David Bischoff - The Blob

They wended their way through the thick underbrush. The pale moonlight filtered through the thick latticework of branches overhead, highlighting the shallow ground fog that had been building as they progressed.

Brian bumped his head into a low-hanging branch.

“I feel like fucking Hansel and Gretel out here,” he complained. “We shoulda brought bread crumbs!”

“Shh,” said Meg. “I think I hear something.”

There was something, realized Brian. They stood still, listening to it. A distant thrumming sound, fading in and out of the silence of the night.

“What the hell was that?” Brian asked.

Meg shook her head, and they went a little farther before the rumbling sound stopped them in their tracks again.

“Boy, that sound gives me the willies!” said Brian.

Meg looked around apprehensively.

Suddenly a bright light flared up deep in the woods, suffusing the sky above them with a white glow. Brian started backing away, pulling Meg with him.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Meg.

But before they could set upon this course, the vibration in the air grew deeper and louder. The light approached, sending moving shafts through the trees, turning night into artificial day. An unnatural wind kicked up suddenly, whipping the foliage into a frenzy.

Brian felt the sudden urge to run.

The light swept over them, and a descending wind almost knocked him down. He lost sight of Meg. He spun around, looking for her, and it was then that he saw the men.

Or at least he supposed they were men. After the events of the evening there was no telling what was what anymore. There were six of them, and they were coming down over the ridge toward Brian and Meg, silhouetted in the blinding light, approaching through the wind-whipped mist like figures in a dream.

A blazing row of lights rose up from behind them, hovering in the air, spotlights sweeping the night.

Brian and Meg crouched down against the wind.

Then Brian knew for sure what he had merely suspected before. There was a helicopter up there! A damned high-tech job, at that!

As the six men approached, Brian could see that they looked so weird because they were dressed in white plastic suits that covered every inch of their bodies. They looked out of clear plastic faceplates and they apparently talked through the small speakers slotted just below their necks. The sight of them gave Brian goose bumps.

“Ever seen anything like this?” he asked Meg.

“Yeah. In E.T., ” said Meg.

“All in all,” said Brian, “I’d rather go home.”

One of the men separated from the others and neared the couple. Brian could see the man’s face clearly through the faceplate. This was an elderly dude, wearing a smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, his voice doubled as it filtered through the headgear and issued from the speaker as well. “We’re here to help you.”

“And all dressed up for the occasion!” said Brian.

“Please, come this way,” said the old guy as the others hustled around the pair and pointed the direction they wanted them to go.

“Well, so much for free choice,” said Meg.

They were briskly escorted through the woods, over the ridge, and into a clearing, where all kinds of people in white plastic suits bustled around like worker ants among a profusion of lights, vehicles, and machines. As soon as they entered this odd bivouac, a man and a woman with clipboards joined the marching white-suits, and barraged Brian and Meg with questions.

“Look, who are you people?” demanded Brian.

“Name?” the woman asked Meg.

“Meg Penny,” she responded.

“Name?” the man asked Brian.

“Meg Penny.” He pointed at his companion. “She’s an imposter.”

Someone had popped up from nowhere and was trying to fit a blood-pressure sleeve over his arm. Brian batted it away. “Get that offa me!”

“Are you a resident of Morgan City, Meg?” asked the woman.

“Uh, yes.”

“Have you ever had high blood-pressure or heart disease?”

“No.”

“How about you, sir?” asked the other guy with the clipboard. “Diabetes?”

“No, thanks,” quipped Brian. “I’m trying to cut down.”

“Have you been experiencing any vomiting, nausea, or diarrhea?” the woman asked Meg.

“Not until she got a look at you guys!”

This isn’t getting us anywhere, thought Brian. That old geezer, he’s clearly in charge.

The older man was leading the troop through the vehicle encampment. Brian broke free of the men in white and fell in step with the leader. “Hey, you wanna fill us in, pal?” he said. “Who the hell are you people?”

“Oh, sorry. Identifications are in order, I suppose. I’m Dr. Trimble. I head this group. We’re a government-sanctioned biological containment team.”

Meg heard that as well. “Biological containment?”

“We’re microbe hunters, young lady,” Dr. Trimble said. He was about to tell them more when they were suddenly interrupted by a yell from one of the vehicles.

“Flagg!”

Brian looked up. Who should it be but Deputy Bill Briggs. He was escorted by a somber-looking chisel-face sporting a .45 Colt automatic on the hip of his white suit.

“What are you doing here, boy?” Briggs demanded.

“The men from Glad here are showing us how to keep our leftovers fresh.”

Briggs wagged a finger. “These people are here on serious business. They don’t have time for your bullshit, understand?”

Dr. Trimble turned to the man escorting Briggs. “Colonel, has the deputy been briefed in detail?”

“Yes sir,” said the gun-toting man.

“I’m heading back into town now to get things started,” said Briggs.

“Splendid,” said Dr. Trimble. “Colonel Hargis will arrange an escort.”

After shooting Brian a glower, Briggs continued on with Colonel Hargis.

Brian noticed a great deal of activity off to the right, where a number of trees had apparently been burned. When they walked closer, he could see that there was a big, charred hole in the ground, still steaming slightly. The smell of the burned trees—and something more—hung in the night air.

“What’s going on there?” Meg asked, indicating the white-suits setting up equipment and lights near the smoking hole.

“That’s the source of our worries,” said Dr. Trimble intensely. “A troublesome little souvenir from space. A mote in God’s eye.”

“What?”

“A meteor,” said Trimble.

Meg moved forward, fascinated by the sight, but Trimble reached out a glove and gently restrained her.

“Don’t get too close,” he said. “There’s danger of contamination.”

“I don’t understand,” said Meg.

Trimble turned to them, and his features were clearer now in the light. He had a handsome, well-preserved face, even though Brian figured the old bird must be at least seventy, judging by the gray hair, the wrinkles, and the gauntness. But the old guy seemed spry and lively, bursting with energy. His blue, expressive eyes darted here and there as he talked, and there was an enthusiasm and excitement in every gesture.

“I’ll make it simple,” Dr. Trimble began. “The dinosaurs ruled the Earth for millions of years, and yet they died out almost overnight. Why?”

Meg shrugged. It was way past Brian too.

“The evidence points to a meteor or maybe an asteroid that fell, bringing alien bacteria with it. Bacteria to which there was no natural immunity! Just like in H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds !”

“Plague?” said Meg. “Is that what this is all about?”

The scientist shook his head, smiling. “No. Prevention. Think of us as that apple a day that keeps the doctor away. We look for possible infection from outer space. And if it comes, we make sure it doesn’t spread.”