Free The Blob by David Bischoff Page A

darkness under the blanket, after the confusing sensations of speed and of other animate forms around it, its cells began to multiply, and it was able to manufacture more fluid. And its feasting was able to commence unabated.
    But then the Blob had sensed something else.
    It had sensed danger. And so the life-giving essence sucked from its prey, it had departed, aware of the movement of the other animate forms it instinctively knew were not only its food, but its enemies.
    Now it hung at the top of the wall, hiding, waiting.
    The flesh and blood it had consumed was of poor quality, and so its strength was not great. But now it sensed the presence of a delicious and desirable pile of animate food, fresh and young.
    With a pseudopod it gently shut the door behind Paul Tyler as the teenager went to the phone.
    And then the Blob began to crawl up to the ceiling, along which it flowed like an upside-down spill of vomit.
    The room was sterile, featureless. The only illumination came from the single lamp which cast a pool of light onto the desk and the phone. The ceiling was covered in shadow.
    Paul Tyler picked up the phone and dialed 911.
    The phone rang several times before anyone answered. Then Paul heard a woman’s voice. “Sheriff’s office.”
    “I have to talk to the sheriff - ,” said Paul. “It’s an emergency.”
    “One moment,” said the woman.
    There was a pause. Paul took a deep breath and tried to control the fear he could feel crawling up his spine. He had to stay in control.
    Another voice spoke on the phone. Paul recognized it as the voice of the sheriff. “Geller speaking.” Paul felt a great deal of relief hearing that voice—his dad and Herb Geller were bowling buddies. He’d known Herb Geller since he was a kid, and the officer used to give him rides in his bubble-top.
    “Sheriff, this is Paul Tyler.”
    “Paul? What’s the matter, son?”
    “I’m at the Daniels clinic. An old man’s just been killed out here.”
    Paul had taken up a pencil on the desk. He was nervously tapping the eraser against a pad of clinic stationery.
    He did not notice the two globs of moisture that dropped onto the edge of the desk, nor the small plumes of steam that rose up as the fluid ate into the wood.
    “You said killed ?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Paul.
    “Okay, you sit tight and I’ll be right out. Who else is involved?”
    “I’m with Meg Penny. And Brian Flagg was here earlier.”
    The sheriff’s voice rose with suspicion. “Flagg? Where is he now?”
    Two more drops of fluid fell onto the desk. Two more wisps of smoke grew, and this time Paul Tyler noticed.
    What . . . ? The ceiling was dripping or something . . .
    “I dunno,” he said into the phone. “I—”
    Paul looked up.
    It was hanging there, just above the lamp. It looked like a monstrous red slug, glistening with a sheen of moisture, a soft glimmer in the light. Another spatter of moisture dropped onto Paul Tyler’s hand, and the droplet burned his skin.
    He looked back up in horror, frozen . . . unable to do anything.
    The Blob dropped down on him like a cloak of phlegm.
    Paul Tyler screamed.

11
    M eg Penny sat in the waiting room, flipping through the magazine and waiting for her diet orange soda.
    She wondered what was keeping Paul. He should have been back by now, she reasoned. Something was wrong. The doctor had called the nurse, and the nurse had gone running. Since then there had been silence. The clinic felt spooky now to Meg, as if something was about to happen, something bad.
    She was worried about Paul. Even though this date had taken a bad turn, it wasn’t Paul’s fault. He was a good guy—she knew that much now—good and conscientious. There was plenty of time for more dates, and Meg Penny knew that she wanted to go out with Paul Tyler again.
    But they had to get through this nasty business first.
    That old man . . . that horrible gunk on his hand . . . It made Meg sick just to remember it, the way it had eaten away his