Mrs. Penny caught Kevin by the back of his collar, spinning him around in a challenging manner.
“And where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
“To Eddie’s! I’m sleeping over, remember?”
“Okay, but you’re not going anywhere without your jacket,” she insisted.
“Aww, Mom, it’s boiling out!”
“It’s September and it’s nighttime. You’re wearing your jacket.”
Kevin stomped to the nearby closet and pulled out a light-gray nylon jacket, which he tossed over his shoulder.
“Put it on!” his mother demanded.
Kevin put it on and tried to zipper it up. But the zipper jammed halfway. “Stupid coat!”
Paul watched, feeling like a third wheel, as Mrs. Penny descended upon her son in a mother-hennish manner, giving the zipper a few hard tugs until it surrendered to determined motherhood and shut all the way. She bent over and kissed Kevin on the cheek. “Bye, honey. Enjoy yourself.”
The moment Kevin and Eddie escaped through the door, a crash sounded from the kitchen, followed a second later by the wailing of a child. “Oh, Lord! Christine!” said Mrs. Penny. “Excuse me, Paul.” She hurried back to deal with the accident, leaving Paul to his own devices.
He looked around.
Nice house. Typical suburban; a lot like his own, but with a touch of individuality, plus some class and style. The same classiness showed also in the oldest product of the Penny union, Meg. The traits that Paul liked most about her were her poise, her sense of style, plus the obvious intelligence and wit she showed in conversations.
Suddenly there she was—bouncing down the stairs in a pretty beige ruffled blouse that suited her perfectly. She wore a bright, welcoming smile, and—most exciting of all, Paul thought—she looked extremely pleased to be going out with him.
“Hi, Paul!”
“Hi,” Paul said. “You look great!”
“Thanks.”
“Ready to go?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been looking forward to it. But I want you to meet my dad first. It’ll just take a second.”
Paul shrugged. No problem. Dads were one of his specialties. Somehow he found that he knew how to handle fathers—just talk about football and compliment them on their home and family, and they’d love him.
Paul anticipated no trouble here… no trouble at all.
Meg took him into the den, where a man lounged in a reclining chair, immersed in the newspaper.
“Daddy,” said Meg, “I’d like you to meet Paul.”
The newspaper lowered.
Paul recognized the man in his horn-rimmed glasses and neatly clipped mustache immediately. It was the pharmacist from the Rexall drugstore!
“Hello!” said Paul, extending a hand.
The man did a double take and then looked as though he were about to bite off Paul’s hand. “You!”
“Me? What—” Paul took a defensive step backward.
Mr. Penny stood up and started waving his paper at Paul. “You! You’re taking my daughter out? No! Not after what that Jesky boy had to say about you! No way!”
Meg looked totally baffled, but Paul immediately guessed what had happened. “Sir, I can explain!”
His precious date with Meg Penny at stake, Paul Tyler explained, for all he was worth.
8
On the way into town he’d been lucky and snagged a ride in Clint Ziglar’s pickup truck. But despite a great deal of thumb wagging, no one had stopped to pick up Brian Flagg on his way back to Elkins Grove. Finally he had to walk the whole way along Route 9, and then another mile until he reached the dry riverbed, lugging ole Moss’s ratchet set in his pocket. He should have brought a flashlight, too, he thought, as he approached the familiar skeletal stump of the bridge he’d tried to use as a ramp. The sun was long gone, and night had clamped down tight on the countryside.
There was a full moon, however, and from it enough light to see what he was doing. There were just a few adjustments that he had to make on the bike, and he’d worked on that machine so much, he could probably fix it in the dark, just by touch!
In the distance a dog howled. From closer came the hoot of an owl. A cool, dry breeze was blowing down from the mountains, swaying and rattling tree branches in the forest nearby and pushing the smell of pine and dead leaves into Flagg’s face.
And the smell of something else.
Brian Flagg paused by the ruined bridge and took another sniff of that air. Yes, there was something else… a burning smell. He surveyed the tops of the trees and, yes, there was a trace of smoke, coming up from just about the area where the Can Man lived. The old man must be having a barbecue, thought Flagg, or burning refuse or something.
Nonetheless the smell made him feel slightly uneasy. As he looked at the wavering smoke against the night sky, the hairs at the nape of his neck lifted a bit and he shivered. The mountain countryside could spook a guy once in a while. Injun ghost dances, some people called the sensation. Flagg just shrugged it off and went down into the gully to deal with his bike.
It was still there, of course. There was no danger of anyone wanting the thing. Brian had paid a whole twenty-five dollars for it, almost as soon as it got dumped in the city junkyard. Back then it looked hopeless, rusty and delapidated, but the frame had been good still, and the tires were almost new. Otherwise it was a mess, but Brian Flagg had a talent for spotting potential in old stuff. Now the bike meant a lot to him because he’d saved it; it was almost like he’d made the whole thing.
He hauled the bike up, pushing it up the gully slope at any angle, so the wheels could get some purchase. It was a struggle, and when he finally pushed it up over the rim, he was puffing heavily. When he had his breath back, he wheeled the thing to some flat ground near a stand of trees. Here, he not only had optimum use of the moonlight—he also knew the damned bike wouldn’t roll away from him. He put the kickstand down, crouched, and opened up Moss’s ratchet set. Straining to see in the dim light, he began to work.
Suddenly he heard a soft rustling sound. Flagg tensed, looking around. It had been an odd noise. He listened a moment longer. Hearing nothing more, he went back to work, ignoring how greasy his hands were getting.
More rustling. This time, however, it was closer. It seemed to come from the trees to his left.
A twig snapped, and Brian paused, holding his breath as he listened. He heard nothing more.
Flagg slipped the ratchet into his back pocket and flipped the ratchet box closed. Then he flicked on the motorcycle’s headlight and panned it across the base of the trees and the surrounding field.
Nothing.
Damn, this was creepy, although nothing to get upset about, of course. The night was always full of odd sounds, and this valley could do weird things with sound, thought Flagg as he clicked the light off. That sound could be coming from—
He turned around and found himself staring into horror.
Wild shrunken eyes… An open mouth, silently screaming… Crazed tangle of hair…
Flagg gasped and stepped back. It was the Can Man, and he looked as if he’d just been through a meat grinder!
Abruptly the scream broke loose, wretched and hoarse, from the Can Man’s mouth. He brought up his arms into the moonlight and Brian could see that one held a rusty hand ax and the other…
The other hand was wrapped in something weird and smooth, something reddish with speckles and sparkles. Flagg didn’t get a good look because the Can Man turned and held the hand out. He took the hand ax and made an erratic swing at his own arm. The ax blade glanced off the forearm, doing not much harm. But, God, was the guy nuts? He was trying to cut off his own hand!
Another scream ripped from the Can Man’s lips and he pulled the ax back again for another try.
God, he had to stop the loon! thought Flagg, racing up and catching the ax. With several hard yanks he managed to wrestle it out of the old man’s grip. He hurled it away into the brush, where the guy couldn’t get at i
t again.
The Can Man screeched again, shuddering with agony. As Brian spun him around, he could see the guy’s eyes actually rolling with the pain. It was that thing on his hand… What the hell was it?
“Hey, old guy! Be still, I’m tryin’ to help you!” he cried, surprised at the scrawny man’s strength.
Flagg managed to raise the arm up into the moonlight to where he could get a good look at it. Boy, the old lunatic had done some damage with the ax. The forearm was shattered, mangled. And on the hand…
Oh, Jesus, what was that?
The old man’s hand was cocooned with a thick, oozing mass. Translucent, it looked like a jellyfish wrapped tightly and stubbornly, with a strange glitter to it, an odd pulsing. But inside… Flagg felt his stomach churn. This translucent gunk was colored a queasy pink. And through the pink showed what was left of the Can Man’s hand: skeleton, with just a shred of muscle, a faint wrapping of vein.
Even as Flagg stared down, transfixed with revulsion and horror, the mass moved sluglike up to the new slash the man had inflicted with the ax, staunching the blood and clogging the dent.
There was a faint sucking sound.
The Can Man howled.
Flagg, distracted, no longer had a good grip on the old man, so he was able to break free. Off balance, stunned with what he had seen, Flagg staggered back as the Can Man charged off back into the woods, screaming like a madman.
Flagg recovered. He had to help the poor guy. He’d never seen such dreadful suffering!
“Wait!” he cried. “You need help!”
The Can Man just kept going, so Flagg chased after him, the image of the horror on that man’s arm still vivid in his mind.
As he entered the woods, he could hear the Can Man blundering about in the undergrowth up ahead like a blind, maddened bull.
“Wait!” he cried again, as he caught sight of the man in the moonlight, clutching his hand to his chest, whimpering and moaning with shock and horror.
Adrenaline-pumped moments passed as Flagg ran through the woods, getting closer. Up ahead he could see the ribbon of Route 9, snaking toward Morgan City. The Can Man was making toward the road, but he seemed to have no particular destination. He was just running, wildly, as though running would stop the pain he was clearly experiencing.
Flagg just hoped that…
He heard the motor first, and then he saw the lights, moving along the road at a good clip.
“Oh, shit!” he said. “Old Man!” he screamed. “Watch out—!”
But the Can Man did not hear him, did not heed the words. He loped out into the road.
Brakes screeched, like a banshee’s call of doom.
9
Paul Tyler gripped hard at the wheel of his dad’s Toyota Celica, trying to get control of himself. God, he was pissed. He took a deep breath as the car barreled through the night. He reached over and turned the radio to the local rock station, letting the power chords of Def Leppard pound from the speakers in the rear. A bright moon floated in the clear sky above. The dense forest hurtled by to either side of the car.
After a long silence Meg Penny finally spoke. “I’m really sorry about my father. I’ve never seen him like that!” Clearly she was just as embarrassed as Paul about what had happened, and just as eager as he to get this date back on track.
Paul nodded, then exhaled slowly. “That’s okay. Just a misunderstanding. I’ve made better first impressions, that’s for sure!”
“Well, no harm done, I guess,” she said, loosening up a bit and leaning back to enjoy the night air rushing through the open window.
“Wrong!” said Paul. “Scott Jesky’s gonna die!”
Meg chuckled.
“You like the idea of the imminent death of a football player, Miss Rah Rah Rah?”
“No. The humor of it all is just starting to sink in. The look on Daddy’s face! The look on your face! Priceless, just priceless.”
Paul sighed and began to untense, allowing himself to smile. “Yeah. I guess maybe it was pretty funny. To think, your father, Mr. Straight, selling condoms! And thinking… whew, talk about being hoist by his own petard! Still, Scott is going to pay!”
Meg changed the subject. “So tell me about this restaurant that you’re taking me to. You know, I had to pass on Mom’s meatloaf tonight. This better be good.”
Paul laughed. “Oh, yeah. My parents and I go to this place a lot. It’s over in Clendal Pass. Called the Overlook. They get a lot of the resort business, and also passersby on the highway looking for a nice place to eat. They say the chef actually met Julia Child once.”
Meg laughed.
“No, the food isn’t bad, and the view is nice, and there’re candles, and Dad knows the owner, so we can maybe get a glass of champagne or something. I thought it would be a nice quiet place—I dunno, to just talk. It’s not very quiet back at school, and there’s always class to go to, or practice or other distractions. It’s just that… well, I’ve always felt that maybe you and I… well, maybe we had a lot to talk about.”
“Oh? What makes you say that, Paul?”
Paul took in a deep breath. “Well, I read a lot. I’m a good reader and a quick reader, so I can put away a book in a day or two, and I’ve been reading since I was about four years old. And every day, Meg, every day, I see a different book under your arm. So, anyway, now I’ve got these whole different worlds my head travels in, worlds I really can’t talk about to other people. And I thought maybe you had worlds, too, and maybe we could share those worlds.”
Meg was quiet for a moment. “Paul, that’s a wonderful thought. Yes, I do like to read. And these days, you don’t get too many people who enjoy immersing themselves in books. But is that the only reason you asked me out?”
“Heck, no!” blurted Paul. “I think you’re the sexiest, most wonderful girl in school!” He was immediately embarrassed and he was glad of the darkness, because he knew he was blushing.
Meg laughed. “Whew. For a moment my faith in the male of the species was being shattered.”
“No. But it’s true about the books, it’s not just a line, Meg.”
She patted him on the knee. “I know. Just teasing you, Paul.”
A nice glow filled him, and he took a moment to look over at her, outlined in the glow from the headlights. Nice silhouette. Along with her perfume and the sense of warmth near him, Paul realized that his heart was pumping with excitement again.
“Paul, watch out!” she cried. “There’s a man running across the road!”
Paul swiveled his gaze back immediately. A figure was jumping out of the shadows to the side of the road up ahead and was headed straight for them!
Paul slammed on the breaks and swerved, honking the horn to warn the guy. The man angled, but instead of moving away, he ran straight into the path of the car. All this happened in just a split second, so Paul wasn’t able to do anything else.
Then the brakes locked.
Bang! The front of the Toyota connected with the man, barely clipping him. The man bounced off the car and curled up on the ground to the side.
Paul brought the car to a halt.
“It’s not your fault, Paul,” said Meg. “I saw it, he ran right into you.”
“We’ve got to help him.”
They jumped out of the car.
The man lay in the middle of the road, holding himself and moaning. Just as Paul was approaching him, he saw a another figure rush from the woods onto the road, puffing. In the still-lit headlights he was able to make out that the figure was that of Brian Flagg.
Paul knew Flagg, although more by reputation than anything else. They weren’t enemies, but neither were they friends. Brian Flagg was simply the school’s primo hood, with a juvie record, yet—a bit of an outcast. So it was natural that Paul should think that this poor old guy on the pavement here was running away from him.
“Flagg! Jesus Christ, what did you do to him?”
Flagg knelt down beside the old man. He turned to find that the
person who had addressed him was Paul Tyler. “Hey. I’m not the one who bounced him off my car, pal.”
“Right,” said Paul, approaching cautiously. “But you chased him into the road!”
“Stop it, both of you!” Meg protested, striding out between them. “Can’t you see this man needs help?”
Paul knelt down to the side of the old man and helped Brian Flagg to sit the guy up.
“Careful,” said Flagg. “He’s got some kind of corrosive shit on his hand.”
“Hey, I’ve seen this fellow!” said Paul, when the grizzled head swung into some light. “This is the Can Man. He—”
His words were stopped by the sight of the man’s hand as it came into the light as well. It was dim, so he couldn’t see the hand clearly, but there seemed to be some kind of slime all over it. Slime and blood, with a hint of bone!
“Oh, God,” said Meg, seeing it too.
“What the hell is that?”
“Don’t look too close or you’ll lose your cookies,” said Flagg. “I don’t know what it is, but old Can Man needs a doctor.”
“We’re not far from the clinic!” Meg said, pointing toward the town.
“Yeah, that’s where we’ll go, then,” said Paul as they helped the guy toward the Toyota. The man smelled of sweat and blood and bad stuff that Paul couldn’t identify. Halfway to the car the old man started shivering and trembling, as though from fever. “Take it easy, mister. We’re gonna get you some help, okay?”
A moan bubbled from the man’s lips. “From the sky… ! Fell from the sky.” His voice was like sandpaper on sandpaper.
“What? What’s he saying?”
“He’s in shock!” Meg said.
Paul remembered the special class he’d had a couple years ago in CPR and related emergency procedures. You needed to keep victims of shock warm, didn’t you? Yeah. “There’s a blanket in the back of the car.”
Meg pulled open the door, reached in, grabbed the blue wool blanket, and gave it to Paul. Flagg helped him wrap the Can Man up, and then they eased him carefully into the backseat. Meg assumed her position in the passenger seat, and Paul was about to run around to the driver’s side when he noticed that Brian Flagg hadn’t moved from the side of the car.
The Blob Page 5
