The Blob

by David Bischoff

  He stepped down farther, feet crunching the burnt earth. He squinted down at the object through watery eyes.

  Then he saw it. Inside the sphere something pulsed.

  It was more than light, more than flames. It was the shimmer of something fluid, like the glimmer of a reflection at the bottom of a well… It stirred and turned… undulating… slithering. A soft hissing sound filled the air.

  Nixon, too, was transfixed, his bark silenced. With a faint whimper he scurried away, spooked.

  “Good idea, pal,” said the Can Man. “But me, I’m the curious type. Gotta see what this is. Whatcha think? Molten gold? Platinum? Worth lots more than aluminum, I should think.”

  To one side of the crater there was a fallen branch, stripped of its leaves. The Can Man picked it up and began to poke at the thing below him.

  He aimed the end of the stick into the glowing, cracked hulk at the bottom of the crater. He stuck it in as far as he could safely reach, to where a kind of volcanic soup boiled within the object. The stick slid into the fluid; what he sensed at the end of his probe was a thick, curiously viscous substance, like tapioca pudding when it’s still hot.

  It didn’t look much like metal, thought the Can Man. I wonder what the hell it…

  There was a tug on the stick.

  It was a gentle tug, like the nibble of a trout at the end of a fishing line, but it was a definite tug nonetheless.

  Creepy, thought the Can Man. Well, he could let this thing cool awhile, then check it out. He had a weird feeling here, and maybe it would be wise to just leave well enough alone for the time being. He’d come back later to check this number out.

  He pulled the stick from the smoking object. There was something on the end of the stick, he noticed immediately. Something that looked grossly like a giant glob of phlegm, a mass about the size of his fist. Its transparent surface steamed and sparkled in the glow from the object and from the traces of fire that still flickered on the periphery of the crater.

  The Can Man tilted the stick more, giving it a little shake.

  The funny-looking stuff didn’t fall off. Instead it clung, as if it was glued on or something.

  “Well, I’ll be!” said the Can Man. “This is just the damnedest thing! Nixon! C’mere and have a gander at this!”

  He stepped back up the side of the crater, waving the stick back and forth with greater force. Then he checked the wad again. It was still there. It seemed to flex now, drawing into itself.

  Hey, what a discovery, thought the old man, stepping back. Fascinating! He stared in wonder at the complexities of this globule at the end of the stick. It seemed to sparkle with a kind of iridescence that dazzled the old man’s eyes. For a moment he stood transfixed.

  Incredibly quickly the stuff streamed up along the stick. Like a cobra striking it hit the old man’s hand, folding about it like a sheath.

  The old man screamed, but there was no one to hear him. He let go of the stick, but it was too late. The blob of stuff was now attached to him, fully wrapped around his hand, all the way up to the wrist.

  The Can Man stared down at the thing in horror.

  His hand started to tingle, to itch…

  And then it felt as if it were on fire.

  6

  Freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, Paul Tyler strolled along a Morgan City street with his friend Scott Jesky, feeling like a million dollars.

  “I can’t believe it! I catch the winning touchdown pass, and get a date with a dreamboat to boot! Have I had a good day, or what?”

  Dusk was settling down over Morgan City, cooling it a bit. The streets still smelled of hot dust and car exhaust fumes, and people, exuberant from the football victory, had returned to repopulate it, walking home, or perhaps doing a little bit of shopping.

  “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, man,” said Scott. “I admit I’m proud of you, pal, but if you pat yourself on the back any more, your arm is going to fall off.”

  “Sorry, but I just can’t believe it,” said Paul. “I’m really happy, really and truly. You know, it’s not often I get to go out with someone I really like! It’s hard enough to ask plain girls out! But Meg Penny! Sheesh, my brain is getting foggy just thinking about her.”

  “Nah, it was just all the tackles today. You’ll be fine, Tyler.” Then Scott seemed to notice something. He snagged the crook of his friend’s elbow and dragged him off toward a row of small stores. “C’mon in here for a moment.”

  It suddenly registered with Paul that Scott was dragging him into the Rexall drugstore. “What are we doing here?” Paul asked. “I gotta go home and get ready!”

  The door chimed as they walked in. The Rexall store was clean and neat, but its narrow aisles were heavily stocked, and the effect was rather claustrophobic. The place smelled of syrups, powders, antiseptics, and chewing gum. Scott pulled Paul along toward the drug counter in the back, his voice lowered to just above a whisper.

  “Lend me five bucks till tomorrow.”

  Paul was aghast. “What for?”

  Scott’s narrow lips formed into a self-satisfied smile. “You’re not the only one with a date, pal. I’m bound to score with Vicki tonight and I gotta invest in a little protection. No tellin’ what bugs are creepin’ around town tonight!”

  Paul stopped in his tracks, doing a double take. Vickie? Vickie Desoto? The girl most likely to make Penthouse Pet of the Year? (And if she made Playboy, they’d have to have an L-shaped gatefold to fit her all in!) No, he didn’t buy it for a moment. “You’re gonna score with Vickie Desoto?”

  Scott beamed. “That’s right. I understand women like Vicki,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “They’re like frying pans. You gotta get ’em hot before you put the meat in.”

  “You’re a true romantic,” said Paul, feeling pretty disgusted, but amused nonetheless.

  “C’mon, spot me a five,” Scott persisted.

  A voice called from behind a stack of tampons. “C’mon, boys. It’s closing time.” That would be the pharmacist. Paul could see a mound of graying hair bobbing near the cash register, below it a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  Exasperated, Paul dug into his pocket, pulled out his money. He separated a five from his thin stack of bills and handed it to Scott. “Just make it quick.”

  Scott grabbed the five and sauntered confidently to the back, while Paul turned to the magazine rack and picked up the latest Time magazine.

  Carl Sagan was on the cover, framed against a picture of the Milky Way. The words read: “Outer Space… What’s Really Out There?”

  Paul just hoped that whatever was out there, it wasn’t as creepy as his friend Scott Jesky.

  Yep. He was gonna score tonight, no question, thought Scott Jesky, as he strode past the rack of aspirin and painkillers to where the pharmacist stood, a surly expression causing his mustache to curve up at the ends. Clearly the guy wanted to go home, which was okay with Scott, since this wasn’t gonna take long.

  “Hey, pal,” he said, “gimme a pack of Trojans and a Binaca spray!” Somewhere behind him the door chimed. Another last-minute customer.

  The pharmacist seemed to be considering Scott’s request, looking as though he’d just as soon kick the kid out as serve him. Finally, with a contemptuous grunt, he turned away to get the stuff.

  Scott waited, drumming his fingers on the counter top, trying to disguise both his nervousness and the rising excitement about tonight’s date. He’d had his mind set on dating Vicki Desoto for weeks, and tonight was finally the night!

  A man walked up behind Scott and plopped a package of Contac on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye Scott saw a dark suit and a white clerical collar; above that, a balding head. Holy shit! thought Scott. It’s my minister!

  Reverend Fredrick Meeker, pastor of All Souls Lutheran Church, gave Scott a beatific smile. “Well, Scott Jesky. Good game today!”

  For a moment Scott felt as though he were frozen in his shoes. Caught by his own minister, buy
ing a pack of rubbers! Sheesh! This was the guy who’d christened him, for Chrissakes! This was the guy who’d lectured about the sins of the flesh and the desires of the heart! He just prayed that the pharmacist was going to put his stuff in a brown paper bag.

  “Uh, thanks, Reverend. How you doing?” he managed through a rigid smile.

  “My hay fever’s acting up, but I’ll live.” The reverend pursed his lips. “You know, I haven’t seen you at Sunday services lately, have I?”

  “Well, uh…” said Scott, but he got no chance to continue, since the pharmacist had reappeared, displaying two bright red packs of condoms.

  “You want the ribbed or the regular?” he asked.

  Oh, no! Unless he got brilliant real fast, his mom was gonna get an earful of this, Scott thought, hemming and hawing. Then inspiration struck.

  “Ribbed, I guess. They’re not really for me.” He ventured a look at Reverend Meeker. The guy’s eyebrows were raised so high it almost looked like he was growing his hair back!

  “Oh?” he said.

  Scott pointed over to Paul, immersed in a magazine. “No, they’re for my friend over there.”

  The pharmacist and the reverend both craned their necks to get a good look at the guy in question. Their reaction encouraged Scott and he forged on. “Yeah! He’s planning to take advantage of some poor young girl tonight. You should hear him talk about it. Disgusting!”

  The pharmacist looked doubtful. “Why doesn’t he buy them?”

  “I had to drag him in here as it is. The guy’s totally irresponsible.” He slapped his five dollars down, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible and get away while he still had these guys actually believing his story.

  As if sensing the people were staring at him, Paul looked up from his magazine and called down to his friend. “C’mon, Scott! What’s the holdup? I don’t want to keep her waiting, I told you!”

  Perfect! Scott shrugged to the pastor as if to say, See? What did I tell you!

  Reverend Meeker seemed to believe Scott’s story, looking down the aisle at Paul with concern and compassion.

  The surly pharmacist shook his head. “That boy doesn’t need condoms. He needs a muzzle!”

  “You really can’t blame him, sir,” said Scott. “It’s the school food. Far too much glandular-reactives, I say! I think we ought to get the FDA in to check it. Me, I always brown-bag it!” He got his change, snatched the sack, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Well, gotta run. Maybe I can discourage him from the error of his ways.”

  The pastor looked as though he wanted to ask Scott if he was going to start coming back to church, but seemed too stunned to get the words out. The pharmacist just gave a disgusted grunt and started ringing up the pastor’s purchase.

  “Well, get the stuff?” said Paul, putting the magazine back on the rack.

  Scott slapped the sack. “You bet.”

  “What were you talking about with the collar there?”

  “I was gonna just settle for plain rubbers, but good ole Reverend Meeker, he highly recommended the lubricated sort.” He grinned. “He says he likes ’em bright red too.”

  Shocked, Scott looked back over his shoulder. “Good grief, he must have gone to Jim Bakker University!”

  7

  It was controlled chaos as usual at the Penny household, a sixties-style colonial nestled in a cluster of similarly modeled homes. Peg Penny, the mother, was trying to deal with the remains of the evening dinner, carting dishes into the kitchen and sticking them into her GE dishwasher. At the same time, she had to cope with the baby, gurgling away in her high chair, as well as two ten-year-olds who were playing with their desserts. Meanwhile George Penny, the father, was rattling around with his stereo, trying to get his favorite station tuned in to accompany his evening’s paper-reading. And Meg Penny, older teenage daughter and ace cheerleader, was running around on the upper level, rooting through drawers for the right clothes to wear that evening, making all kinds of noises when those tried-on clothes didn’t look right for her date with Paul Tyler that night.

  When Peg came out of the kitchen to get the next load of dirty dishes, she found her ten-year-old son, Kevin, balancing his entire square serving of lime Jell-O on his spoon, while his pal Eddie Beckner looked on with glee.

  Before she could do or say a thing, Kevin stuck his mouth onto the Jell-O and, with one mighty suck, inhaled the entire glob!

  This action was greeted with a squeal of approval by Christine, the baby. Eddie Beckner, who had disdained his own green Jell-O, opting to eat only the whipped cream on top, applauded.

  “Kevin, don’t eat with your face,” said Mrs. Penny.

  “We’re in a hurry, Mom,” explained Kevin. “We’re going bowling with Anthony.”

  All enthusiasm, Eddie piped up. “And then to the movies.”

  That news stopped Mrs. Penny cold. She didn’t approve of most of the movies they were letting young kids in to see these days, and she was more than vocal about this matter. “What movie?” she demanded.

  Kevin, well aware of his mother’s opinions on the subject, kicked his friend under the table to shut him up, but Eddie’s mouth was already cruising along at full speed. “Garden Tool Massacre. Your basic slice-’n’-dice.”

  Mrs. Penny did a double take. “Your basic what?”

  “This guy in a hockey mask chops up a few teenagers”—and then he noticed Mrs. Penny’s reaction. “But don’t worry, there’s no sex or anything bad.”

  Peg Penny was still an attractive woman, but when she frowned—as now—the severity of her expression gave no hint of her beauty. “No! Absolutely not!”

  “Mom, c’mon!” said Kevin.

  “Kevin, I will not have you seeing that kind of trash, and that’s final. Do you understand?”

  Kevin nodded sadly. There was no use trying to argue with her when she had that kind of face on. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Peg Penny had just turned to deal with baby Christine, who had tossed her spoon onto the floor, when another crisis erupted, this time from upstairs.

  “Mom!” Meg, her daughter, called down from the second-story landing. “Have you seen my pink sweater?”

  Yes, she certainly had seen Meg’s sweater. Peg Penny cringed. “It’s on the hamper, honey,” she said, heading for the stairs. “I meant to talk to you about that…” Leaving the children to their own devices, she started up the stairs to deal with her teenage daughter.

  Meg Penny, meanwhile, was going through the hamper. A flash of pink. A blur of fuzz. She plucked up the cashmere fabric and was staring bemusedly at it when her mother walked into the room. The thing looked as though it had shrunk!

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Penny, “I’m afraid it got mixed up in the wash. I meant to do it by hand…”

  “Maybe it will stretch back,” said Meg, slipping it on over her bra, trying to get the bottom down to her blue jeans. Alas, it went only to her midriff. Meg stared down at it a moment, then looked up at her mother. “It’s an interesting look.”

  They both laughed, and Mrs. Penny was clearly relieved at her daughter’s reaction. Generally they got along very well. Of course, there were the occasional tensions, inevitable in a situation where a daughter was inheriting a mother’s youthful beauty while mom traveled into middle age. Inevitable also due to the fits of independence typical of adolescence. But still they had a lot in common, Meg and Peg Penny. They were somehow good friends.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Mrs. Penny. “Why don’t you wear my Ann Taylor blouse?”

  Meg was taken aback. That blouse had cost a lot of money! “Really? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Penny.

  Meg was very pleased. She would look good in that blouse, and she wanted to look nice for her date tonight with Paul Tyler. She figured her father would like Paul. He was always telling her to date guys that were “straight arrows.” Funny thing was, that was the part of Paul that she’d never muc
h liked. He just seemed too normal. But then, when she’d joined the cheerleading squad, and she got to talk to him a little bit, she found that beneath those midwestern good looks he was actually an interesting individual. So when he’d asked her out today, she’d not only said yes, but she was thrilled at the prospect of dating him.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, my God, that’s Paul!” she said.

  “Now, you’re sure he’s okay, dear?”

  “Paul is the kind of guy Daddy wants me to be going out with, I’m telling you. But can you deal with the door? I’m going to be very late getting ready!”

  “A woman’s prerogative, Meg. I’m sure your father is dealing with the door. I’ll just go down and check.”

  Mr. Penny, however, had just settled down into his La-Z-Boy with his paper and was not about to get up and answer any door.

  So the task was left to Kevin. He swung it open to find a teenage boy, looking very nervous and smiling too broadly.

  “What is it?” Kevin asked.

  “Hi,” said Paul Tyler. “I’m here to see Meg.”

  “What for?” asked Kevin, not really interested, still grumpy because his mother wouldn’t let him go with Eddie to see the movie.

  “Well, uh… just to see her. Is she home?”

  “Just a minute.”

  The door slammed shut in Paul’s face. He took a deep breath, let it out, telling himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to blow this date. Surely it was his most important so far.

  When the door opened, an older version of Meg looked out, smiling, which made Paul feel loads better.

  “I’m terribly sorry. You must be Paul. I’m Meg’s mother,” the woman said.

  Turning on the politeness to full power, Paul said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Penny beckoned him to enter. “Come on in. Meg will be right down.”

  As Paul entered the nicely kept home, Kevin Penny tried to squeeze out the open door along with Eddie.