The Blob (5 page)

Following the dog’s gaze, he looked up into the twilight, but couldn’t see anything.

Then he realized that it was a sound that Nixon was reacting to—the sound of a low whine that was rapidly rising higher and higher in pitch. And it was getting louder too.

He turned to the west, toward the sound, and then he saw the light, a soft glow when he first noticed it, but getting brighter and brighter! And the whine kept growing, too, turning now into a roar.

Cripes! It’s a flaming chariot! thought the Can Man. Coming down to get him!

The roar grew deafening as the fireball hurled closer. The Can Man fell to the ground, covering his face and his ears as the fiery thing raced by like an ignited freight train.

And then it landed, exploding in one huge, scorching blast. Even from a distance the Can Man could feel the heat flowing over him like a river. When the noise subsided, he became aware again of Nixon, barking crazily. Then the dog tore off toward the woods where the thing had crashed.

Holy shit, I’ve gotta see what that thing is, thought the Can Man, stumbling as he got up, at first forgetting about the skillet still tied to his foot. He wobbled about, his heart hammering in his chest, finally getting the thing off, and then running after the dog, taking time only to grab the hand ax leaning against the shed—just in case.

There was no problem in finding the thing. It had burned a path straight through the tops of the trees! Thank God it had been raining this week some, thought the Can Man, or the whole forest would burn up in a snap! Instead, the flames were just dancing on the tops of the trees, flickering out.

The Can Man followed the trail of destruction, noting how some trees had been snapped in half. He could still hear Nixon barking up ahead.

“Wait up! Wait up, you mangy mutt!” he cried, stumbling through the thick growth. Suddenly he stopped, startled by what he saw ahead of him.

A crater!

The thing burning down from the sky had smacked into the forest with such force that it had made a huge hole, splashing earth aside as if it were mud! Nixon was barking away at the edge of the crater, but he didn’t go down into it. The Can Man eased his way closer and stroked the dog comfortingly. “Hey, pal. What we got here, then, eh?”

The Can Man peered up over the edge, a bright light bathing his battered features, filling the darkening air with an eerie glow.

“Whoa-ee!” he said, staring down into the crater.

Blue and green flames danced along the crater’s rim, but they were slowly dying out as brackish smoke funneled up into the night sky. The fumes had the smell of burnt sulphur mixed with charred wood and scorched earth; it made the Can Man’s eyes tear up. He watched awhile, waiting for the flames to flicker down. Then he picked up his ax handle, and, brandishing it before him, approached closer.

“You stay here, Nixon,” he ordered. “No telling what this is. But I suspect it’s one of them there meteorites, and near as I recall meterorites, they’re made from metal. Who knows, we might have ourselves a fortune here! Mebbe we can buy ourselves a can factory.”

The dog growled.

“Okay, okay. A canned-dog-food factory, how’s that?”

Through the diminishing haze he could make out a charred, red-hot sphere protruding from the earth. A sphere with a crack down the middle!

“Mebbe we got us some goodies inside, Nixon. Now, stay back, boy, stay! I’m goin’ to check this baby out.”

The heat remained fierce, but moment by moment it slacked off. The Can Man was impatient. He wanted to see if this was indeed going to be the big find of his life.

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.

F
reshly 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, buying 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.”