What was the name of that song? Oh, yeah. “Make the World Go Away.” That was the way she felt now. She just wanted to sit here and just switch everything off.
She tried staring into the paperweight, placing herself inside the quiet snow-filled scene. It had always been her way of escaping.
Tonight, though, it wasn’t working.
Tonight her mind seemed fixed on what she had seen.
That thing… that awful thing… ! Carrying Paul Tyler away!
She shuddered and gasped, trying to push the thought from her head, even as she heard her parents’ voices drifting up from the stairs below her.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let her go out with that little son of a bitch in the first place,” her father was saying, his voice tight and hoarse.
“Lower your voice,” her mother cautioned. “That poor boy is probably dead.” Dead. The word pounded in Meg’s mind. Dead. “I want to know what happened out there tonight.”
“Whatever it was, you can bet that Flagg kid was behind it,” her father said harshly. “It’s about time they nailed that little psychopath. His ass is gonna fry for this, believe me.”
Brian. Brian Flagg. It was Brian her father was talking about, and he was wrong. Of that Meg was certain. She’d thought he was a hood, too, but she knew that he hadn’t had anything to do with tonight’s horrors. She’d seen it in his eyes. He looked tough on the outside, sure, but his eyes showed a confusion, even a kind of vulnerability.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The door opened. Meg turned and saw her mother, a glass of water in her hand, something unseen cupped in the other hand. Probably Valium. Her mother swore by the stuff to get you through times of trauma.
Mrs. Penny sat on the bed. “Here, Meg,” she said. “Take this.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Come on, honey. You need to sleep.”
Meg sat up. Sure enough, there was a tiny Valium pill in Mom’s hand. Meg took it and put it in her mouth. She took a sip of water. But she did not swallow the Valium.
“That’s a good girl,” said Mrs. Penny. “Now, not another word. I’m sure the police will have this thing settled by morning.”
She kissed her daughter’s forehead and went to the door.
“Mom?” called Meg after her. “You don’t believe me, either, do you?”
“You’re home now. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
Mrs. Penny shut the door behind her as she left.
Immediately Meg sat up and spit the bitter Valium out into her hand. She tossed it away. What they had said about Brian Flagg was all wrong. The poor guy… they were going to pin the blame on him. The blame for what had happened to Paul and the Can Man.
They didn’t believe her about the creature, and they were going to punish Brian Flagg.
She couldn’t allow that. She had to help Brian. She alone had seen what had really killed twice already tonight. Maybe she could do something about stopping it from killing again.
She got up and started dressing. She’d done it before, sneaking out through her bedroom window, down a low-slung roof, down the drainpipe to the grass below. They hadn’t caught her then, and they wouldn’t catch her now.
If there was something she could do to help, she had to do it. It was her responsibility to the community. And it was her responsibility to Paul and to Brian Flagg.
Quickly she slipped on her old jeans.
It was bigger now, filled with the flesh and blood and bones of four people.
But it was still hungry.
Behind it the wheeled vehicle steamed in the moonlight as it crept along the ground like a rolling, oceanless wave. The remains of its most recent victims roiled about its interior in a most satisfactory way. The illumination from the moon picked out the tumble of Scott Jesky’s school ring, the rolling of bones stripped of flesh, the wash of blood.
Down below the car a squirrel skittered out, jumping up and perching on a fallen tree. It lifted its perky little snout and sniffed the night air. It shuddered, skipped, peered around over the edge of the log.
A ropy tendril flicked out from the night, coiling around the squirrel.
The squirrel squeaked and squealed as it was pulled toward the massive blot of protoplasm that was the Blob.
Then it was pulled into a vacuole, a hungry, diseased maw opened in the mass by the pseudopod—and was swallowed up, like a tasty afterdinner mint.
Still the Blob was not satisfied.
It flowed on and on through the woods. It caught a bird, and it caught a snake, and it caught another bird, and it popped them into its mass and absorbed them.
Finally it reached a hole, near the road, where it sensed a warm shelter of darkness.
Slithering and reforming itself to fit, the Blob slipped into the hole.
And into the sewers of Morgan City.
The sheriff’s station in Morgan City was a small one, cluttered with gray file cabinets, an old desk, and lots of police paraphernalia. It was a sight familiar to Brian Flagg; he thought of it as the “Waiting Room of Hell.”
He kept his eyes averted from the nearby holding cells. He had some grim memories of those cells, and he knew that was where he’d end up again. He sat now in a straight-backed chair, with Sheriff Geller and Deputy Briggs questioning him. He felt sullen and angry, and he barely heard what they were accusing him of. Hell, if it rained too hard in Morgan City these days, people seemed to want to pin it on him!
Deputy Briggs was asking the questions, while Geller sat with feet propped up on his desk, assuming his usual position of nonchalant authority.
“Okay, Flagg,” said Briggs. “Let’s hear it again.”
Brian looked up at the man, then sighed. What was the use? They were gonna pin this rap on him anyway.
“Look at him,” said Briggs. “He’s too stupid to know how much trouble he’s in.” The deputy turned his back to Brian. “Why don’t you wise up?”
“I told you everything. I’m tired of hearing myself talk.”
“We’re not boring you, are we?” said Briggs. “Bright kid like you?”
Anger spilled out of Brian. “Look, am I under arrest or what? If I am, I want a lawyer.”
Briggs turned to the sheriff. “The man wants a lawyer,” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah, that’s right,” continued Brian. “And if you’re not gonna book me I’d like to leave. Either way I want you out of my face.”
That apparently tore it for Briggs. He grabbed Brian by the front of his jacket and dragged him up so that they were nose to nose. “Oh, yeah, hard-ass? I’m in your face to stay. What are you gonna do about it?”
Brian kissed him.
Disgusted, Briggs pushed him back in his chair, wiped his mouth, and cocked his fist back.
“You little shit. I oughta bust your head open.”
“Bill,” interrupted the sheriff softly. That stopped Briggs, who realized he was out of line. If there were any heads to be busted around here, that was the sheriff’s job. Briggs went back to work, scrubbing his lips.
Sally Jeffers waddled in. Sally, Brian knew, was the radio dispatch operator. He listened to what she had to say. Maybe this would clue him in on what was really going down.
“Can’t locate his mother,” she said.
“Well, we know his father’s not around,” said Geller.
“Probably passed out drunk in some whorehouse somewhere,” sneered Briggs.
Brian clapped his hands. “Oooh, good one, Briggs. Call a shrink, I’m a broken man.”
The sheriff beckoned the deputy over, then pulled him to where he thought they were out of earshot. They weren’t, however, and Brian could hear every word.
“Turn him loose,” said the sheriff.
“Herb, we got witnesses placing him at the scene of the crime,” Deputy Briggs protested.
“No motive. No evidence. Not a spot of blood on him. Flagg’s a punk, but he’s no murderer…”
“I think it’s a mistake.”
“Your objection is duly noted,” said the sheriff. “Now, turn him loose. We’ve got work to do.”
Briggs sighed heavily and walked over to Brian.
“Take a hike,” he said.
Cripes! After all this hassle they put him through! They’d just wanted to scare him. It pissed him off. “Gee, Brian. We’re awfully sorry we troubled you. Seems we went and made a mistake. Stupid us!” Brian taunted.
Briggs stuck a finger under Brian’s nose. He was so angry, he looked ready to explode. “You’re pushing your luck!”
“Go on, Flagg,” said Geller. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
Brian got up and strode toward the door. He stopped and turned to the deputy. “You oughtta change your lipstick, Briggs. It tastes like shit!” He spun on his heel and cruised out.
God, he was pissed! They’d haul him down here like this for nothing! And all because he’d tried to help that poor old bastard, for Chrissakes.
The street was deserted, still dry and warm from the day’s heat. His hands jammed into his jacket, Brian Flagg strode angrily along the sidewalk. He heard the muttering of a small motor behind him and turned around. A Volkswagen bug, red, pulled up alongside of him. Meg Penny was at the wheel.
“Brian!” she said. “I need to talk to you!”
God, would they never stop hounding him! He wanted nothing to do with this chick. She was just trouble. He kept on walking.
“Brian!” Meg called after him.
She pulled the car over, turned off the ignition, and raced after him, finally catching up.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brian asked her.
“I came down to bail you out.”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Meg was carrying a credit card in one of her hands, and she was showing it to him.
Brian jabbed a finger back at the jail. “What do you think that is, Neiman-Marcus? They don’t take plastic.” He took the card and slipped it into her shirt pocket, relaxing a bit. “Look, I appreciate the thought. Now go home.”
“But I need to talk to you,” Meg insisted.
“I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I really am. But I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m in no mood for conversation.”
He swiveled around and headed off away from her. Up ahead the neon of the Tick Tock Diner flashed invitingly, and Brian Flagg desperately wanted to put a cheeseburger into his gurgling stomach.
He didn’t hear her following him, and it surprised him that he was disappointed she hadn’t. You’re getting soft, boyo, he told himself, and struck out at a faster pace for the Tick Tock.
When he got there, Fran the waitress was still tending shop, cleaning up while George the short-order cook hauled out a mop and a pail to clean up the tile. They looked as if they were closed for business, but Brian had to give it a try.
He opened the door and headed straight for the counter. “George, Franny. ¿Qué pasa?”
Fran flashed him a crooked smile. “Hey, hotshot. We’re closed.”
Brian flopped onto a chair and leaned his chin into his hands. “Fran, please, I’ve been dumped on all day. Gimme a break, huh?”
Fran was cool. She liked to trade quips with him, and he enjoyed that. “Aww, what’s the matter, dear? Tough day at the office?” She returned his grin, then stuck a thumb behind her, indicating the kitchen. “Grill’s shut down. How about a sandwich?”
He’d had his heart set on that cheeseburger, but his stomach would accept anything. “Beautiful,” he said. “I’ll just sit in one of these booths here, get outta your way, George, okay?”
He folded into a booth, trying to let the tension go from his muscles. He closed his eyes. Shit, what a day. If he could just forget everything…
The next thing he knew, he heard the door fly open, followed by the sound of footsteps on tile, and the thump of a fanny hitting the booth seat across from him.
He opened his eyes, and there was Meg Penny.
“Jeez,” he said. “You don’t give up.”
“I need your help,” she said insistently.
“What a surprise. And I thought you came out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I came because I thought we could help each other.”
“In three years of school you haven’t said shit to me, but now that you need my help we’re old buddies, huh.”
She looked down. She knew he was right. She was one of the preppy chicks he’d tried to talk to before. But she’d given him the cold shoulder, then and always.
Now she spoke in a low, almost pleading voice. “Nobody believed me about what happened tonight.”
“What did happen?”
“You were there. You saw!” she said.
“All I saw was an old man with a funky hand.”
And then Fran was there with a plateful of Lebanon-bologna-and-cheese sandwich, along with a big pile of chips and a fat dill pickle. His mouth watered at the smell of the vinegar and the mustard and the sweet scent of fresh chips as she set it down in front of him.
“Can I get you something, hon?” she asked Meg, looking at Brian as though to say, What’s a clean-cut looker like this doing hanging out with a guy like you?
“No, thanks,” said Meg.
Fran shrugged and left. As Brian stuck a corner of sandwich in his mouth, Meg leaned over to him, speaking in a low and desperate voice. “That thing on his hand… it killed him. And it killed Paul. And whatever it is… it’s getting bigger. I saw it.”
Brian chewed, giving her a long, blank stare. After he swallowed, he said, “That what you told the cops?”
She nodded.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“I know you’re the homecoming queen type and all that… but are you a little strung out on something?”
Her eyes lit up with anger. Her face trembled with frustration. “You’re just the same!” she said in a low, tight voice.
“Huh?”
“You act like you’re different… You put on a big show… But you’re just like everybody else in this town.” She got up. “You’re full of shit, Flagg.” She started to take off.
That surprised him. What surprised him even more was his immediate reaction. He got up and grabbed her and gently but firmly pushed her back into the seat.
“Hey, wait a second. C’mon, take it easy.”
Suddenly she seemed to cave in, as though trying to hold back tears but not quite succeeding. Gradually they started leaking out, down her cheeks and onto the Formica table-top. Brian took the half of sandwich he hadn’t bitten into and offered it to her.
“Here,” he said, “eat something.”
She shook her head, refusing it.
“Go ahead,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better.”
She took the half sandwich and started nibbling at it. Brian watched her for a moment. “I’m amazed,” he said finally. “I never heard you say shit before. What was that like for you?”
She looked at him oddly, and then couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and Brian could see the nervous tension draining out of her face.
“So go ahead, I’m listening,” he said, softening his voice. “Tell me all about what happened. What you saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, but you’ve got to admit, if someone told you that that little bit of something on the Can Man’s hand devoured two guys almost six feet tall, then you’d have a hard time believing it, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I would at that.”
“So tell me what happened. Everything, from the moment I left that clinic. I want to know. I really do.”
She nodded. She looked him straight in the eye, and she told him.
14
As soon as they’d let Brian Flagg go, Deputy Bill Briggs had been dispatched to return to the team of firemen and paramedics searching around the clinic grounds and the nearby woods for the body of Paul Tyler.
Forty-fiv
e minutes later he reported in.
“All we’ve found,” Briggs said through his walkie-talkie, “is lots of ground mist, trees, and a couple of dead rats. We’re coming up empty, Sheriff. And we’ve got our best searchlights sweeping the area. You want us to head into the foothills?”
Herb Geller sighed heavily, thought about it a moment, and decided against it. “Negative. I’d rather have you patrolling the streets. We’ll start again at first light when the state police get here.”
“Ten-four,” said Bill Briggs, signing off.
Herb hung the hand mike up and clicked the radio off. He rubbed his face wearily; the springs of the chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. A night to remember, this one, he thought. Or rather, a night to forget, quickly, soon as it got cleaned up. This shit had a weird quality he hadn’t seen here or back in the city. Something out of sync, out of whack. Sheriff Herb Geller didn’t like it, not one little bit. And he had the uneasy feeling that it was far from over.
Just then Sally Jeffers entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and an understanding smile on her face. “You look tired,” she said, putting down the coffee.
The smell of chicory, the warmth of steam, caressed his face as he picked up the cup and sipped. Ah. “Been a long night. Thanks.”
“Gonna be even longer,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”
“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”
Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done it in a hurry. I’m off at 11:00.
He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Something wrong?” Sally asked.
“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”
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