another hallway on the far side of the kitchen. I held still long enough for it to come again, following the same pattern. Someone was definitely here. I took the far hallway, clearing the corners before searching for the source of the noise. The door at the end of it had a new heavy duty hasp latch installed and an industrial padlock that was in it but unlocked. I listened with my ear against it before I removed the lock and slid the door open. The bare stench. A narrow stair fell away into dark well below what a foundation this size would have been dug out for. My mind raced through every possible scenario, through the fact that everything here was unknown and I was completely on my own at the moment. A few years earlier and I would have probably rushed down the stairs without thinking twice. But I have a wife now, a kid to go home to. I did the smart thing. I followed department procedure. I backed away from the stairs and returned through the kitchen toward the front. Still checking every dark corner with my sidearm and flashlight. I made my way back to the front door and put my hand on the doorknob, cold metal biting through thin gloves, and turned. It turned but the door didn't budge. I pulled it and shook. The whole frame seemed to rattle, but it wouldn't give. It was then that I noticed two thick metal bars that spanned the door and connected to the walls. Some mechanism had to be activated, causing them to extend and lock. A sense of panic was starting to rise. Something was very, very wrong. I checked the windows in quick sequence. Every one of them had metal bars preventing escape. Fuck. A scream came from somewhere deep down the still open basement door. A woman scream. The sound made my blood run cold. Alright. Down the desk. I took the stairs one step at a time. Light and firearms sweeping. The steps weren't original. New lumber had been cut to fit and looked far too recent to fit the house. The dark swallowed my light and the steps just kept going deeper. This wasn't a basement built under the house. This was a tunnel boring into the earth. After what seemed to be a hundred or more steps, the dirt tunnel opened to a landing and the hallway spark left and right. Concrete floor, unpainted block walls. It was pitch black down here and I said a silent prayer for the batteries in my flashlight. Almost immediately. On the left was a door with a window cut into it. Safety glass, yellow to the color of urine. I inched closer while checking down each stretching hallway and looked in. It wasn't a room. It was a cell with a stainless steel bed bolted to the slab and chains anchored at the mid wall. I expected to see cameras in the corner, but there weren't any. No wires or lights either. Shining my light down the right side, I didn't see any doors immediately. The call that came in said a woman was being held against her will, so I figured I'd follow the prison cells. I put one foot in front of the other, scanning the empty rooms briefly as I passed, my hand so tight on the grip of my Glock 22 that it hurt. I checked at least a dozen empty rooms before coming to another T shaped junction. I drew my light from left to right before the low sound of a growl echoed through the dippot, brought the light up, sights just above it, and tried to force my breath to flatten out so my hands would stop shaking. The beam cut of her block and created shadow. A hand reached from behind the junction, grabbing onto the corner, wrong angle at the wrists, nulls dark with Grimes getting leathery and gray. It explored the edge of the cinder block, inching towards me. Whatever I thought this call was when I turned off onto 47, it wasn't that anymore. I set my feet and indexed the front sight. The hand slipped around the corner and the rest of it followed in a crawl that wasn't a crawl, knees tucked up under the chest like a spider, folding elbows backward, feet dragging with the tops of the toes scraping the concrete, skin slick in wet gray patches. Staples climbed the shoulder in a zipper where the jaw should have been. A single plate of flat bone had been bolted across the front like a shield, leaving only a slit at the bottom for breath. Don't, I said, and I heard the fear in my own voice. My light had its eyes clouded, yellowed at the edges. It flinched and then rushed at me. I had time to put two rounds into mass. It started like I was shooting a bag of wet sand. It didn't slow. It crawled over the floor, clearing the distance in a heartbeat, and hit me above the knees. The cold, hard floor took my breath and gave nothing back. I kept the gun and tied against my ribs and tried to put a third round up to the head, but it was on me, all weight and angles, heat coming off it like it had come out of a furnace. The bone plate smashed my forearm and the pistol barked into a wall. The slide caught the casing and stove piped. I saw it and didn't have time to see it. Muscle memory took over. I slammed it against my knee, racked against my leg, and tried to bring it back in the fight. Except there was no space to bring my arm in. It drove a shoulder into my gut and made a sound like a wheezing screech. I arched my back, thrusting with hips while using my left arm to push and create distance. With just enough room, my right arm jammed the muzzle under the bone plate and pulled the trigger. The shot went, was angled weird and caught the roof of his mouth. I felt the recoil and the hot splash on my cheek. It thrashed, grinding, head butting down, trying to drive that blade into my face. I arched to get away from it, my boot found the cinder block wall and I shoved off, using my hips and the momentum to gain top position. It scrambled for purchase, for with nails that were black and thick, curved like little pry bars, it dug them into my duty belt and found skin trying to pull me inward. I pressed the muzzle where neck met shoulder and fired until the slide locked back. The round swore a gaping hole in its collar, but didn't turn it off. The breath coming through the slit under the plate went wet. It found my left wrist and bent it in a direction I've only seen once when arriving on scene to a serious car accident. I felt searing pain as the tendons popped. The pistol went and skittered into the dark, the sound of it hidden by my echoing screams. It tried to climb me. It tucked those elbows backwards and levered its weight, placing a knee across my thigh, and started to pull itself up my body. The seams across his abdomen were clear. Two long lines of sutures trailed triangles of skin missing where someone had needed to get in without cutting into the whole thing. I tried to hold it down with the forearm of my useless left hand while patting my duty belt with my right hand. Our desperate fight had turned it slightly, moving everything from where I knew it supposed to be, but the instant my hand felt the familiar handle of my fixed blade knife, I pulled it free and traced it up the thing's stomach. The stitched seams opened like a zipper. It curled defensively and let go of me, and I angled myself to the left, away from his arms, and stomped. My boot found its head and I stomped again three times. The third head cracked the bolt head on that bone plate and drove it to the side. The plate shifted. The slit widened into a mouth that wasn't a mouth at all. The real jaw underneath was gone, and the tongue was a gray stump slapping wildly in the cavity. It tried to scream and manage only a gurgling choke. I stopped again, and again its arms reached out at me but became weaker with every wet, bloody crunch. It wasn't until I was out of breath and retching at the puddle of gore clinging to my boot that I stopped heaving for breath. I backed away from the thing until I hit the cold brick wall. It still twitched and spasmed, but I definitely killed whatever the hell that thing was. The burning pain in my wrist came rushing back in like a tide. As my adrenaline subsided, I inspected it more closely, delicately cradling it with my right hand. The good news was that it wasn't broken, at least not seriously. The bad news was that it was dislocated and I'd have to perform a self reduction. Waiting was only going to make this worse. I placed my left palm against the wall and placed my right hand over the top of it. The pain of this action in itself was enough to reconsider the whole plan, but after what just happened, I couldn't see myself surviving until backup came. With only one hand, I pushed against my hand and pulled the arm. An audible crack traveled down the hallways, punctuated by a sharp pain that started to dissipate. The relief was almost instant, but I could also tell that damage had been done. Silence took over with the tinnitus you get after gunfire in an enclosed space. I picked up my flashlight and looked around for my sidearm, finding it against the far wall of the T junction. I retrieved it, fishing a fresh mag from my belt and replacing it with the spent one before racking the slide. The action definitely caused my wrists pain, but the fact I could get it done was all that mattered right now. The woman's scream resonated through my mind with a far more sinister undertone. Now I had to find her and get out of here. At that junction, I chose to go left. Not for any reason other than a cop's primitive vision of game theory. Quick unpredictability. Don't loop the square, keep moving and don't dwell. The possibilities seemed equally bad. So you flip a coin and move, because freezing is fatal. My light found more doors with those yellowed plexiglass panes, more cells with beds bolted down. At the next intersection, the hall opened on a space the size of a two car garage. Overhead lights hung on cords at different heights against the far wall. Human sized cages, too empty, one occupied. I heard him before I saw him. I let the beam slide over to him slowly so it didn't mid brain panic at movement. Male, maybe 50, maybe older. He had a gag and a surgical bite block that fed a tube down his throat. His wrists were cuffed to the back panel. His eyes tracked the light and stayed on my hands. Sheriff's office, I said, voice low. I'm going to get you out of here. Just hold on. He shook his head in a small, violent negative and looked past me into the dark, then back at my belt. He didn't cry or try to make a sound around the block. Keys? I asked. He tried to shrug with his wrist pinned and then lifted his chin toward the back of the room. The back wall was cluttered. A pegboard held tools and outliness, saws, clamps, forceps scissors, needles in sizes that went from thread to rope. Beside the board clung laminated sheets and plastic sleeves. Diagrams, more careful than anything else here, Complicated maps of human anatomy. Below the sleeves, a row of keys on nails, each tag stamped with a number that didn't match any system I understood. I took them anyway and worked the cage latch. None fit. The man's throat made a sound like a bark behind the block and he stamped his hill twice. I looked down. Handwritten on the still frame near the latch. K3. The tags were letters with numbers, not numbers alone. I found K, ran to three and opened it on the second try. The door sprang a half inch and required me to pull it the rest of the way. Door cuffed? I asked. He nodded. I passed him the key ring to try his own wrists and cover the hallway while he worked. The cuffs came off with a soft, shocked sound. He pulled the tube with a gagging choke and spit the block onto the floor. I'm not fast, he said, already apologizing. Stay behind me and stay quiet. I handed him a flashlight from the pegboard. His hand shook but he nodded without another word. There was a door in the room I hadn't marked on the wall way in, a metal reinforced thing looking expensive and out of place. A keypad sat in the wall near his handle. Do you know the code? Asked the man quietly. His only response was his negative head shake. Upon closer inspection, the keypad had a smear of something on four numbers. 0147. I tried 1470, then 0147 and 4710. Nothing. The man behind me leaned so his breath touched my neck and said, sometimes they go through upside down. I didn't react to how much the cryptic statement disturbed me and keyed 0741. The light pinged from red to green and the lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. I held my hand over my light and peeked in the cracked door just an inch, listening for any sign of movement. After a few heart pounding moments of unanswered silence, I slowly opened the door all the way and brought my light up. Empty hallway.

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[B]

I took us to the next corridor and into the part of the basement that somebody had cleaned like they respected. What happened there? White tile floor, drains, stainless carts with assorted tools that had all been wiped clean. There were notebooks stacked three high on a metal shelf, each labeled in hard pressed handwriting with dates and abbreviations. I opened one. The pages were scrawled with practically illegible medical notes, procedures, scientific formulas, and columns of letters and numbers. I had no idea what I was looking at. We crossed the tile to a service store and found it chained from the other side. I put my weight into it and the chain sank against steel. There was a small viewing slit at eye level with a sliding cover. I slid it. The slit looked into the leg of a hallway. Then something flashed past, too close to focus, too fast for the beam to catch. The man saw it and made a sound that shouldn't have come from him. Back. I hissed, and we backed away together. On the far wall hung a board with laminated badges on clips, photos. The pictures weren't faces a family would recognize. Shaved heads, eyes brimmed raw. Each had a number, each number above a date and the dates were recent. The flicker of movement came back, saw the light, and peered through the open sled, one massive bloodshot eye. It retreated just as quickly before the impact shook the door hard enough to sting my teeth and made the chain groan. The man behind me stumbled and recovered and shoved his fist into his own mouth to stop him from screaming. Another slam echoed through the silence, causing us to leave the room as quickly as we dared. A service corridor ran parallel to the wall. We moved down the corridor until we came upon a door that was propped with a folded wedge of cardboard, like someone had meant to come right back. I kicked the wedge out, opened it with my foot, and let the beam sweep. It was a prep room, clean gowns on a rack, gloves, suture kits labeled bottles. On the far table lay a human torso. The head had been shaved and marked with lines and black pen that proposed a different design for the skull. The spine below the neck had been braced with an aluminum frame, threaded rods and bolts. The ribs were open and held with retractors. Beside it sat a voice recorder, an old micro cassette, a red light steady on his face that said the same thing as the cardboard in the door. Someone was just here. The man started breathing heavily and looked around. I had a million questions I needed answered and no time to ask them. We're moving. We need to find the girl and a way out. Now, I whispered, hearing the breathroom door latched up behind us before a new sound began. Footfalls too fast for a normal person. It was on us the next instant, coming around the bend at waist height, shoulders low, head forward. I aimed and took fire mid stride. When it presented the biggest target. One round tore through the inside of the knee or elbow on the lead leg. It tumbled forward, leaving a smear of skin on the concrete. It caught up on the momentum and came again. That gave me a second or two at most. I put one in the hip, one through his shoulder, and one tripped on its side. I put one through the base of the skull. It thrashed and then went limp. The man hugged the door jamb, white knuckled on the flashlight, eyes glassy but present. He looked at me like he had decided he could trust me with his next breath, and I did my best not to make him wrong. I kept the pistol up and waited for the hallway to settle. Keep behind me, I said. If I go down, you run. Don't argue. He nodded while once we moved, the corridor curved right into a longer span of tile and drains. On the left a glass fronted case with clean linen and Sealed kits. On the right, a door with a higher viewing window than the others. I stepped to the edge, angled the light so I wouldn't mirror my own face, and looked in. Surgical lights. Two gurneys on rails, boom arms with capped gas ports. Along the far wall, three vertical acrylic tubes, big enough for a person to stand in, one empty with drip lines streaking on the inside. Two were clouded with movement, hidden in murk in the nearest bay. A woman lay secure on a table, half covered in a sheet. Tape held a line at the neck. Another line looped into her forearm, capped chest rising shallow and slow. The girl, the man whispered. Watch the hall. The door wasn't locked. It opened on a cushion of colder air. The room had been cleaned thoroughly and recently. Whoever was doing this did so with intent and control. I moved to the woman. Her pupils retracted to light, skin warm, no cyanosis, breath and pulse regular. I felt the urge to rip the tape, pull the lines, and carry her out on adrenaline and prayer. Then I saw the clamp under the side rail and the restrained ring at the foot had a chain attached to her thigh. A soft hiss started behind me. Nine gas pressure equalizing. One of the acrylic tubes unsealed with a low wet slump. The cloud inside churned, clearing by the second. The shape unfolded in the cylinder, vaguely human, but I knew it was another one of those things. I brought my pistol up, sighted center mass where collar meets sternum. Freeze, I said before I even thought about the absurdity of my command. A second voice answered from the shadow between bays. Calm and clear.

[A]

Please don't shoot the glass.

[B]

You have no idea how hard it was to have those me. He stepped into the light, wearing a blood stained apron over bleached out scrubs. Surgical cap. Glasses with magnifying attachments hung around his neck. His hands were bare and relaxed at his sides, medical scars straight along the forearm. He was average Height, average build, mid-50s, the kind of figure you'd miss in a crowd. The eyes were not forgettable. They were so blue that they were practically white. Hands, I said. Let me see them. He lifted them, chest high, palms forward, like a surgeon calming a team. You'll have decisions to make quickly. I don't want your timing compromised by poor information. There are two exits.

[A]

One is the way that you came in.

[B]

The other is behind me. You don't see it yet. You won't reach the second without me. You might reach the first, but not unless you let everyone you think you're.

[A]

Saving die in the process.

[B]

On your fucking Knees. Cross your ankles now. He smiled slightly, as if he'd heard a child practicing a piano piece.

[A]

You're not in a position to restrain.

[B]

Me and manage what's about to wake up. He nodded towards the acrylic. He was right about one thing. The shape inside resolved into a human outline until it moved. Then the edits showed the chest bulging like a split log, ribs thickened and fused into a blunt shank. The shoulders had double hinges, the upper arms able to swing forward like forelegs. The forearms were meat cables roped with tendon, ending in hands that had overgrown into hooked paddles, each finger tipped with a curled, serrated claw. The spine ran high and prowled under the skin. I saw a back of calcified knobs. The lower jaw had been hacked away, and in its place a second vertical mouth gaped where the throat should be, ringed in ragged teeth grown from the tracheal rings themselves. When the tube split, it slid out and shook itself like a dog flinging a sheet of thick fluid. Don't, I said. It came like a car rolling downhill with no brakes. Not fast initially, but building speed. I didn't think the rounds would penetrate the heart and chest, so I shot at the waist, trying to take one of the knees out, the rounds head and puff to meet, but the hips didn't fold. It stepped in, hammering the muzzle aside with a hooked palm, and crashed into me shoulder first. The shot sent me flying backwards, and I continued sliding as I hit the ground. I dumped what remained of the mag as it charged again. A few of the rounds found soft tissue, most of them plinking off its armored chest, none of them even slowing the thing. I had time enough to slap in a fresh mag before it was on me again. Knocking the pistol from my hands, I pushed against its chest and met bonepleat grown under the skin. As I pulled its face towards me. The throat mouth contracted and opened, sucking and groaning with clacking teeth, it tried to fold me in half across its forearm. I shoved a knee into its midline and hit something soft and sensitive. It coughed wet air over my neck and bit at me as I rolled away.

[A]

You'll never stop it like that, the.

[B]

Doctor said, completely relaxed.

[A]

I think it's so obvious what you need to do.

[B]

I struck my boot across the inside of his knee while driving my hips forward and leaning back. The joint wasn't there. The legs broke sideways at a new hinge with a click, like a folding ladder. It stuttered, and I grabbed the first thing from a nearby surgical tray. I came came up with a rib spreader and jammed the T bar across the throat mouth. When it bit, teeth squealed on still and broke off in chipped pieces. It whipsaw the hooked hand and peeled a stripe off my cheek. I sinked my knife into the hinge under its ear and hit gnarled bone that had no right to be there. I raked for the eye and it jerked its skull sideways too fast, the saw spine snapping links under the skin. Skin. It slammed me into the gurney rail hard enough to send stars dancing across my vision. The world narrowed down to a pinpoint of horrific human visage.

[A]

Warning Signal interruption detected.

[B]

This episode is brought to you by.

[A]

20Th Century Studios New film Springsteen Deliver.

[B]

Me From Nowhere Starring Golden Globe winner Jeremy Allen White and Academy Award nominee Jeremy Strong. Scott Cooper, the director of the Academy Award winning movie Crazy Heart, brings you.

[A]

The story of the most pivotal chapter.

[B]

In the life of an icon. Springsteen Deliver Me From Nowhere only in theaters October 24th. The new Popeyes and Hot Ones menu is fire flavor. Trust me, because I'm about to eat it. That hits right away. Attempt the Popeyes Hot Ones menu in stores. Love that chicken from Popeyes. Limited time in participating US Restaurants Disney and Pixar's Elio has a new home, now streaming on Disney. That's amazing. Critics agree Elio is fun and full of heart and humor. These are the lava tunnels. I am not fireproof. Just get in my mouth. Actually kind of comfy in here.

[A]

It is.

[B]

It's certified fresh and verified hot. Ta da. Elio's bringing the whole thing Family together on Disney plus one two and a half three Disney and Pixar Zelo now streaming on Disney plus A PG signal connection restored. The man I'd freed, God bless him, crashed a stainless basin off the creature's temple. It didn't go down. It turned on them, backhanding him into the wall, and was about to rip him apart when I jumped on his back and buried my thumb to the knuckle in his left eye. Hot gore covered my hand, a stray thought praising me for remembering to wear my gloves. Its scream came out like a broken backpack. I took the opportunity to retrieve my sidearm. It was back on its feet and bearing down on me, but now with a significant, significant limp in a major blind spot, I ducked its wild swing and moved to the left where it couldn't see me without turning its entire body. When it shifted weight onto its broken leg mid turn, I rammed it with every bit of my 217 pound frame. The leg buckled and it fell onto its back. Swinging those hooks at me, I kicked the right one away as I circled around it, taking aim and firing five or six, six rounds into his face. Several drove into the right eye and subsequently the brain, which was what I was aiming at. Unbelievably, the thing just didn't seem to agree that it was dead. The hook still flailed about, albeit weakly, searching for someone to impale. I gave the doctor a look as I took a short walk back to the cart and picked up a bone saw, taking a second or two to examine the edge the of before walking back to the creature. It was very sharp. Only took 15 or 20 seconds to remove the head entirely. After that the arms lost their will and the thing went limp. The doctor was standing over the unconscious woman, syringe in hand, now filled with a clear, viscous fluid that held a small swirling black shape. He tapped the needle with a fingernail. You're irregular, he said, almost pleased. That helps you, but it helps me more. Put it down or I'll kill you, I said, bringing the gun up one handed. Before I could react, he slid the needle in and buried the plunger. I squeezed, putting a round in his gun. He slumped as the woman's body shuddered and went stiff. Show me your fucking hands. I won't ask again. I yelled, taking a step towards him but stopping as the woman's body seized, nearly hopping off the table and going stiff again.

[A]

You can't manage me and what's about to happen?

[B]

He said, blood staining his teeth.

[A]

And you don't have locked Go, I.

[B]

Said to the man, already grabbing his sleeve and pulling him up now. The woman's back arched hard enough to bang the rails. Monitors that had been idle screamed awake, flat, then spiked again. The chain attached to her gurney unlatched with a chalk and the restraints dropped as if an invisible hand had cut the string. A low siren rolled through the room and the lights went into a red strobe. Vents opened with a hollow gulp. The air dragged past my face toward the cylinder turns negative pressure on full. The doctor took two steps sideways without hurry and touched a panel I had taken for a wall. A seam swung open, revealing a hidden door. He didn't look at me. He looked at his work. Blood ran from his God's the apron, though he didn't seem to notice. He slipped through the gap and it closed to a hand's width, enough for one cool blue eye to study me a last time, measuring, calculating, then gone. I could have emptied the mag into the panel, but it was my Last spare. And what if there were more of those things? The woman's body whipped hard enough to lift the gurney wells off the rails. The acrylic tube beside her burped open and dumped a slurry across the floor that tracked to the trains in a gray ribbon. A still shudder began to slide from what the doctor had presented as a primary exit. This way, I said, already pulling the man through the door. We had a maintenance door, red locked led. I kicked the bar. Nothing again. A distant thunk upstream auto locks. Walking the hall, I scanned and found a low access hatch with quarter turn latches. I spun them with my gut hand and a bad one that screamed, heaved the plate and met a pipe shaft big enough for a person who didn't have bad knees. Crawl, I said, lighting your teeth. Don't stop, no matter what you hear. He went. I shoved the hedge clothes behind our boots and pulled myself along by elbows and will above, something heavy translated across steel in a methodical pattern. Equipment on a track or someone testing doors. The shaft ended in a tee. Left was dark and old. Right had fresh scuff marks and glove grease. Around the second panel we took right, braced, and shouldered the hatch until the frame deformed and then gave. We spilled into a narrower service corridor with painted cinder blocks and a floor that sheened with condensation. Upslope good. A utility ladder ran to a hinged cliff grate at the end. The first two rungs were missing. I made a rung out of my forearm and took his weight to my shoulder until it could find purchase, then followed with fireworks in my wrist and a noise kept behind my teeth. The grate was set under the porch. I got fingers under the lip and pried until it lifted. It tore free with a dry cough of leaf rod and cold air. We wriggled out into the crawl and then into the open onto hard dirt and a night free of tunnels. The house was a dark box inside darker trees. Deep inside, machinery cycled and hollow thuds beat at the ground. Sirens broke the night back up, this time more than one. I queued the mic and got voices. For the first time since the porch, I caught several units communicating. We're out, I told them. My voice sounded worse than I felt. I collapsed onto the ground, my eyes heavier than any time I can ever remember. The sirens bled into the trees and then into me. Gravel hissed. Doors slammed. We've got two, someone said, already moving. Hands were on my shoulders, my jaw, my wrists. A light found my pupils and stayed there like an interrogation.

[A]

Name.

[B]

I gave a drunken mumble. Hold still. We got you. They got me onto a gurney. The straps were quick and professional. I let them. The cold air fell away when they lifted and the box of the ambulance took me in. White walls, stainless rails. The drug smell that means you can stop fighting. The door shut. Darker in here. Quieter. The engine came up through the floor and turned the whole rig into a calming hum. A mask touched my face. Deep breaths. A needle bit my arm with the kind of indifference that's almost mercy. Heat slid up the vane and created a comfortable distance. I blinked and something didn't align. No hospital patch on the jacket. No counting decal on the jump bag. The monitor was there but the stickers were blank. The cabinets had no labels, only numbers stamped into the steel. The badge on the medic's chest was smooth without a name, just a barcode and a slot where a name should live. We rolled. Somewhere up front, a radiomembered something I couldn't quite make out. The medic beside me checked my vitals without ever looking at my face. Where are we going? I asked, each word more slurred than the last. Secondary intake, the medic said. Secure processing. Thumb got quieter or I got further away. The ceiling lights clicked off as we passed through the trees and into open road. The sedative pooled at my edges and I couldn't fight against it any longer. I watched the barcode on his badge until it doubled and then tripled and then became a line and when the tires hit pavement smooth enough to forget. I remember the front door upstairs, the lock that set itself and understood that some doors close from the inside and some from the outside, and sometimes you don't get a vote either way.

[A]

The rig that took the deputy didn't head for the ER bay. The words he heard Secondary intake. Secure processing. Processing are not medical terms. They're Bureau terms that mean someone you never met has made a decision about your life. He qualified on two counts, what he'd seen and what he'd done. There aren't many people who keep moving when the unexplainable reveal themselves to tear you apart, and fewer still that live through it. That puts a circle around a file. That file gets walked upstairs. He woke under soft lights and 24 hour surveillance. They questioned him about monsters, survivors, and the man who'd done it all. He gave them everything he could remember because that's what decent people do when they think they're helping to put a monster away. Then they made the offer they always make to the ones who pass without knowing there was a test. The doctor seemingly bought the house through a black market network of anonymous people who know how to find things not meant to be found. He didn't build a lab. He moved into one. Then tuned it with parts he could buy and notes he should never have owned. He began his experimentation on people. Every subject was a failed step toward a final shape. Faster, stronger, more obedient, less human. That was the blueprint. The techniques weren't his, but the method was. He knew what the original research, application, trial, correction. He didn't care if they screamed, begged, or had families. Only if they adapted. And when they didn't, he took someone else. Judging by the serial numbers on the newer lab equipment, he'd been down there at least five years, maybe longer. Long enough to expand the layout, dig deeper, reinforce structurally. He'd built escape routes, maintenance shafts and filtration for the lower airlocks. That means he planned to stay. His facility was clean. Clean, organized and controlled. He wasn't just some lunatic in a basement. He was working towards something carefully and methodically. But one mistake, one phone call changed everything. The Bureau showed up within hours. They secured the house and the facility below it. They took what was left, Shredded data from failed prototypes. A woman with corrupted DNA. The doctor, of course, was gone. Unconfirmed kia. Which in Bureau terms, means active recruitment.

[B]

Possible.

[A]

They won't say that, but I've seen how they bring in independent operators. If someone cracks their formulas without clearance. The Bureau sees potential, not liability. They'll be actively watching for his next project. So will I. But not to recruit him. The deputy survived what most trained agents wouldn't. That alone makes him valuable. But that wasn't the only reason they took him. He's a walking liability. So they gave him a decision. Disappear completely or disappear from the public record and keep doing what he's already proven he can do. They made it sound like a choice. But when a file with pictures of your wife and kid is placed in front of you, they aren't really giving you the freedom of choice. And as for the house, don't fool yourself into thinking it was unique. There are dozens of locations like it. Maybe more. Locations sold off without proper inventory. Inventory sites handed down through seizures, bank repossessions and foreclosure auctions. What was once guarded is now lost in circulation. And every time someone finds one, their one wrong move, one bad idea away from turning it into the next nightmare.

[B]

Limu emu. And Doug, here we have the limu emu in its natural habitat, helping people.

[A]

Customize their car insurance and save hundreds with Liberty Mutual.

[B]

Fascinating.

[A]

It's accompanied by his natural ally, Doug. Uh, limu. Is that guy with the binoculars watching us? Cut the camera.

[B]

They see us. Only pay for what you [e-mail] Liberty, Liberty, Liberty. Liberty Savings. Very underwritten by Liberty Mutual Insurance Company and affiliates.

[A]

Excludes Massachusetts.

[B]

Abc Wednesday Shifting Gears is back. He has arisen. Tim Allen and Kat Dennings return in television's number one new comedy. What what? With a star studded premiere, including Jenna Elfman, Nancy Travis and hey, buddy. A big home improvement reunion. Welcome. Oh, boy, that guy's a tool.

[A]

Shifting Gears season premiere Wednesday, 8, 7 Central on ABC and stream on Hulu.