David Bischoff - The Blob

George was a short-order cook, not a plumber, but he could fix a sink or a john as good as anyone. All it was usually was just some shit clogging up the pipes—figuratively or literally.

George attacked the sink with the plunger, wanting to beat his record at quick solutions to life’s little problems. “Simple!” That was George Ruiz’s dictum for life. You have to stop being scared of it, then just go in for the attack, and bang-o—your problem is solved.

He put the black rubber base of the plunger down into the water and started plunging. The sink rattled and thumped, and the greasy water in the basin splashed around. After a half a minute of serious plunging he removed the plunger and took a look down at his handiwork.

A couple of bubbles wavered up. Nothing more. The sludgy water hadn’t gone down an inch.

“Hell,” said George. What this place needed was a plumber’s snake, but the owner was too cheap to get one. Still, maybe the obstruction was near the drain, and he could work it out with his bare hand.

George rolled back his shirt sleeve and stuck his hand in. All the way up to the elbow. He felt around down there, but his groping fingers didn’t touch anything.

What the hell could it be? he wondered. It must be farther down.

He pulled his arm out and leaned over the sink, looking down into the drain, contemplating the problem. Maybe he could use a coat hanger, sometimes that—

A slimy red coil shot up from out of the drain. Before George could move away, the tentacle was wound around his neck and face like an insanely long frog’s tongue.

He was yanked headfirst into the mucky water with a great splash.

Fran could tell the kids were having a heavy-duty conversation. As she approached, she could hear Brian Flagg saying, “Look, even if I were convinced, I’m the wrong guy to back you up. I’m not exactly Mr. Credibility in this town, you know.”

No, he wasn’t that for sure, thought Fran. But she liked Brian. For some reason, despite the way he dressed and acted, she could see that he wasn’t hard-core punk. After over twenty years of relationships with men, Fran Hewitt knew hard-core baddies, all right. Brian Flagg wasn’t one—not yet, anyway.

She arrived at their table and set down the two plates she carried. On each was a slice of apple pie.

Brian looked up. “Gee, Fran. The sandwich busted me.”

“On the house,” said Fran, getting a charge from being charitable with the boss’s goods. “Eat up or I chuck ’em in the garbage!”

“I’m not proud,” said Brian, pulling his plate closer and digging in. The girl, though, didn’t touch hers. Fran gathered up the sandwich plate and went back to the kitchen.

Weird seeing Brian Flagg with that corn-fed preppy sort, Fran thought. She’s cute, though, and probably just what he needs to help straighten him out.

She hit the swinging doors to the kitchen, calculating that if she could finish this stuff in under five minutes…

She heard the sounds first. She turned the corner, to where the view of the kitchen—as well as to the hallway leading to the the office, stockrooms, and freezer in the back—was unobstructed.

There was a body sticking out of the sink, legs kicking convulsively into the air, arms splashing out great gobs of water onto the floor! George’s body, George’s legs, George’s arms!

And the water that splashed out—it was red with blood!

Wrapped around the part of the torso still visible was a filmy red coat of slime. Slime that rippled and sucked, dissolving skin and bone.

Fran screamed.

She had opened her mouth to cry for help, but a long, hard scream came out instead. Before she knew it, Brian Flagg and the girl had run into the kitchen, and they, too, stood frozen, looking at George Ruiz’s body jerking and thrashing.

God! Something was dragging George down the drain, as if he were caught in a garbage disposal!

“Fran,” said Brian. “Oh, shit!”

The girl gasped.

The sink started to buckle, the pipes started to groan.

Not knowing what else to do, Fran started forward to pull at George’s legs, to stop this insanity. Brian grabbed for her, but missed. She moved over to the other side of the room. “Don’t touch it!” he yelled.

The legs of George Ruiz churned about wildly. The feet were swelling. One of the kicking shoes exploded in a spray of blood. The other foot had kicked free of its shoe. As the body was dragged farther down the drain, the toes popped, splat splat splat. Blood everywhere.

Then, George was… gone!

Fran looked at the damaged sink as a hush descended upon the room, unable to believe her eyes. Had she taken some kind of drug that was giving her hallucinations? A drainpipe just didn’t swallow a full-grown man!

Brian and the girl were frozen too. Fran looked over to them as though for an explanation.

And then hell really broke loose.

Like a column of pus, something heaved up out of the sink, shooting for the ceiling. On and on it unraveled, splattering onto the ceiling and sticking, growing into an upside-down mound of gunk, dripping with blood and steaming fluids. Fran smelled a terrible acid odor, cut with a tinge of the sewer. The thing clung to the ceiling, pulsating and oozing, hanging between Fran and the others.

Brian Flagg held a hand out to her. “Fran. Come on! Over here!”

But as though attracted to the motion of his arm, the bulbous nightmare on the ceiling shot out a web of tendrils extending to the floor, cutting them off from her.

And then the Blob started oozing down!

Nothing that Meg had said in describing what she’d seen prepared Brian for the creature that hung from the ceiling before him. No, it was infinitely worse than what Meg Penny had described.

“That’s it!” whispered Meg. “That’s it, only bigger!”

The hanging tendrils trapped Fran in the corner. Hardly thinking about what he was doing, Brian reached over, grabbed a pan of hot grease, and lobbed it up at the thing.

The hot grease singed, and the pan hit dead center of the thing. That didn’t faze it at all but rather served to turn the thing’s attention onto Brian. The shift helped Fran, but it didn’t do much for Brian. The Blob shot another tendril at him, and he jerked back, bumping into Meg. “Gotta get outta here!” he said.

They turned and ran, even as the mass of blood-clogged protoplasm overhead surged along the ceiling, smashing the overhead fluorescents and twisting the electrical conduits right out of the wall. As they headed through the hallway, plaster crashed behind them, and metal screeched. With a frizzling BANG, an electrical surge blew out every light in the diner. Sparks showered down from the darkness.

The back door! Brian thought. Gotta get outta here.

He held tight on to Meg’s hand as they careened away from the monster in the kitchen. Above them electrical sparks hissed and danced from exploded light fixtures, bathing the hall in a hellish lightning. Brian was able to make out the back door, and he hurtled toward it.

Reached it. Turned the knob.

Locked!

“Damn!” he cried, even as he heard and sensed the monstrosity heaving toward them, squeezing through the hallway.

“Brian!” cried Meg. “Over here! There’s a thick door.”

She yanked open the metal handle of the walk-in freezer. Brian followed her immediately into the chill, banging the door shut behind them.

The interior of the freezer was still faintly lit from its emergency batteries. To either side of them were racks of meat, frozen vegetables, and bags of french fries. Their breaths misted in front of them as they backed up against the cold metal of the room, slipping a bit on ice.

Thump! The thing hit the outside of the door with booming resonance. For a moment there was silence, and then the door began to creak terribly, as the creature pushed in.