Black Lungs

When questioned on the sudden end to the footage, Dr. Rune claimed the camcorder had died. Supposedly, he gave his account of an encounter with a Marshall, Carter, & Dark operation based in Virginia — known only as "Gunstone LLC." — before departing.

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"You don't have to tell me twice, about the people who made that mine. I've seen what they've done to folks."

Dr. Atticus Rune is not a man unfamiliar with the horrors and the wild. Not in all his years of living amongst these woods and these mountains and all they held within their breadth.

And thus, he is not unfamiliar with what sat before him.

SCP-8306. Though Site-898 more often than not simply called it "The Foreman."

The ragged, coal-dust covered form of something that looked like the mind’s eye version of an old mine worker. Like the type of not-person you’d catch in the corner of your eye in a dream, with empty holes for eyes and a gaping maw. The being sat perched on a boulder by the side of the brook, bent forward with a dusty hand braced on one knee; like the way an old man leans in to listen. The Foreman had barely any expressions to read, but Rune could interpret intrigue, in the way that he spoke:

“Sounds like you’ve got a story, son.” a voice like mud over cobblestone. Rune squeezes his eyes shut, his inhale and exhale fogging in the February air.

“‘Cause I do, too.”

In a moment nothing short of impulse, Rune deactivates the camcorder. Its shutter thunks and he lets his arms fall to his sides. He can tell them the battery died. Wherever this was going, security didn't need more than a verbal summary. The Foreman notices this deliberate choice, and hums, awaiting response. With a sigh, one is supplied.

“On this mountain? With roaches like that? I bet you got plenty.” Rune scoffs tiredly. He’s hesitant to look this thing where its eyes should be, but slowly raises his head.

The Foreman pushes off the rock, heavy boots hitting the muck with a THUD. He approaches Rune, a raspy hum rising in his throat. “Why don’t you tell me yours, mm?” the entity walks a few steps past the doctor, before turning to look over his shoulder,

“We can walk ‘n' talk. It’s a crisp morn, after all.”

Rune watches, inhaling daybreak dew and breathing it back out. “You’re right,” he replies. “It is a nice mornin’.” He takes a few steps through the mud after the figure, but catches himself glancing over his own shoulder, back towards the site. The hesitation doesn’t last long. Pocketing the “dead” camcorder, Rune follows the Foreman into the mist rolling down the mountain, between the trees, and over the bog.

“Do you know anything ‘bout the things those ‘barons’ do outside these parts?” Rune asks after a time, the silence only punctuated by the sounds of their feet and the cawing of crows.

“Hmph,” there’s a faint squelch as the Foreman cocks his head to the side, “They infest these mountains like maggots. Tear ‘er up for all she’s worth. Though, I’ve only seen what they’ve done to this place." The entity raises a mud coated hand to gesture back towards Dutch Mountain, back towards the mine.

The Foreman trudges through the ankle deep mud as he walks the conifer-lined and moss filled swamp. He seems to ignore the bog bridges that the Site has constructed for their own ease of travel. Rune disregards them too, for now, wanting to remain in-step with the being beside him. It's polite.

“Won’t surprise ya to hear they do it up n’ down the coast, ‘nd they’re pulling the same as what I read about this place." Rune murmurs, "Break yer back n’ kill your lungs all for what might as well amount to Monopoly money,” he scoffs and shakes his head. He can taste coal dust on his tongue. It's a bitter familiarity.

“Point is, they leave a lot of desperate folks in their wake. Desperate people that are willin’ to do just about anything for money.”

A gurgling sound rings out, torn between a phlegm-filled cough and a bitter laugh that melts into the squelching of the Foreman’s boots in the muck.

“It don’t surprise me none that there’s more to them blinked bastards than Summit Anthracite. The little rat that used to rule these parts always spoke a’ his bosses.” The entity shakes his head, before turning to peer at Rune again with empty eyes.

“I reckon you’re from these mountains, by the way you talk. That right, son?”

“Hah, just ‘bout as local as someone can get for stolen land,” Rune chuckles tiredly and continues to avoid eye contact. “They’re a whole organization. The fucks you n’ I have been dealin’ with are a small part of it.”

The Foreman tilts his head, continuing to gaze at Rune as they trek deeper into the swamp. He brushes a hand against a moss covered boulder as he passes, streaking coal mud across it.

"Thieves and fools, the lot.” He huffs, “may the mountains be unkind.”

The Coalbed Swamp is quiet aside from the two. No birdsong, no rustling. Rune is familiar with the little yellow birds that are typically in abundance, but this morning? They’re absent.

It’s not natural for the forest to be so quiet. Rune knows that much, and it rings louder in his ears than any noise could. All of a sudden, he’s hyper-aware of his surroundings, scanning the landscape and itching for sound. “Mm. Usually they are. Y’can tell when the folks they’ve got have no idea what they’re doin’. Makes it really easy to spot ‘em, but then it’s worse when they turn ‘round and use the locals to get what they want. That’s what they did by me.”

The conifers blot out most of the morning light. There’s still fog curling around branches and mossy rocks. The only sounds are from the Foreman, low and wet wheezes accompanied by footsteps in the brush. The entity lets out long and low groan,

“That so?” the intrigue is back in his voice.

“Yeah. Down South a ways… they proposition ‘n pay the people most willin’ to catch and sell their own local legends. Items, animals, people; you name it. If it weren’t normal, they’d take ‘em for a hunk of cash.” When the woods are this quiet, it usually meant a predator was around. The wheezes and groans being the only thing to break the silence made Rune wonder if the man next to him was that. “‘Til I ratted ‘em out, that is,” he adds softly.

“Ha! Blew the ol’ whistle on ‘em, didja now, son?” The Foreman barks a laugh, he gives Rune a hearty pat on the back. It leaves coal dust on his coat and knocks Rune off balance. He slides forward through mud before catching himself just in time to not fall face first. The specter continues. “Good on ya, good on ya. Did you catch the name of the bastard you smoked out?” A tilt of the head, a crack of the neck.

Rune’s eyes stick to the ground now, watching his step. “The veiled name they were working over was "Gunstone LLC." or somethin’ like that. Foundation thinks there might be a connection 'tween 'em and what happened here.”

“Hmph,” the entity makes a low noise, hand returning to his side, “can’t say that name rings any bells, but I wouldn’t be surprised none if they’re two heads a’ the same snake.”

“Well, that’s relievin’. Means there ain’t somethin’ like it happening up here.” Rune shakes his head and grimaces. “It’ll be too soon if I never see nothin’ that depraved again.”

The Foreman continues through the swamp, leading Rune to an opening in the trees and rock. There’s an old, rotted campsite at its heart. The sight makes Rune raise an eyebrow. Is this marked down on any of the maps? Is it important enough to be? The barely maintained remains of a firepit, decayed logs around it, and a tattered, mossy linen tent. The only thing that looks like it’s seen use in the past years is the firepit, little embers dying out at its base. The Foreman makes a raspy hum and approaches it.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he sighs, “they were sendin’ what they robbed from here up North, cross state lines. Maybe to the cities, maybe somewhere else. Outta my reach regardless.”

Rune nudges at one of the logs with his foot. “Checks out,” he sighs, “There weren’t no consistency to where Gunstone sent things, but it sure as hell wasn’t anywhere close.” There’s a bit of silence before Rune sits himself down. “I’m guessin’ you like to stay local, then. If you don’t mind me askin’, anyway.”

A low, gurgling sound, seemingly one of contemplation, “I could go walkin’ down past the Mason-Dixon line if I so pleased, but I prefer to stick ‘round these parts.” The Foreman pokes himself into the old tent, removes a box of matchsticks from somewhere Rune can’t see in the low light. He sits in the dirt as he strikes it, and uses it to reignite the embers. A small fire starts to grow.

“Besides, there’s work to be done.”

Rune’s surprised that the fire stokes to life considering how rotted and damp this all is. His eyes settle on the flames.

”Work to be done,” he echoes, then huffs. “Right. MC&D — they’ll be back for this place — if not for the mine, then everything that’s been hauled up here.”

The Foreman laughs, "The Foundation might've declared war, in their eyes, when they took this place. Blue bloods never like to be undermined." The entity then leans forward. “Will you fight, if they come? Sounds like you have been already.” The Foreman cocks his head to the side.

Rune nods without a second of hesitation. “‘Course. I’ve been on their asses fer years now. ‘M not gonna stop the second they roll up,” he retorts, angrily.

"You still haven’t told me ya own story.” the entity points out, waving an mud encrusted hand at the man.

Rune's mouth pencils shut. He sits back, feeling exasperation seep into his bones. Heavy air. He's too tired to keep nodding the question off. “What I’d give for a drink right now,” he sighs to himself before rubbing his face and adjusting his glasses in the process, looking back up to the curious thing before him.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” he jokes tiredly, raising one hand and letting it flop back down. “My Pa was an Irish immigrant. My Ma was native. Neither were rich, but my Pa worked in the mine, so it kept us afloat. Whatever the hell ‘afloat’ is in a mining town,” he scoffs. “‘Till he got a leg injury in an accident, that is. It destroyed him, got him unemployed and us kicked outta home. The painkillers they gave him for the injury fucked him in the head, pipeline’d him to worse shit.”

The Foreman wheezes in a breath.

Rune wrings his hands around one another. “S’how I know how Gunstone works. He was desperate for money, and they had it in droves if he could give them any anomalous thing he could get his hands on. So… he did.”

As Rune speaks, the entity across from him crosses his legs and leans forward a little, simply making a quiet, “Ah…” in response.

Rune bites the inside of his cheek, trying to choose words carefully. “Started out small. First little items and trinkets, I imagine. I didn’t know. Not ‘til Ma left him over it. I wish I had." He rubs a hand against the side of his head. "Maybe then I could’ve stopped him from graduating to selling off living things. I don’t just mean animals and haints, either. I lost people. Friends who had no business bein’ bought n’sold they way they probably were."

There is venom on his tongue while he speaks, free hand finally gripping at the side of the log so tightly his knuckles turned bone. “Found out what my Pa was doin’ the hard way, and when I did I blew the whistle on ‘em. Haven’t stopped since. Those bastards want my head on a pike, but the Foundation fancied me a reliable source of information. So, now I’m here.”

Crackling embers waft out of the fire onto the dingy ground, and Rune watches their lights go out. “Satisfied?”

For a moment, the only thing that breaks the silent woods is the Foreman’s rasping breaths. There’s a pair of deer, down the path. They are still.

“…I see,” the entity’s head lowers. His voice is suddenly far quieter. Somber, even. “You got a wound in your belly that many do. I saw men fester and fall apart on these grounds from ‘em, cause no one was there to help clean out the shit. Got in their lungs, got in their heads.” he coughs.

“When they force you to bow so low, ya end up drowning in the muck.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting ‘em do that no more. Not where I can help it,” Rune retorts. “Something tells we’re alike in that way.” Rune dips his head low, a silent gesture of respect. He tries to ignore the deer. This safety net is fleeting. He is already too aware of what lives out in these woods.

The only thing that dares to show its face to a predator in silent woods is another.

“Damn straight.” The Foreman lets out a bitter chuckle, half choked by phlegm. “I couldn’t chase ‘em out on my lonesome, but I did what I could. Sent the bastard they put in charge down on chokin’ to his grave.” The apparition stands, body creaking like old wood. He removes a lantern from the remains of the tent, and kneels down by the fire to borrow embers. “Eyes for eyes, breath for breath.”

Oh, good. He sees the animals, too. Or at least that's what Rune assumes as he watches the entity work to light the lantern. He stands and brushes himself off.

“Good on ya,” Rune breathes with a nod. “Someone had to do it.”

"Is the Foundation joining the hunt too?"

He sticks his hands in his pockets, "I've caught word that the old RED CANARY investigation is getting revived. Little trinkets, traces of operations — things have cropped up over the years."

"Like you." The Foreman looks up.

"Like me, yeah." Rune sighs, gaze cast low.

The lantern’s light starts to steadily flicker to life, “Thanks for humoring an ol’ haint,” the Foreman rumbles, “Ain’t too often folks come for a talkin’, despite my interest in your affairs here.”

“‘Course. A happy accident, but I don’t mind,” Rune replies. Despite the Foreman’s claim, Rune doesn’t think he’s a haint. Supernatural, sure, but it doesn’t seem like the right category to place him into, if there is a ‘right’ one at all. “Been good to see ya with my own eyes.”

There’s a faint, rasping chuckle from the entity. The Foreman then straightens once more, pushing up to his feet with a grunt. He stares down the path.

“You’d best be movin’ along now.”

The two animals are facing them now, turned bodily to be staring straight down the path. The deer casts no shadow, cloud cover has turned the morning dark. The Foreman huffs, then turns to Rune, extending the old lantern to the man.

“Take this for the walk back.”

Rune hesitates, but doesn't need to be told twice. He grips the rusted handle, hears it squeal in protest. It's warm. The fire within squirms.

Rune mouths his thanks and dips his head.

"Just leave it by your window. I'll be back for it," the entity remarks, shifting to face the deer with backwards limbs.

Rune keeps this in mind as he turns his back to the barely-deer and the mine's specter. He hurries back the way he came and ignores the murmuring on the wind that trails his steps.

The lantern with writhing fire swings in his grasp all the way back.

Dr. Rune later stated: “We shared common ground.”