Part 1 of 11 Drunk Guys Survive the Apocalypse

Theodore nodded to Bridget as he made his way to his desk, a steaming mug of joe in his hand. Level 3 researcher. Teddy was finally making his way up in the world, without the world even knowing that he existed. Sure Level 3 wasn't exactly a giant leap from his past occupation in Level 2, but in these bleak, cheesy framed motivational poster donned white hallways, a promotion was the only thing to look forward to besides living to see another day.

Teddy positioned himself firmly into his all too familiar office chair and laid out his new assignments on his desk. With a clearing of his throat, Ted whispered to himself their names.

"Alright, let's see. SCP-1709, Jesus that's disgusting. SCP-358, and 1969. Hmph. The disco ball of death, shit. Well... not all of them can be easy I suppose."

Repositioning himself in his seat, Teddy went to work writing up his latest findings, and promptly went to sleep.
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Almost as quickly as he fell asleep, Ted jolted back awake at the sound of sirens wailing. There was no lighting accept for the red glow cast by the emergency systems. Ted looked around frantically, slowly processing the levity of his situation.

<<ALL PERSONNEL -- EVACUATE TO YOUR DESIGNATED PANIC ROOMS. ALL POWER GENERATORS OF SITE 19 HAVE FAILED. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.>>

Ted jumped out of his seat and quickly rushed to look out of the door to his office. White collar workers were scrambling through the hallway, all of them trying to remember what wing their panic room was located. Ted couldn't remember either. It had been years since their last breach, reviewing breach protocols just became a boring and pointless chore.

Ted jumped back into his office, frantically searching for the protocols. Was it on the desk? No. In the document drawer? No. Under the paperweight? No. On the bookshelves? No. In any of the filing cabinets? No. No. No. No. In the goddamn trash can? Of course not.

All out of options, Ted ran back out into the hall. Everyone had disappeared by now. It was just him, in an empty hallway, surrounded by sirens and red flashing lights. He ran left down the hall and down the stairs to the nearest panic room. The door he met was a large, iron clad, pressure locked door. He knew trying to pry it open was useless, but Ted tried anyway to no avail.

The feeling of hopelessness slowly began to dawn on Ted. The feeling grew with each airlock he failed to open. And along with it, another feeling arose. A sense of fear. A fear of whatever might have found it's way out of containment during the outage. And this fear grew right along side the the empty feeling of hopelessness.

On his trip to the fifth airlock was where his fear was justified. Ted entered a small near-featureless hallway (with the exception of a door) and closed the door behind him. As he turned around, at the other end hallway was an impossibly skinny, nine foot tall man, visible by nothing more than the flashing red light behind him.

Whatever hope Ted was feebly holding on to was replaced with dread, as the long slick tendrils emerging from the strangely slender man pulled him close to a fate worse than death.
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"WHO'S READY FO' SOME MUTHAFUCKIN JAGERMEISTER?!?!?"

Connor stood in the kitchen, proudly presenting his alcoholic bounty to the giddy crowd. Matty was the first to respond with an astounding bravado of sheer intelligence.

"HIT ME UP NIGGA!!!!"

One by one, each man at the kitchen table downed their first shot. First to enter the land of the drunken was Matty, followed by Alex, Luke, Nick, Robin, Other Alex, and Connor. As always, this was the ritual they began all of their "11 drunk guys" videos with, the ritual today being for their second shot at SCP: Containment Breach. (Which they should totally do again since the game has evolved greatly and is much more developed since the last time they played it.)

With the downing of multiple beers, they were finally ready for the epic, thrilling, screaming and profanity filled adventure that lied ahead. Alex sat in front of his computer and started up the game. "Alright, everyone ready?" asked Alex, switching on the fraps or OBS or whatever screen recorder they use.

"Ready!" yelled everyone in a drunken uncoordinated unison.

"Name the save pubemuncher!" "What about shit on the nipples?" "No! Cuddling buttcheeks!" "Shitbitch! Shitbitch!" "Bitch-shit." "Anal embrace." "I like that one." "Wait. I got it. Cuddling Bitch Anal Embrace."

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the sound proof walls. Maybe their drunken yelling drowned the sound out. Or maybe they did hear the screams and gunfire but dismissed it for game ambiance. But despite their failure to realize it, outside was a very different world than in. The unheard screams were that of women and children. The unheard gunfire was that of police and military forces trying to win an already losing battle against the paranormal and the extraterrestrial. Blood was being spilled and life was quickly diminishing as the once kind town they lived in was quickly becoming an unforgiving hell. And the drunken men inside continued existing in a carefree bliss.

Until the next installment that is.