Gremlins Read online

  THERE WERE THREE WARNINGS:

  1. DO NOT EXPOSE THEM TO LIGHT.

  2. DO NOT GET THEM WET.

  3. ABOVE ALL, NO MATTER HOW THEY CRY, NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY BEG, NEVER, NEVER FEED THEM AFTER MIDNIGHT.

  HE IGNORED THE WARNINGS...

  “. . .GREMLINS REALLY EXIST. YOU’VE JUST GOT TO KEEP WATCHING FOR THEM.”

  Billy couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “It’s true, said Mr. Futterman. You think I’m pulling your leg? Gremlins were everywhere during World War Two. We used to see them dancing on the wings of our plane. They played every prank in the book. Once they snuck up to our pilot and shouted, ‘You’re flying upside down, you fool!’ That was really a close one because the pilot turned us over in a split second.”

  Billy laughed. “You actually saw them?”

  “You’d see them out of the corner of your eye, but just as you shot them a full glance, they’d vanish . . .”

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  1790 Broadway

  New York, New York 10019

  TM indicates a trademark of Warner Bros. Inc.

  Copyright © 1984 by Warner Bros. Inc. All Rights Reserved. Published by arrangement with Warner Bros. Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 84-90893

  ISBN: 0-380-86561-0

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U. S. Copyright Law. For information address Warner Bros. Inc. 4000 Warner Blvd., Burbank, CA 91522

  First Avon Printing, June, 1984

  Printed in the U. S. A.

  Special thanks to the people who helped make my job Gremlin-free:

  Elaine Markson

  Kathryn Vought

  Dan Romanelli

  Mike Finnell

  Joe Dante

  Brad Globe

  Geoffrey Brandt

  Judy Gitenstein

  Ed Sedarbaum

  C H A P T E R

  ONE

  In his cage tucked in a far corner of the Chinese man’s back room, the Mogwai dozed fitfully. Soon the old man would come in, stroke him gently, speak briefly in that strange-sounding language, set him free to wander among the musty books and artifacts for a while, and then, best of all, feed him.

  As a Mogwai, he was nearly always ready to eat, though he had learned to control his hunger. Such was the built-in adaptability of the Mogwai. He was so adaptable that even though confined to the cage and small room, he felt no desire for freedom. In fact, his mind was his escape mechanism, a perennially active entertainment center which he could use to visit any time or place—at any time at all. His mind was not like the human mind, a perverse instrument which so often refused manipulation, but played tricks or dealt its owner doses of duplicity. The Mogwai’s mind, in sharp contrast, was a constant source of pleasure to him.

  Mogturmen, the inventor of the Mogwai species, had seen to that. Centuries ago on another planet, Mogturmen had set out to produce a creature that was adaptable to any climate and condition, one that could easily reproduce itself, was gentle and highly intelligent. Exactly why Mogturmen embarked on this venture is not known, except that such inventors flourished during an era of widespread experimentation in the field of species creation—an era, it should be added, that passed into disrepute following later, unsuccessful attempts to introduce cross-pollination among certain species of crawling carnivores.

  At first, Mogturmen’s experiment had been looked upon as a great success and he was hailed as the genetic hero of three galaxies. The first sets of Mogwai turned out as planned, although the gentle little beasts had a few drawbacks not foreseen by their creator. Their vast intelligence seemed to interfere with their ability to communicate (Mogturmen said it was because they thought so much faster than they could verbalize), and for some unaccountable reason they were repelled by light. Discounting these deficiencies, the galactic powers ordered the Mogwai sent to every inhabitable planet in the universe, their purpose being to inspire alien beings with their peaceful spirit and intelligence and to instruct them in the ways of living without violence and possible extinction. Among the planets selected for early Mogwai population were Kelm-6 in the Poraisti Range, Clinpf-A of the Beehive Pollux, and the third satellite of MinorSun#67672, a small but fertile body called Earth by its inhabitants.

  Soon after these first departures it was discovered that Mogturmen’s creatures were highly unstable. To be exact, fewer than one in a thousand retained the sweet disposition and charitable aims built into it by the inventor. Instead, something went wrong. Very wrong. The Mogwai himself knew of the unstable Mogwai, being well versed in the historical background of his species. He preferred not to think of the complications that had developed, but it was nearly impossible not to. It was, after all, part of his heritage. Closing his eyes as he relaxed in his cage awaiting his supper, he mused briefly on the wars, landslides, and famines that had taken place on Kelm-6, Clinpf-A, and even here on Earth because of his creator’s miscalculations and willingness to disseminate an untested creature. Small wonder Mogturmen had been punished by having his . . .

  The Mogwai pushed the thought from his mind. True, Mogturmen had failed in the overall, but he himself was one of the successes, the one in a thousand who still embodied all the good things put there by his high-minded inventor. Yet his existence, he knew, had no long-term benefits for society. Gentle as he was, he was a distinct threat to those around him. Just a few drops of water, a morsel of food at the wrong time, and—

  The Mogwai made a little guttural noise, unhappy with himself for allowing such unpleasant thoughts to enter his trained mind. Why was he even considering the possibility that he might bring about some disaster or other? The Chinese man seemed to understand the rules (although the Mogwai was at a loss to explain how he knew them other than by the fact that Orientals seemed to understand the inexplicable almost without trying). He kept the room dark, water-free, and fed the Mogwai well before midnight. Few strangers were admitted. The Mogwai was never subjected to journeys such as those he had been forced to endure with his previous owners, among whom were a medieval peddler and a sixteenth-century smuggler who sold stolen gems.

  No doubt about it, the Chinese man was the best caretaker of them all. But why then was the Mogwai filled with a sense of malaise at best, of impending doom at worst? Perhaps, he mused, it was because he had had it so easy for so long. Thinking back, he wondered if he had the strength to deal once again with a new outbreak of . . . them.

  What do you mean, of them? he asked himself, suddenly realizing that “they” and he were virtually the same. Except that Mogturmen’s miscalculations were built in to them.

  And built in to me as well, he thought, feeling guilty. I just happened to be one who escaped. As he had done so many times in the past, he began to wonder what had happened to the others, how long they had survived, how much trouble they had caused.

  No, he thought, forcing his mind to erase the coalescing picture. That’s not to think about. I will take a mental tour instead . . . a tour of the beautiful Catelesian fire streams.

  He closed his eyes, and his Mogwai mind, ever obedient, began to show him the vivid colors generated by the boiling rivers of the subplanet Catelesia. It was one of the Mogwai’s favorite mental images, although when he felt a minor surge of aggression, he enjoyed watching mind-battles between the armored worms of Ucursian. His favorite Earthly visions included the sun-darkening flights of the passenger pigeon (which he understood had ended a century before) and scenes from the San Francisco earthquake.

  He was curled into a ball, thoroughly enjoying the mental spectacle of the Catelesian fire streams, when the Chinese man entered. A small plate held
in his thin fingers, the frail gentleman with skin like old leather shuffled quietly to the side of the table and stood looking down into the cage at his furry friend. On the plate was an assortment of Oriental delicacies left over from Han Wu’s restaurant next door—a partial egg roll, rice, broccoli, and twice-fried pork scraps. To all this the Chinese man had added a small rubber washer he had found in his handy room closet.

  Aware of his master’s presence, the Mogwai stirred, opened his eyes, then pounced to an expectant standing position as the food’s aroma suddenly reached him.

  Smiling benevolently, the Chinese man opened the box from the top and reached inside to gently lift the Mogwai onto the table. He deposited him next to the plate and nodded.

  “You may enjoy yourself now, my friend,” he said softly, patting the Mogwai gently on the head and then taking a step backward.

  The Mogwai looked down at the plate. Sure enough, a foreign object was there again. Yesterday it had been a piece of soft chewy wood; the day before a couple of foamy white chips he had seen the Chinese man take from a packing crate. Sniffing at the black rubber doughnut, the Mogwai analyzed it instantly and knew it would not hurt him if he ate it. He also knew it would be tasteless at best, perhaps bitter, virtually nutritionless, and very hard to chew. But the Chinese man so enjoyed seeing him chew up non-edible substances that it seemed churlishly uncharitable to disappoint him. Getting the black object down would take only a minute; he could then enjoy the rest of his meal as dessert.

  Snapping up the washer, he pulled it inside his mouth and started to grind away, first using his back teeth as a vise to break the dry object in half. As he suspected, it was tough and tasted rather like petroleum—not his favorite flavoring agent—but the Mogwai enjoyed seeing the expression of amazement and happiness crinkle the old man’s features. Less than a minute later, the washer swallowed if not digested, he was busily and eagerly attacking the rice and egg roll. Glancing up briefly, the Mogwai saw the pleased smile lingering on the Chinese man’s face and was glad he had taken the trouble to eat the washer.

  Humoring the old man, after all, was a small enough price to pay for the peaceful life he led.

  C H A P T E R

  TWO

  For a long moment Billy resisted the urge to deliver a good swift kick to the side of his perverse Volkswagen. Then he lashed out, driving his boot solidly against the rusting spot where the rear fender met the car’s body.

  He was immediately sorry. Not just because he was rewarded with a jolt of pain in his toe. The car, a ’69, was old and usually provided him with reasonably dependable transportation. The heating vent resisted all efforts to open and close according to Billy’s will, but had to be either opened all the way or jammed completely shut. There were various shudders and groans that tried Billy’s patience, but as they were all “intermittent” (a term used by garagemen when they were unable to find the trouble’s source), he and the car somehow adjusted to each other.

  But why did it always seem to conk out when he was late for work? Last night had been just as cold, perhaps colder than this morning. He hadn’t especially wanted the pizza, and he certainly experienced no joy in being the one selected to go get it. Why hadn’t the bug coughed and sputtered and died then?

  He sighed, looked at his watch, and winced. If he could be shot directly out of a cannon into the bank, he would be only a minute late. He glanced about him. The streets of quaint Kingston Falls, population 6,122, were deserted, as they always seemed to be when you needed a lift or were looking for company.

  Some might have called it a boring town, but having lived all his twenty-one years here, Billy liked it. He and Kingston Falls somehow seemed right for each other, having down-to-earth qualities in common. When his mother used to say things like that, the Billy Feltzer of a few years ago had often grown sulky, dispirited, and occasionally hostile. Now he realized that he was average. A B - or B + , depending on the taste of the feminine onlooker. His hair, dark and worn as long as the bank executives would allow, framed a longish face, a pair of dark earnest eyes, and a wide expressive mouth. His skin, he thanked the Lord, had passed the acne stage; either that or the zits were in a state of remission.

  Definitely not muscular, he was too well filled out to be called wiry. His was the body that even a high school football coach would have difficulty assigning to a position. He was too small for the line, a bit too chunky for the whippet-like receivers, not quite strong enough for running back. And so, because Kingston Falls put more emphasis on participation than winning, Billy Peltzer spent two years in the school’s defensive backfield. The high point of his career came not when he intercepted a pass and ran it back for a game-winning touchdown, but when he recovered a fumble that salvaged a tie—all that stood between Kingston Falls and a totally winless season.

  After graduation he didn’t go to college because he simply didn’t know what he wanted to be in life and it seemed a shame to have his folks shell out good money while he decided. Following in his father’s footsteps would have been like tracking a squirrel through the forest. Part inventor, part traveling salesman, Rand Peltzer had a resume that resembled the parts list for an aircraft carrier. Billy knew he didn’t want a similarly nomadic existence, yet he was so hard pressed to define his goals that his friend Gene Grynkiewicz—now nearly through engineering college—once suggested that he try to become a day watchman at a drive-in theatre.

  Instead, Billy took a post-high school aptitude test, which revealed that he would do well working in a bank. The test did not say how well he would do if he continued to arrive late, however.

  “Broke down again?”

  The voice, a familiar one, belonged to Murray Futterman, the garrulous neighbor around the corner who was now seated behind the wheel of his bright red snowplow. Whenever it snowed Futterman hopped on his plow and helped clean the streets, partly as a public service and partly, Billy suspected, because it gave him a better opportunity to jaw with people.

  “You need a jump, Billy?”

  “No, thanks,” Billy replied. “It’s not the battery. I just put a new one in. I think it’s the connection. Or it’s just made up its mind to be stubborn for a while.”

  Futterman pulled on his brake and descended from the snowplow’s fur-lined seat. Inwardly, Billy groaned, knowing he had no time to waste. Futterman meant well, but he could use ten minutes telling a thirty-second story.

  “Thanks, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said quickly, walking away from his car and toward the street in the hopes of sidetracking the well-intentioned neighbor. “I’m gonna walk. I’m already late for work now.”

  He might just as well have spoken in Sanskrit or performed a few bird imitations. Nodding genially as he brushed past him, Futterman looked closely at the Volkswagen. “No-good foreign cars,” he said, shaking his head. “They always freeze up on you.”

  Billy hesitated, not yet desperate enough to just start walking to work in the cold. Futterman was harmless and occasionally even helpful. For a long moment he stood looking at the car, his straight black hair hanging limply across his forehead. Well into his fifties, Futterman looked younger, yet because of his garrulous nature and fuddy-duddy attitude he somehow seemed older as well.

  “Doesn’t happen with American machinery,” he said. “Our stuff can stand up to anything.”

  No sense arguing the point, Billy thought. Forcing a tight smile—which he hoped Futterman would take as an apology for his buying such a defective foreign product and drop the subject—Billy opened his mouth to reiterate his dilemma, gesturing up the street as he did so.

  The words died in the wake of Futterman’s next verbal onslaught.

  “See that snowplow?” He smiled. “Fifteen years old. Hasn’t given me a day of trouble. Know why?”

  Obviously it was a rhetorical question. Again Billy’s mouth opened but no words came forth.

  “It’s because it’s not some foreign piece of junk,” Futterman answered himself. “A Kentucky Harvester.
You’ll never see a snowplow as good as that one. Company went out of business because they were too good. Hear that, boy? Too good!”

  Billy shrugged. He tried to look sad, not a difficult maneuver in light of the fact that he might be fired in a few minutes.

  “That’s real nice, Mr. Futterman,” he said. “I mean, it’s nice it’s such a great plow and it’s too bad they went out of business. But I gotta go. Really.”

  “Hop on, I’ll give you a lift,” Futterman offered.

  Billy weighed the situation. Nothing else on the road was moving, and as most people had not yet shoveled their sidewalks, walking was going to be slow. At least Futterman’s snowplow could get him to the bank faster than he could move on foot. If—

  Futterman homed in on Billy’s hesitation. “We’ll go straight to the bank,” he promised. “That’s where you work, right?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Come on. I’ll open her up full and we’ll be there in no time at all.”

  Billy hopped up next to Futterman and they started off. As they did so, Billy groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” Futterman asked.

  “Mom must have let Barney out,” Billy said. “Now he’ll follow me to work.”

  Sure enough, in an instant the yellowish brown mutt with the large ears—he was somewhere between a beagle and an Irish setter—had leap-frogged across the heavily drifted snow until he was next to Futterman’s snowplow. His rheumy dark eyes looked up lovingly at Billy.

  “Want me to stop so you can take him back?” Futterman asked, his hand reaching for the brake.

  “No, it’s all right,” Billy said. “I can tie him under the counter at the bank. Mr. Corben won’t like it, but if Barney’s quiet maybe we can get away with it until lunchtime.”

  Futterman nodded and gunned the snowplow forward. “What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Billy replied glumly. “It’s intermittent. Sometimes it works fine, even in freezing weather. Other times it won’t start, even when it’s nice.”