The end of her skirt ripping away, she ran for all she was worth down the street.
Wait a moment. There was a phone booth on the other side of the block. If she cut through the alley, she could get there faster, and she could call Herb Geller. Yeah, Herb could help. Herb could send the whole goddamn
She turned into the alley, running hard but awkwardly, knocking over garbage cans as she went. An alley cat scooted out of her path, yowling. The smell of orange rinds and coffee grinds hurled into her face as she scrambled over the pavement. Sure enough, up ahead, at the end of the alley, like a beacon, was the phone booth, sitting in a pool of streetlamp light.
She ran the last few yards full throttle, hurtling into the booth. “Oh, God, I hope I kept that card he gave me!” she breathed, fumbling through her pockets.
Around her all was quiet. No sign of the creature, just stillness and night.
Sure enough, the card was lodged right where she’d put it, by her order book. She thumped a quarter into the machine and waited for the dial tone.
Nothing.
Damn! Goddamn phone! She flipped the cutoff switch, got her quarter back, and tried again, this time jabbing in the numbers. Again, nothing.
From the distance came the crash of glass.
She jumped. Looked around. Still no sign of danger.
But then a scream sounded. Not loud, muffled. Cut off quickly.
Desperately she returned her attention to the phone, reinserting the coin and praying for the dial tone.
A long continuous humming sang from the earpiece. Quickly she pounded in the numbers. 9-4-7-3-7-1-1.
Fran Hewitt did not notice the feelers of blood-red slime undulating down the outside of the phone booth from above, sucking along the glass like a leech’s underbelly. Not until the final number was dialed, and she looked up.
She screamed and immediately grabbed the handle of the door, slamming it shut all the way.
The thing was dripping down over the booth like some kind of putrid, melting ice cream!
Fran wedged her leg against the door and grabbed up the dangling receiver to cry for help. Before she could say anything the phone spoke:
“We’re sorry,” said the recorded voice. “Your call cannot be complete as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”
“No!” she said, fighting down her terror. Stay calm! she told herself. It’s all over if you don’t stay calm!
She managed somehow to reinsert the quarter and dial again, despite her shaking fingers. She looked up and saw that the gelatinous creature had totally engulfed the phone booth. Only a dim red light filtered through the pulsating slime.
Then there was a ringing at the other end of the line! A hope! But even as hope swept through her, the booth’s metal structure began to creak and groan as pressure was applied from the outside. Tiny red bulges of slime appeared along its joints.
The ringing continued.
“Please, God…” said Fran.
A female voice came onto the line. “Sheriff’s department.”
“Help me!” cried Fran. “Please help me! Get the sheriff!”
Snap! A sharp, jagged crack appeared in the glass next to Fran’s head.
“He stepped out,” said the woman. “Is it an emergency?”
Another crack appeared in the glass. Fran turned toward the sound…
It was as if she were at the bottom of a swimming pool of mucus. She could only make out vague forms. Something floated toward her, from the gloom. No! No, it couldn’t be…
Imbedded in that colloidal substance and pressing against the glass, his face already hideously dissolved, was what was left of Sheriff Herb Geller.
Fran opened her mouth in horror, but before she could scream, the glass sides of the booth burst apart and the creature poured in from above, from below, from all sides.
The sheriff billowed in on this tide of pain to give her a big, bloody kiss hello and start off their eleven o’clock date, dead on time.
Shivering, Brian Flagg pressed his ear against the cold, cold metal of the door.
“Anything?” asked Meg Penny.
“No,” he said, “not a peep. But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” He saw that she was shivering even harder than he. Taking off his jacket, he offered it to her.
“I’m okay,” she insisted.
“I don’t need it, so you might as well use it,” he said, slipping it over her shoulders.
Meg looked away, but Brian saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get out of this.”
She turned to him and put her arms around him. They stood together for a time like that. She was warm and soft in his embrace, and something about the way she held him touched Brian Flagg deeply. Sensing that this was no time to hold back, that they could both use whatever comfort they could offer one another, he hugged her close, giving and taking.
Long seconds passed, and he said, “We’d better go.”
“Yeah.”
“You ready?” he said.
“Not really.”
Neither was he, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. He grabbed a meathook from one of the racks and unlatched the door, ready to slam it back at the slightest hint of attack.
They stepped outside and moved cautiously down the hallway. The place was a total mess, with overturned shelves, ruined lights—and the dark stain of blood splattered over the walls like obscene graffitti.
“Franny!” called Brian.
There was no answer. He pulled Meg along behind him. Holding on to the side of a shelf, he peered into the dining room.
“She’s gone,” he said, stepping forward and immediately slipping on something. He staggered forward and bumped into some shelving.
In the darkness he could feel a gooey tendril flop onto his neck, sticky and warm.
“Brian!” Meg cried.
Brian lurched to the side, striking out with the meathook as he fell back against the wall. He turned to face his attacker…
And he saw the open tin of jam, falling from the shelf above. It landed at his feet, splattering.
“Great,” said Brian. “I killed the strawberry jam.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Meg.
Which was a truly excellent idea.
16
The Reverend Frederick Meeker, minister of the only Lutheran church in Morgan City, stepped from the doorway of his church, turned, and locked it. He’d been working in the church library, double- checking some tricky references he needed to document his Sunday sermon. He always liked to include the names of books, along of course with the chapters and verses from which his texts were taken, so that his parishioners could delve deeper, if they were so inclined. The Reverend Meeker prided himself that he was not one of these thud-and-blunder preachers, thumping the Good Book over the heads of his flock. His sermons stood not only on the Rock of God, but upon mountains of scholarly work available to anyone who cared to explore.
He just wished that more people
