David Bischoff - The Blob

“What the hell is this?” the doctor, aghast, finally said.

“The thing on his hand—!” said Paul.

The doctor broke from his paralysis. He ran to the door and hollered for help. “Nurse! Get in here!”

The thing on his hand! It wasn’t there anymore! Where the hell had it gone?

He had to find it. The thing was dangerous; Paul sensed that much. The horrible thing was a danger to everyone here in the clinic, maybe even to the whole town. He knew this fact, not so much from logic as from a queasy instinct he’d felt, ever since he’d first seen that pink blob on the Can Man’s hand.

Paul pushed past the doctor, charging into the hall, looking for that thing. It was a living thing! It had to be! It was a living thing, and it had to be found!

He hurried down the hall, whizzing past the nurse who had been summoned from her professional stupor by the doctor’s call. Paul looked first to the right, then to the left, checking the doorways.

A little way down a door was open. It was an office, and on the office desk, a phone beckoned.

They were going to need help here, no question about that, Paul reasoned. The thing had killed the Can Man. Killed him in the most horrible way imaginable. If it had killed once, it would kill again. Paul knew he had to call the police, and the sooner the police got there, the better.

He went into the office toward the phone.

It was hungry.

Hunger was the only immediate sensation it knew.

And now that it was bigger, so was the hunger-—grown into a rapacious, ravenous urge that filled every wildly growing and splitting cell in its mass.

In the hot place, it had known little, its hunger as small as it was. It had known pain as well, with the heat and the pressures of gravity, but somehow it had thrived despite the pain, thrived and survived the screaming thump that had ended its long journey.

When the cool night air had hit it, it had automatically contracted. But then the solid thing had come swimming into its ken, and it flowed around the thing, tasted it, found it organic and good. Clung. The Blob had found food.

There had been fulfillment there, there in the first drink of tissue and corpuscles, in the squirt of warmth as the Blob’s fluids had descended upon the flesh and blood of the hand, dissolving it into assimilable plasma. Yes, in feeding had come satisfaction, but the Blob was weak, and this was its first food, and it took a time to feed.

And to grow.

But then, in the darkness under the blanket, after the confusing sensations of speed and of other animate forms around it, its cells began to multiply, and it was able to manufacture more fluid. And its feasting was able to commence unabated.

But then the Blob had sensed something else.

It had sensed danger. And so the life-giving essence sucked from its prey, it had departed, aware of the movement of the other animate forms it instinctively knew were not only its food, but its enemies.

Now it hung at the top of the wall, hiding, waiting.

The flesh and blood it had consumed was of poor quality, and so its strength was not great. But now it sensed the presence of a delicious and desirable pile of animate food, fresh and young.

With a pseudopod it gently shut the door behind Paul Tyler as the teenager went to the phone.

And then the Blob began to crawl up to the ceiling, along which it flowed like an upside-down spill of vomit.

The room was sterile, featureless. The only illumination came from the single lamp which cast a pool of light onto the desk and the phone. The ceiling was covered in shadow.

Paul Tyler picked up the phone and dialed 911.

The phone rang several times before anyone answered. Then Paul heard a woman’s voice. “Sheriff’s office.”

“I have to talk to the sheriff -,” said Paul. “It’s an emergency.”

“One moment,” said the woman.

There was a pause. Paul took a deep breath and tried to control the fear he could feel crawling up his spine. He had to stay in control.

Another voice spoke on the phone. Paul recognized it as the voice of the sheriff. “Geller speaking.” Paul felt a great deal of relief hearing that voice—his dad and Herb Geller were bowling buddies. He’d known Herb Geller since he was a kid, and the officer used to give him rides in his bubble-top.

“Sheriff, this is Paul Tyler.”

“Paul? What’s the matter, son?”

“I’m at the Daniels clinic. An old man’s just been killed out here.”

Paul had taken up a pencil on the desk. He was nervously tapping the eraser against a pad of clinic stationery.

He did not notice the two globs of moisture that dropped onto the edge of the desk, nor the small plumes of steam that rose up as the fluid ate into the wood.

“You said killed ?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paul.

“Okay, you sit tight and I’ll be right out. Who else is involved?”

“I’m with Meg Penny. And Brian Flagg was here earlier.”

The sheriff’s voice rose with suspicion. “Flagg? Where is he now?”

Two more drops of fluid fell onto the desk. Two more wisps of smoke grew, and this time Paul Tyler noticed.

What… ? The ceiling was dripping or something…

“I dunno,” he said into the phone. “I—”

Paul looked up.

It was hanging there, just above the lamp. It looked like a monstrous red slug, glistening with a sheen of moisture, a soft glimmer in the light. Another spatter of moisture dropped onto Paul Tyler’s hand, and the droplet burned his skin.

He looked back up in horror, frozen… unable to do anything.

The Blob dropped down on him like a cloak of phlegm.

Paul Tyler screamed.

Meg Penny sat in the waiting room, flipping through the magazine and waiting for her diet orange soda.

She wondered what was keeping Paul. He should have been back by now, she reasoned. Something was wrong. The doctor had called the nurse, and the nurse had gone running. Since then there had been silence. The clinic felt spooky now to Meg, as if something was about to happen, something bad.

She was worried about Paul. Even though this date had taken a bad turn, it wasn’t Paul’s fault. He was a good guy—she knew that much now—good and conscientious. There was plenty of time for more dates, and Meg Penny knew that she wanted to go out with Paul Tyler again.

But they had to get through this nasty business first.

That old man… that horrible gunk on his hand… It made Meg sick just to remember it, the way it had eaten away his hand. It was terrible.

Being alone in this room made Meg nervous. She had to see what was going on. Besides, Paul had been gone a long time.

She got up and walked toward the swinging door into the clinic corridor.

Maybe after this all was taken care of, they should just call it a night, and Paul could take her home That would shock Daddy, all right, especially after what he’d been thinking after that ludicrous condom thing. Maybe she could show Paul some of her collection of books, and the beautiful classical record collection she listened to often.

Meg saw the doctor and the nurse at the end of the hallway, huddled over the gurney that held the Can Man. Meg couldn’t see what they were doing, so she started to walk toward them. Maybe Paul was with them, she reasoned, and he could tell her what was going on and how long it was going to be before they could leave this place.

Then, from a nearby office, she heard the scream.

Paul’s scream.

It didn’t last long, for almost as soon as it started, it was… muffled.

But it lasted long enough for Meg to tell exactly which office it came from, and she hurried to the door, twisted the knob, and pushed through.