Gremlins Page 18

  Lashing out again in the direction of the sound, he landed another blow, causing Stripe to disengage himself and scamper into the pool room.

  “No!” Billy heard himself shout futilely.

  As the sound of Stripe’s scratchy claws moving across tile grew weaker, Billy hastily retrieved the flashlight and started into the pool room. At the door he turned off the flashlight, though he could barely see without it. Even in his present state of near-panic, he knew that the light must be used judiciously—not only because it was getting weaker, but because a sudden movement by Stripe in the wrong direction now . . .

  A protracted and especially evil giggle told Billy that the worst had already happened. Stripe had discovered the swimming pool and its power of illimitable reproduction.

  He was standing at the far end, hopping up and down lightly, his nose inhaling the heady aromatic mist rising from the surface, his arms making wide joyous arcs above his head in the manner of an athlete who has just scored the winning points of a game. Each time he hit the tile floor during his victory dance the giggle increased slightly in volume, so that he sounded rather like a human bagpipe hopelessly hooked on a single hysterical chord.

  “No . . .” Billy breathed. “Please, no!”

  The gentle touch of fur against his hand told him that Gizmo was all right, a bit of good news as he stood helplessly watching Stripe lean forward into the water.

  Turning on the flashlight, Billy raced to the far end and pointed it into the water. Stripe had sunk gently to the bottom of the pool and was lying facedown, his arms relaxed at his sides. For a long moment Billy dared to hope—

  A gentle rumbling destroyed the hope. Stripe’s back was aflame with tiny pods erupting to life and spreading across the surface of the pool. Like a giant rolling fungus, they divided and redivided, churning the water into a green froth. The gentle rumbling soon became a roar, a deafening wail of a hundred inhuman voices crying out in pain.

  Billy watched, fascinated, but for only a moment. Then, grabbing Gizmo, he half ran, half stumbled out of the building.

  C H A P T E R

  SEVENTEEN

  Collapsing on a gentle slope fifty yards from the YMCA building, Billy found himself a spectator of a grim show that was largely his creation. At first there was little to watch or hear but a greenish glow emanating from the swimming pool area and a faraway giggling chorus. Then there was movement inside the building and a marked increase in the chorus’s volume. Soon Billy could see one form and then dozens moving past the windows—each a fully grown Gremlin!

  “Oh no! When they multiply as Gremlins, they don’t lose a beat, do they?”

  Gizmo blinked back a tear. He could have told them of the dangers and all this could have been avoided . . . if he had been able to communicate better . . . if these humans had taken his advice. If, if, if . . .

  Now there were no more ifs. To Billy’s way of thinking, his last hope was now gone. As he and Gizmo scrambled up the slope only minutes before, he had entertained the notion of calling the fire department so that they could set fire to the pods while they were waiting to hatch. But there were no pods, no intermediate stage even momentarily vulnerable to destruction or movement to a place where they could do less harm.

  Billy sighed. “What can we do now, Giz?” he asked wearily. “Just give up, go home, and wait? There’s nothing else we can do, is there?”

  That was the sensible course of action, but he knew he couldn’t surrender now. Having helped unleash these devilish creatures on Kingston Falls—and perhaps the world!—he owed it to himself and everyone else to do everything possible to rectify his mistake. That was the major, most moral, consideration. He also knew that merely sitting still would drive him crazy.

  “I guess,” he said slowly, “this means we’ll have to go to the police.”

  He did not relish explaining what had happened to Sheriff Reilly and Deputy Brent, who were as hardheaded a pair as were ever born. Even describing a normal problem to them was often difficult, so hung up were they on the idea that everyone else in the human race was devious, dumb, or both. Added to this was the perfectly reasonable resistance anyone would have to a story dealing with Gremlins or other alien creatures. A dedicated movie buff, Billy already had visions of the scenario that would be acted out at the police station. As in so many horror movies, he would explain what had happened. The police would be skeptical, to say the least. Then, to convince them of his story’s validity, he would suggest they go to the high school in order to see both Roy Hanson’s body and the remains of a dead Gremlin. After much prodding they would accompany him there—and, of course, both bodies would be missing. Either that, or the Gremlin would be gone and the police would have no choice but to arrest Billy on suspicion of murder.

  Faced with explaining his story to these men, Billy hesitated. But not long, for the inside of the YMCA was obviously swarming with bodies. Passing by the windows, they made the building look like a dimly lit concert hall or theatre a minute after the night’s entertainment had ended.

  “Let’s go, Giz,” Billy said finally. “I guess if we’re gonna stop those guys from taking over the whole town, we’d better tell the cops.”

  A quarter hour later, at the tiny Kingston Falls Police Department station, Billy told his story as simply and unemotionally as possible, avoiding as best he could the hysterical-sounding descriptions used by movie characters.

  The reaction of the police was somewhat different than in films or TV, although Sheriff Reilly and Deputy Brent did wear the typical “let’s-humor-him-and-maybe-he’ll-go-quietly” attitude of law enforcement officers in similar situations. Seated at their wooden desks, drinking egg nog from Styrofoam cups, they were perhaps more informal and a bit friendlier than one might expect, especially at the outset. When it became obvious that Billy was serious, they allowed him to proceed well into his narrative before interrupting.

  “Gremlins,” Reilly said at that point. “Like little monsters, you say?”

  “Right.”

  “Green, of course,” the sheriff continued, casting an almost imperceptible wink at Brent. “Little monsters are always green, you know.”

  “Yes, they’re green,” Billy admitted, wishing they had been some other color.

  “With sharp pointy fangs and long claws?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Thousands of ’em, huh?”

  “I didn’t count,” Billy replied. “I couldn’t. It looked like a couple hundred, anyway.”

  “Well, a couple hundred little green monsters with fangs and claws is enough, if you ask me.” Deputy Brent smiled. “Now where did these Gremlins come from?”

  “My father. He gave me one as an early Christmas present a few days ago.”

  “A present . . .” Reilly grunted. “Your father usually give you vicious monsters for presents?”

  “No, no,” Billy replied, a bit more nervous now. “You see, they aren’t vicious at first.”

  “ ’Course not.” Brent nodded, his condescension now becoming quite evident.

  “Matter of fact, they aren’t even Gremlins when they start out,” Billy continued. “Could you dim the lights in here?”

  “Why, they hurt your eyes?”

  “No, sir. I’ve got a Mogwai—that’s what the Gremlin comes from—in this knapsack, but bright light can hurt him, maybe kill him.”

  Brent shot Sheriff Reilly a “this-is-going-to-be-good” look and stifled a yawn.

  Hoping that a look at Gizmo would convince them that they indeed had alien creatures on their hands, Billy waited, trying not to appear manic. After a moment Brent took a couple of steps toward the wall switch and killed the overhead lights.

  Billy opened the knapsack, pulled out Gizmo. The two policemen studied him carefully but with a lack of the affection and delight expressed by other people.

  “This is what a Mogwai looks like before he becomes a Gremlin,” Billy explained.

  “Yeah.” Brent nodded. “I’ve seen th
ose before. They come from some South Pacific island. Think they’re called a weepee or kepplee or something.”

  “No, sir,” Billy corrected. “This is not an ordinary animal that lives on Earth.”

  Brent shook his head. “Maybe that’s what the guy in the pet store told your pop, but I seen ’em on television. One of those wildlife shows.”

  Knowing it was futile to argue with Brent, Billy swallowed his protest.

  “So this becomes a Gremlin, huh?” the deputy said.

  “Yessir. He can, but he doesn’t have to.” Knowing he was beginning to sound a bit like the typically incoherent, frustrated, and generally discredited movie character, Billy plunged on anyway. “You see, they become Gremlins if they . . . eat after midnight . . .”

  Deputy Brent’s cheeks exploded outward as he choked on a slug of his drink. Twin trickles of saffron liquid started to dribble from either end of his mouth. Wiping his lips on his coat sleeve, he turned away, coughing.

  “Eat after midnight,” Sheriff Reilly murmured, taking up the line of questioning where Brent had left off before becoming convulsed. “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe he means sundown on Fridays,” Brent interrupted, still gagging slightly. “Jewish Gremlins.”

  “Let’s be serious,” Reilly said. “I’d really like to get to the bottom of this. Now he turns into a Gremlin if he eats after midnight. Midnight in what time zone? You mean I can take this little critter to the state line where the time zones change, and if he eats on one side of the line it’s O.K., but if he eats on the other side he turns into a monster?”

  “I guess so . . .” Billy stammered. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “And is it the act of his mouth chewin’ the food or the stomach digestin’ it?” Brent added quickly, having gotten his esophagal problem settled. “You know that food lays around in your stomach awhile.”

  Dismissing him with a wave of his hand, Reilly asked, “How much food? One mouthful after midnight? Is that enough to make him crazy?”

  “I . . . guess . . .”

  “Suppose he eats at ten o’clock and gets something stuck between his teeth, something that comes loose after midnight?” Brent interjected. “Does that count as food after midnight if he swallows it?”

  “Is water food?” Reilly added.

  “Nah,” Brent replied. “Water’s got no calories. If he eats something with calories, that’s what does it.”

  “How about diet drinks?” Reilly asked, deadpan. “They got only a couple of calories.”

  “That’s all you need,” Brent replied. “One calorie and it’s food.”

  “My wife told me about some foods that have minus calories,” Reilly said. “Like your body uses more energy chewin’ ’em up than you get from the food. Things like celery and lettuce and raw carrots . . .”

  Realizing he was getting nowhere fast, Billy took a step toward the door.

  Sheriff Reilly held up his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where you goin’?”

  “I’m leaving, I guess,” Billy said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I didn’t make up the rules—”

  “We’re just tryin’ to find out what’s goin’ on,” Reilly replied evenly, his face betraying very little overt sarcasm. “Like, suppose you dropped dead or left that little critter here. If you said he’d grow into a hundred Gremlins if we fed him after midnight, I’d like to know more. Like, if it’s not O.K. after midnight, when does O.K. begin again? Six o’clock? Sunup?”

  “Another thing,” Brent added, not waiting for Billy to reply. “How’s he do this multiplication act? Does he need a female or what?”

  Billy sighed, did not answer. He had decided not to tell these men any more about Gizmo; nor would he tell them about the incident at the high school. Let them think he was a lunatic if that was their pleasure. At least they couldn’t lock him up for that.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I bothered you,” Billy said. “I guess I just didn’t tell my story right, so I don’t blame you if you think I’m crazy. I just dropped in to tell you that you may be getting some reports tonight about vandalism, or people being attacked or frightened by little green monsters. Maybe you’ll believe those people aren’t crazy because of me. At least I hope so. And if nothing happens, that’s all right, too.”

  Closing the knapsack cover on Gizmo, he started for the door. As he closed it behind him and walked into the dark cold night, he heard the two policemen’s voices break first into a smothered chuckle and then uproarious laughter.

  “Well, Giz,” Billy asked sardonically, “how’d I do?”

  The series of bizarre and tragic events that convulsed Kingston Falls began a few minutes later.

  The first episode, a seemingly isolated mishap, was reported by WKF radio newsman Harman Ellis at 7:57 P.M. as a local item to fill out the second hour of his evening talk show. Little did he realize at the time that it was but the tip of a catastrophic iceberg that would keep him and his listeners in a frenzy for the rest of the night.

  I have here a warning for motorists in the Kingston Falls area. All four traffic signals at the intersection of Randolph Road and Route 46 have become jammed with green showing in both directions. Two cars and a tractor trailer collided there about a half hour ago, all three drivers assuming they had a clear road ahead. Both cars were heavily damaged but no one was seriously injured. Motorists are advised to avoid this intersection—Randolph Road at Route 46—until maintenance crews can repair the sticking signals. Stay tuned to this station and we’ll let you know when traffic is moving smoothly again . . .

  Remembering that his VW was parked just a couple of blocks from the police station, Billy decided to see if he had gotten a ticket or the car had been towed away during the three hours since he had been forced to abandon it.

  “I won’t be surprised,” he muttered to Gizmo. “No matter what’s happened, it won’t shock me, the way this day’s turned out.”

  Turning the corner, he received the ultimate shock under the circumstances. Not only was the car where he had left it, there was no ticket on the windshield. And when he got in and turned the ignition key, the motor started with the gentlest, most obliging purr within his memory.

  “It’s a trick,” he murmured. “It must be.”

  Making a U-turn, he was soon back on Main Street and heading home, but he had no idea what he should do next or whom to contact. All he could do was hope the Gremlins somehow got sidetracked before they could do too much damage.

  . . . back again with another announcement—actually three announcements—that sort of makes me think Kingston Falls is being used as a testing area for pranksters. We now have a traffic signal that is showing red in all four directions and traffic is backed up for half a mile there. It’s at Mountain Road and Rolling Vista Highway. Police are on the way to direct traffic there, so if you’re listening to this in a car on one of those thoroughfares, sit back, calm yourself down, and hang on. Just be thankful you’re not on Delta Drive near Carmody Street, which is where pedestrians and motorists alike were attacked by about fifty runaway tires. Somehow they’d gotten loose from a nearby Tire Warehouse outlet store and started rolling down Carmody in one mass. Several cars were dented and one woman suffered abrasions when she jumped out of the way of one tire into a utility pole. That’s not all. It’s been reported tonight by a nondrinking source that customers entering the Governor’s Mall Shopping Plaza were struck by a rain of brooms from the roof of that facility—no less than three dozen at a clip. Security guards at the mall were unable to apprehend the throwers. Anyway, think we’re on a Gremlin hit list? Probably not. It’s more than likely just some last bits of craziness before Christmas. Stay tuned and we’ll keep you posted.

  At the corner near his church, Billy suddenly hit the brakes, sliding sideways and nearly into a snowdrift before coming to a halt. Slamming the car into reverse, he backed up a hundred feet so as to be near the familiar figure coming out of the church’s side entrance.

 
; “Father Bartlett!” Billy called out through the partially rolled-down window.

  The hunched figure paused, edged its way across the icy sidewalk toward the car.

  “It’s me, Billy Peltzer.”

  “Merry Christmas, Billy—”

  “Father, please, go back to the church,” Billy warned. “It’s not safe out here.”

  The elderly man smiled. “I’m just mailing off a last-minute Christmas card, Billy,” he said, pulling it from his pocket. Then almost to himself, he added, “I sure didn’t think they would send me one.”

  “Can’t it wait, Father?”

  “I suppose it can, but it’s only a block. What seems to be the problem—you think I’ll slip on the ice?”

  “No, Father, it’s a lot worse than that. Will you take my word that it’s not safe out here, mail your letter, and come right back?”

  “Why, I certainly will. And Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Thank you, Father. Same to you.”

  Billy put the car in gear and puttered off. Father Bartlett watched him go, shrugged, and continued his trip to the corner mailbox. As he walked, his eyes darted from side to side and even back over his shoulder once or twice, but no one seemed to be lurking in the shadows or following him. From his work with various youth groups, Father Bartlett knew that young people of today were a lot more serious and susceptible to anxiety problems than their parents or grandparents. It was the world we lived in, and one could hardly blame Billy Peltzer for having a sudden attack of nervousness, even during the holiday season.

  Arriving at the mailbox, Bartlett pulled down the door and dropped the letter inside.

  A second later the card flew back at him, striking the front of his coat and falling to the snow.

  Blinking, Father Bartlett reached down and grabbed the letter. Slowly he opened the mailbox door, peered into the blackness, shrugged, and redeposited the envelope.

  Again it flew back.

  “Guess this must be a joke of some kind,” he murmured, forcing a good-natured tone to his voice just in case he was being taped. Retrieving the card, he stood silently, surveying the scene about him with nervous eyes. He had seen shows on television, of course, in which the average person was the butt of a joke played by hidden cameramen, but surely in this poor light—