The Blob by David Bischoff Page B

hospital?”
    “Ahhhh, probably just some promotional gimmick. They’re giving away free tonsillectomies or something.” He made another lunge, but she dodged. Boy, the lady sure was cooling . . . What was the matter? Scott wondered. Then he noticed the empty cocktail glass by the gearshift. Of course! The “painless punch” was wearing off!
    “Saaay, young lady, it looks like you’re ready for another of my famous cherry coolers.”
    “I think I’ve had enough,” she murmured.
    “Nonsense!” He pushed open the door, got out the door, and went around to open the trunk and make her another one.
    It sensed food.
    It was still hungry, and it sensed the pair of animate foodstuffs in that frame of metal and glass atop the hill.
    It undulated toward the car, the remains of Paul Tyler still digesting, within its mass, like a lump in the stomach of a glass python.
    Food. It slithered up the metalwork, and it sensed an opening. A narrow opening, true, but it could rearrange its cells so that it could squeeze through. It lifted itself and pushed through the bottom of the doorjamb, and it immediately sensed the warmth and the smell of the pulsing blood and skin and flesh, and another smell . . . astringent, odd.
    Inside the car, as the Blob oozed through the door below her, Vicki Desoto dozed, doped to the gills with Scott Jesky’s alcohol, unaware of the creeping death hissing below her.
    Scott Jesky opened the trunk.
    A two-tiered, homemade bar unfolded, complete with ice chest and swizzle sticks. Nearby, in a little box, hung his collection of cheap school rings. A deadly combination, commitment and alcohol. They opened up a girl’s heart—and everything else—almost every time!
    Scott grabbed a bottle of 150-proof Everclear grain alcohol and a bottle of cherry juice. “My own special blend of fine imported liqueurs!” he pronounced as he poured the drink. Voilà! “Painless punch!” “Cherry cooler!” Whatever you called it, it packed a wallop.
    He took out an old egg beater and whipped the mix to a froth; added some ice cubes, and a cherry, and it was ready for round three. Yessir, one more of these babies tucked away into her tummy, and Vicki Desoto would be wanting to take advantage of him !
    He slammed the trunk, sipped the drink to make sure it wasn’t too poisonous, and then cruised around to the driver’s side of the Impala, where he eased back in, his offering ready for the lady’s consumption.
    “Just the thing to beat the heat,” he pronounced. Even as he said this, he noticed that it was rather hot in the car. Whew. “It’s like a steambath in here!” he commented. Jeez, just a few of his kisses on her voluptuous lips could do this. Wow!
    He turned to his date and held out the concoction.
    She was slumped on the seat.
    “Vicki?”
    No reaction.
    “Vicki, here’s your drink.”
    Looked like she was out cold. There she lay, her low-cut dress showing off enough feminine attributes through her blue cotton blouse to make two girls happy . . . and a lot of guys deliriously ecstatic!
    He put the drink down.
    Nope, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity! He scooted over and put his arm around her nonchalantly.
    “Yup. Hot as a dog out tonight. Weird for September, don’t you think? . . . Vicki?”
    Still no reaction. She wasn’t waking up.
    “That’s a nice blouse. Good material. Must be awful hot, though,” he said, reaching over and undoing a button.
    Yow! Lots of creamy skin. The hint of more . . . The very sight got him hot, got his heart pumping.
    “That’s better, huh? No? Well, maybe one more.”
    He undid another button. Not a peep from Vicki.
    Oh, man! What a chance. To touch those hooters, get a grip on paradise. Boy, what a charge.
    He went for it, slipping his hand down deep into her blouse, expecting the thrilling touch of a bra to give way to the feel of a nipple in his—
    He heard it before he felt it.
    A wet, squishing sound.
    His hand felt something give, something like