David Bischoff - The Blob

Then Vicki’s body—pale white in the moonlight streaming through the fogged windows—began to tremble. Her face lolled toward Scott, as though seeking another of his wet and sloppy kisses. But instead of an invitation from those rouged lips, there came a bloody froth, bubbling up.

“Oh, God, oh, no!”

Scott’s words turned into a scream.

He pulled away again, more desperate now. But with a greater tug the something inside Vicki Desoto’s dead body yanked back, jerking him to the elbow, the forearm, right into the girl’s face.

His arm vanished all the way into the body, even as a kind of steam hissed up around him, and a foul acid smell filled the confines of the car.

Then he realized through his terror that his arm felt as though it had been soaked in kerosene and touched with a match.

He screamed louder.

A crunch ! Vicki’s torso fell into itself, collapsing.

The features of her face started disappearing, eaten away from behind her skull. A bulbous, bloody mucus seeped up out of the ruined eye sockets, the distended nostrils, the once inviting lips, splashing with a searing impact onto Scott Jesky’s face.

He was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the horrible mess that Vicki Desoto’s body had become.

His flailing foot hit the side window so hard that it smashed it. It quivered there against the sill for a few seconds.

And then it was drawn in, limp.

The screams stopped, and the sucking, sopping sounds grew louder.

Steam rose from the window and was pushed away by a light mountain breeze as the moon glittered and shone on the surging, feasting creature within the Impala.

Meg Penny studied the oversized crystalline paperweight she held in her hands. She lay in her bed, the room lit only by a dim lamp on her desk.

What was the name of that song? Oh, yeah. “Make the World Go Away.” That was the way she felt now. She just wanted to sit here and just switch everything off.

She tried staring into the paperweight, placing herself inside the quiet snow-filled scene. It had always been her way of escaping.

Tonight, though, it wasn’t working.

Tonight her mind seemed fixed on what she had seen.

That thing… that awful thing … ! Carrying Paul Tyler away!

She shuddered and gasped, trying to push the thought from her head, even as she heard her parents’ voices drifting up from the stairs below her.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let her go out with that little son of a bitch in the first place,” her father was saying, his voice tight and hoarse.

“Lower your voice,” her mother cautioned. “That poor boy is probably dead.” Dead. The word pounded in Meg’s mind. Dead. “I want to know what happened out there tonight.”

“Whatever it was, you can bet that Flagg kid was behind it,” her father said harshly. “It’s about time they nailed that little psychopath. His ass is gonna fry for this, believe me.”

Brian. Brian Flagg. It was Brian her father was talking about, and he was wrong. Of that Meg was certain. She’d thought he was a hood, too, but she knew that he hadn’t had anything to do with tonight’s horrors. She’d seen it in his eyes. He looked tough on the outside, sure, but his eyes showed a confusion, even a kind of vulnerability.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The door opened. Meg turned and saw her mother, a glass of water in her hand, something unseen cupped in the other hand. Probably Valium. Her mother swore by the stuff to get you through times of trauma.

Mrs. Penny sat on the bed. “Here, Meg,” she said. “Take this.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Come on, honey. You need to sleep.”

Meg sat up. Sure enough, there was a tiny Valium pill in Mom’s hand. Meg took it and put it in her mouth. She took a sip of water. But she did not swallow the Valium.

“That’s a good girl,” said Mrs. Penny. “Now, not another word. I’m sure the police will have this thing settled by morning.”

She kissed her daughter’s forehead and went to the door.

“Mom?” called Meg after her. “You don’t believe me, either, do you?”

“You’re home now. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Mrs. Penny shut the door behind her as she left.

Immediately Meg sat up and spit the bitter Valium out into her hand. She tossed it away. What they had said about Brian Flagg was all wrong. The poor guy… they were going to pin the blame on him. The blame for what had happened to Paul and the Can Man.

They didn’t believe her about the creature, and they were going to punish Brian Flagg.

She couldn’t allow that. She had to help Brian. She alone had seen what had really killed twice already tonight. Maybe she could do something about stopping it from killing again.

She got up and started dressing. She’d done it before, sneaking out through her bedroom window, down a low-slung roof, down the drainpipe to the grass below. They hadn’t caught her then, and they wouldn’t catch her now.

If there was something she could do to help, she had to do it. It was her responsibility to the community. And it was her responsibility to Paul and to Brian Flagg.

Quickly she slipped on her old jeans.

It was bigger now, filled with the flesh and blood and bones of four people.

But it was still hungry.

Behind it the wheeled vehicle steamed in the moonlight as it crept along the ground like a rolling, oceanless wave. The remains of its most recent victims roiled about its interior in a most satisfactory way. The illumination from the moon picked out the tumble of Scott Jesky’s school ring, the rolling of bones stripped of flesh, the wash of blood.

Down below the car a squirrel skittered out, jumping up and perching on a fallen tree. It lifted its perky little snout and sniffed the night air. It shuddered, skipped, peered around over the edge of the log.

A ropy tendril flicked out from the night, coiling around the squirrel.

The squirrel squeaked and squealed as it was pulled toward the massive blot of protoplasm that was the Blob.

Then it was pulled into a vacuole, a hungry, diseased maw opened in the mass by the pseudopod—and was swallowed up, like a tasty afterdinner mint.

Still the Blob was not satisfied.

It flowed on and on through the woods. It caught a bird, and it caught a snake, and it caught another bird, and it popped them into its mass and absorbed them.

Finally it reached a hole, near the road, where it sensed a warm shelter of darkness.

Slithering and reforming itself to fit, the Blob slipped into the hole.

And into the sewers of Morgan City.

The sheriff’s station in Morgan City was a small one, cluttered with gray file cabinets, an old desk, and lots of police paraphernalia. It was a sight familiar to Brian Flagg; he thought of it as the “Waiting Room of Hell.”

He kept his eyes averted from the nearby holding cells. He had some grim memories of those cells, and he knew that was where he’d end up again. He sat now in a straight-backed chair, with Sheriff Geller and Deputy Briggs questioning him. He felt sullen and angry, and he barely heard what they were accusing him of. Hell, if it rained too hard in Morgan City these days, people seemed to want to pin it on him!

Deputy Briggs was asking the questions, while Geller sat with feet propped up on his desk, assuming his usual position of nonchalant authority.

“Okay, Flagg,” said Briggs. “Let’s hear it again.”

Brian looked up at the man, then sighed. What was the use? They were gonna pin this rap on him anyway.