David Bischoff - The Blob

“Sure.”

“I know you’re the homecoming queen type and all that… but are you a little strung out on something?”

Her eyes lit up with anger. Her face trembled with frustration. “You’re just the same!” she said in a low, tight voice.

“Huh?”

“You act like you’re different… You put on a big show… But you’re just like everybody else in this town.” She got up. “You’re full of shit, Flagg.” She started to take off.

That surprised him. What surprised him even more was his immediate reaction. He got up and grabbed her and gently but firmly pushed her back into the seat.

“Hey, wait a second. C’mon, take it easy.”

Suddenly she seemed to cave in, as though trying to hold back tears but not quite succeeding. Gradually they started leaking out, down her cheeks and onto the Formica table-top. Brian took the half of sandwich he hadn’t bitten into and offered it to her.

“Here,” he said, “eat something.”

She shook her head, refusing it.

“Go ahead,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better.”

She took the half sandwich and started nibbling at it. Brian watched her for a moment. “I’m amazed,” he said finally. “I never heard you say shit before. What was that like for you?”

She looked at him oddly, and then couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and Brian could see the nervous tension draining out of her face.

“So go ahead, I’m listening,” he said, softening his voice. “Tell me all about what happened. What you saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, but you’ve got to admit, if someone told you that that little bit of something on the Can Man’s hand devoured two guys almost six feet tall, then you’d have a hard time believing it, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I would at that.”

“So tell me what happened. Everything, from the moment I left that clinic. I want to know. I really do.”

She nodded. She looked him straight in the eye, and she told him.

As soon as they’d let Brian Flagg go, Deputy Bill Briggs had been dispatched to return to the team of firemen and paramedics searching around the clinic grounds and the nearby woods for the body of Paul Tyler.

Forty-five minutes later he reported in.

“All we’ve found,” Briggs said through his walkie-talkie, “is lots of ground mist, trees, and a couple of dead rats. We’re coming up empty, Sheriff. And we’ve got our best searchlights sweeping the area. You want us to head into the foothills?”

Herb Geller sighed heavily, thought about it a moment, and decided against it. “Negative. I’d rather have you patrolling the streets. We’ll start again at first light when the state police get here.”

“Ten-four,” said Bill Briggs, signing off.

Herb hung the hand mike up and clicked the radio off. He rubbed his face wearily; the springs of the chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. A night to remember, this one, he thought. Or rather, a night to forget, quickly, soon as it got cleaned up. This shit had a weird quality he hadn’t seen here or back in the city. Something out of sync, out of whack. Sheriff Herb Geller didn’t like it, not one little bit. And he had the uneasy feeling that it was far from over.

Just then Sally Jeffers entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and an understanding smile on her face. “You look tired,” she said, putting down the coffee.

The smell of chicory, the warmth of steam, caressed his face as he picked up the cup and sipped. Ah. “Been a long night. Thanks.”

“Gonna be even longer,” she said.

“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”

“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”

Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done it in a hurry. I’m off at 11:00.

He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.

“Something wrong?” Sally asked.

“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”

He squeaked out of his chair and got ready to go.

“Think you can hold the fort around here for an hour or so, Sally?”

“Sure. That’s my job.”

“Good girl. I’ll bring you back some doughnuts.”

“Aren’t you gonna finish your coffee, sheriff?”

He looked down at the coffee. “Yeah. I guess I better have a little more. Something tells me I might need it.”

He managed to drink down half of it.

It was a heavy-duty kitchen, the old-fashioned type with zinc sinks and a mammoth grill, and chipped dishes skulking beneath the counters. Fran Hewitt had seen dozens like it in her waitressing peregrinations across the US of A.

Fran had always wanted to do something more than be a waitress, but it always seemed like the fastest and easiest way to do short-term work. Besides, it was the job she always found most available. She’d waitressed in L.A., in Denver, in New Jersey—all over the place. Wherever the men went with whom she was involved, there went Fran Hewitt, and she could rely on a waitressing job waiting for her that had a big grill, a Formica counter, greasy refrigerators, and a large industrial sink by the dishwashing contraption.

She carried the last of the dirty dishes back to that sink now, looking forward to her date with Herb Geller coming up in just a few minutes. Just a couple months ago she wouldn’t have gone out with him. Not that she hadn’t liked his rugged Western looks. No, she’d been living with Freddy Nichols then, the guy she’d come west with. Freddy was a ski instructor looking for work, but the job never really went anywhere. And so he had taken solace in lots of drugs and alcohol. Then, in July, when he’d finally come out of his stupor, he’d just up and gone, leaving her in the lurch. Now she had to keep working here until she scraped up enough money to go somewhere else.

Or got hitched up with another man.

With a sigh Fran dumped the heavy plastic box onto the sideboard by the sink. George would deal with this mess; that was his job. And she’d be able to split this joint for her date with Sheriff Herb Geller. She’d gone out with cops before, but never with a sheriff. The idea intrigued her.

Clump! went the dishes, silverware rattling.

And then she noticed the gurgling sound coming from the main sink. Fran walked over and looked down into the yawning basin.

The drain was backing up. Filthy water was welling up a good eight inches into the basin. Greasy bubbles broke the surface.

Goddammit, she thought. What a time for catastrophe to strike! Before a big date! Usually it struck a few months after a big date. She sighed and grabbed the plunger from below the sink. Gotta deal with this before it gets worse, she thought.

She was about to put the base of the plumber’s helper down over the lips of the drain, when George entered the kitchen.

“Hey, didn’t I hear something about a date with the sheriff?” George said.

“That’s right,” she said.

“You ain’t got no time to be muckin’ around with that!” George was a squat man of forty or so, big and not handsome. He grabbed the plunger and smiled at her. “Now, shoo!”

“Hey, knock yourself out!” she said, smiling with thanks for his chivalry.

The sink gurgled behind her as she left.

Fuckin’ sink!