The Blob (12 page)

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.

Slowly the door bulged in toward them, groaning.

With a gasp Meg grabbed Brian and clung to him, terrified. Brian watched helplessly as the door bowed in a little farther, breaking the seals.

The Blob seeped in, oozing around the straining gaps.

“Oh, Brian!” gasped Meg.

Brian held on to her, feeling helpless. He watched as part of the thing flopped in, then slid a pseudopod across the floor toward them.

This was it, he thought. That thing is going to get us, just like it got George, just like it got Paul and the Can Man and God alone knew who else and—

Suddenly the tendril stopped. It quivered a bit, as though sensing some bad stench. Then it drew back, more slowly than it had come in. The ooze flowed away from the openings of the door, and then the creature was gone.

They stood there for a while, just hanging on to each other, surprised that they were still alive.

“We better wait a bit, make sure it’s gone,” said Brian, shivering with more than the cold.

“Yes . . . But I don’t understand. What stopped it?”

“I don’t know,” said Brian. “But I sure as hell hope that Fran Hewitt had the sense to get out of here.”

F
ran Hewitt couldn’t move.

When that horrible thing had smashed through the lights and rampaged off after those kids, she felt as though her whole body had been set into a vise, and she’d nearly fainted.

What the hell
was
that thing?

Help! She had to get some help, she dimly realized, swaying against a sideboard. With that word nagging at her, she felt a surge of adrenaline charging through her, and she was finally able to move. She didn’t know how much time had passed. Not much, she supposed. But she had to get out, get help, no argument there.

As she darted through the kitchen, she heard a groaning from the back of the diner. Like metal, contracting. She raced through the darkness of the serving area and headed for the door, stubbing her toes only once.

She hit the door, and it hit back.

She went down, breath half knocked from her. What . . . ?

Of course. George had already locked the door, so that no other customers could come in and stop them from cleaning up. She got up and rattled the door, getting hysterical. George had the key, though. And George was . . . !

Her senses returned to her. Was there another key somewhere? She was about to fumble her way over to check the cash register when, at the other end of the diner, the shadows began to move.

The light from the neon sign flickered over the tops of the chairs and tables. But the chairs and tables were
bobbing,
as though on a wave in the sea.

That thing . . . !

Panicked, she grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it with all her might through the plate glass window to the left of the door. Glass exploded out and Fran clambered through the opening, unmindful of the jagged edges that tore her uniform and scraped her skin.

The breath of hot night greeted her.

The end of her skirt ripping away, she ran for all she was worth down the street.

Wait a moment. There was a phone booth on the other side of the block. If she cut through the alley, she could get there faster, and she could call Herb Geller. Yeah, Herb could help. Herb could send the whole goddamn
Army
in!

She turned into the alley, running hard but awkwardly, knocking over garbage cans as she went. An alley cat scooted out of her path, yowling. The smell of orange rinds and coffee grinds hurled into her face as she scrambled over the pavement. Sure enough, up ahead, at the end of the alley, like a beacon, was the phone booth, sitting in a pool of streetlamp light.

She ran the last few yards full throttle, hurtling into the booth. “Oh, God, I hope I kept that card he gave me!” she breathed, fumbling through her pockets.

Around her all was quiet. No sign of the creature, just stillness and night.

Sure enough, the card was lodged right where she’d put it, by her order book. She thumped a quarter into the machine and waited for the dial tone.

Nothing.

Damn! Goddamn phone! She flipped the cutoff switch, got her quarter back, and tried again, this time jabbing in the numbers. Again, nothing.

From the distance came the crash of glass.

She jumped. Looked around. Still no sign of danger.

But then a scream sounded. Not loud, muffled. Cut off quickly.

Desperately she returned her attention to the phone, reinserting the coin and praying for the dial tone.

A long continuous humming sang from the earpiece. Quickly she pounded in the numbers. 9-4-7-3-7-1-1.

Fran Hewitt did not notice the feelers of blood-red slime undulating down the outside of the phone booth from above, sucking along the glass like a leech’s underbelly. Not until the final number was dialed, and she looked up.

She screamed and immediately grabbed the handle of the door, slamming it shut all the way.

The thing was dripping down over the booth like some kind of putrid, melting ice cream!

Fran wedged her leg against the door and grabbed up the dangling receiver to cry for help. Before she could say anything the phone spoke:

“We’re sorry,” said the recorded voice. “Your call cannot be complete as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

“No!” she said, fighting down her terror. Stay calm! she told herself. It’s all over if you don’t stay calm!

She managed somehow to reinsert the quarter and dial again, despite her shaking fingers. She looked up and saw that the gelatinous creature had totally engulfed the phone booth. Only a dim red light filtered through the pulsating slime.

Then there was a ringing at the other end of the line! A hope! But even as hope swept through her, the booth’s metal structure began to creak and groan as pressure was applied from the outside. Tiny red bulges of slime appeared along its joints.

The ringing continued.

“Please, God . . .” said Fran.

A female voice came onto the line. “Sheriff’s department.”

“Help me!” cried Fran. “Please help me! Get the sheriff!”

Snap! A sharp, jagged crack appeared in the glass next to Fran’s head.

“He stepped out,” said the woman. “Is it an emergency?”

Another crack appeared in the glass. Fran turned toward the sound . . .

It was as if she were at the bottom of a swimming pool of mucus. She could only make out vague forms. Something floated toward her, from the gloom. No! No, it couldn’t be . . .

Imbedded in that colloidal substance and pressing against the glass, his face already hideously dissolved, was what was left of Sheriff Herb Geller.

Fran opened her mouth in horror, but before she could scream, the glass sides of the booth burst apart and the creature poured in from above, from below, from all sides.

The sheriff billowed in on this tide of pain to give her a big, bloody kiss hello and start off their eleven o’clock date, dead on time.

Shivering, Brian Flagg pressed his ear against the cold, cold metal of the door.

“Anything?” asked Meg Penny.

“No,” he said, “not a peep. But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” He saw that she was shivering even harder than he. Taking off his jacket, he offered it to her.

“I’m okay,” she insisted.

“I don’t need it, so you might as well use it,” he said, slipping it over her shoulders.

Meg looked away, but Brian saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get out of this.”

She turned to him and put her arms around him. They stood together for a time like that. She was warm and soft in his embrace, and something about the way she held him touched Brian Flagg deeply. Sensing that this was no time to hold back, that they could both use whatever comfort they could offer one another, he hugged her close, giving and taking.

Long seconds passed, and he said, “We’d better go.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready?” he said.

“Not really.”

Neither was he, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. He grabbed a meathook from one of the racks and unlatched the door, ready to slam it back at the slightest hint of attack.

They stepped outside and moved cautiously down the hallway. The place was a total mess, with overturned shelves, ruined lights—and the dark stain of blood splattered over the walls like obscene graffitti.

“Franny!” called Brian.
“Franny!”

There was no answer. He pulled Meg along behind him. Holding on to the side of a shelf, he peered into the dining room.

“She’s gone,” he said, stepping forward and immediately slipping on something. He staggered forward and bumped into some shelving.

In the darkness he could feel a gooey tendril flop onto his neck, sticky and warm.

“Brian!” Meg cried.

Brian lurched to the side, striking out with the meathook as he fell back against the wall. He turned to face his attacker . . .

And he saw the open tin of jam, falling from the shelf above. It landed at his feet, splattering.