Gremlins (15 page)

With that strategy in mind, Stripe detached himself from the group and slowly worked his way over to the cord. Grasping it, he cocked his ear toward the television.

“Miles!” Dana Wynter cried.

A long pause followed.

Stripe, cursing silently, waited. Had the young man turned down the sound? Or was it merely a dramatic pause in the action?

“Miles!” Dana Wynter said again, followed by more silence.

“Well, I can’t wait here forever,” Stripe murmured. With that, he wrested the plug from the wall and as quickly as possible snuck back to the group.

Nearly a minute passed. Then dialogue from the box told him it was still operating. Stripe gnashed his teeth, rolled over, and tried to sleep. When his rumbling stomach would not allow it, he decided to have another try at oral persuasion. Shaking his cohorts awake, he told them to really let him have it and began the whining, threatening chorus himself. Before long Billy turned his attention from his drawing and to the group.

“Boy, you guys are terrible,” he said.

Remembering the times in his life when he had been really hungry, he looked at the clock next to his desk. It said 11:40.

“All right,” he said, standing and shutting off the television. “But it’ll have to be quick.”

In no time at all he raced down to the kitchen, found a batch of leftovers, and returned to the room. The Mogwai devoured everything so quickly Billy didn’t even bother looking at the clock. As he balled up the big piece of foil on which he had served it to them, he suddenly realized Gizmo had been shortchanged, but he was too tired to be a good guy anymore tonight.

“He’s sleeping anyway,” Billy rationalized, turning off the light and literally falling into bed.

Billy awakened, after a dreamless night, to see the first gray blush of dawn beneath the lowered shades of his room. Instinctively, he looked at the clock.

It said 11:40.

A warning alarm started to jangle in his mind.

It had a semi-human intonation, but it wasn’t a person’s voice.

Eleven-forty.

Ya-ta-ta,ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta . . . An old prison movie with a yard filled with men screaming ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta . . . Now only one voice . . . A falsetto ya-ta-ta . . .

Eleven-forty.

Suddenly Billy snapped to a sitting position in bed. He put his hands over his eyes and waited for the overlapping impressions of fantasy and reality to separate. Letting out his breath slowly, he looked at the clock.

The hands were in the same position. But it couldn’t be . . . He couldn’t have overslept that long—

Even as the thought entered his slow-functioning mind, his eyes dropped, following the desk clock cord as it disappeared behind the panel and down the wall to the baseboard where it . . .

The cord was out.

Ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta. Now the voice was more familiar—that of an intelligent creature trying to form words, his mouth twisting wildly, eyes wide as he gesticulated with his short fat furry arms.

“Giz! Are you all right?”

Billy swung his feet onto the floor and looked down for his slippers. As he did so, he caught his first glimpse of the four unfamiliar objects in the room.

A sound was pulled out of his chest, neither a scream nor curse nor recognizable word of any kind. Filling the room so suddenly and profoundly, it startled Billy so much that he felt his entire body shiver—a single massive shock wave causing him to coil into a near-fetal position. When it was over he realized he had both hands firmly over his eyes.

Slowly the chattering of Gizmo penetrated his false security of blackness. Removing his hands from his eyes, Billy prepared himself for a longer look at the strange sight before him.

C H A P T E R
THIRTEEN

U
sually Pete Fountaine could not think of even one reason to be happy. Being thirteen, of course, he took such things as good health and plenty of food for granted, scoffing at his parents when they offered those everyday blessings as reasons for quiet celebration. No, Pete wanted more sensational and immediate reasons to be happy, and today he had not one or two, but three.

First of all, it was the last day of school until after New Year’s, which translated into no homework, no boring classes, and plenty of morning sleep. Secondly, it was his last day as a Christmas tree, a chore he had enjoyed when he was eight but now found so irksome he started dreading it in September. That meant that after this evening he had at least nine months before the aggravation started building again.

Third, and most important, he had called Mary Ann Fabrizio last night and laid the groundwork for his first major league date. True, he had not actually proposed a time and activity, but he had been on the verge several times and she seemed interested in his conversation. Strolling toward school nearly twelve hours later, he could recall entire passages of their lengthy talk. Replaying segments now, he was disappointed to note that he had passed up many excellent opportunities for jokes, suave observations, and date suggestions. But so what? All he had to do was run the sound track through his mind once again as he walked and add the appropriately wise, clever, or bold comment. And while he was at it, he could add new lines for Mary Ann, most of them expressions of amazement at how she had somehow managed to overlook this tiger of a young man for so long.

Becoming so caught up in the imaginary dialogue, Pete did not hear the footsteps behind him. Only when a new voice entered the scene did he snap back to reality.

“Hope I’m not butting into a private conversation,” the voice said.

It was Mr. Hanson. His eyes were bloodshot and he walked without his usual springy step, Pete noted.

“Hi,” he said.

He was, of course, doubly embarrassed. It was bad enough that Mr. Hanson had overheard him talking to himself. Now, as he fell into step with Pete, he was going to subject him to possible excoriation by his classmates for fraternizing with a teacher. Short of being impolite or breaking into a sprint, however, there was little Pete could do.

“I’m rehearsing my spiel as a Christmas tree,” he explained, pleased that he had come up with something so quickly. “Every year I dress up as a Christmas tree and help my father sell them.”

“Oh, yeah.” Hanson smiled. “I think I’ve seen you, although I didn’t know who it was under all those decorations. Boy, you get lit up more than the town drunk, I’ll bet.”

“Yessir,” Pete said, forcing himself to chuckle. He wondered how many times he had heard that one since he first put on the portable lights and tinsel. (The other favorite wisecrack dealt with Pete’s “needling” people.)

“Heard anything from Billy?” Hanson asked. “I guess he’s curious to know what I found out about that little animal he left here.”

“Yessir. Yesterday he said he was gonna call you right after Christmas.”

“It might take a lot longer than that to solve this biological mystery. Those little furry things may seem simple enough, but so far they’ve defied classification. They look like mammals and sometimes they act like reptiles, but they aren’t either. At least not in the classic sense.”

“Has it grown any?” Pete asked.

“Not that I’ve noticed. Why not drop in a minute and see for yourself?”

Pete nodded, not sure how to say no. And he was curious to see the Mogwai again. When they entered Mr. Hanson’s classroom and were free from the prying eyes of other students, Pete was somewhat relieved. Warmed by the school’s steam heat, he pulled off his gloves and began unbuttoning his coat as he followed Mr. Hanson through the classroom and into the spacious lab immediately behind it.

“Good Lord!”

Pete’s field of vision was suddenly obscured by the broad back and shoulders of Hanson, who, after taking a couple of steps into the lab, was propelled backward as if struck by a flying object.

“What—!” Pete heard himself call out, throwing up his hands to ward off colliding with Mr. Hanson.

Recovering his balance quickly, Hanson steadied Pete by grabbing his shoulders, then turned and ran into the lab toward a green object tucked in the far corner.

Pete followed.

From a distance the object resembled a slimy watermelon, spherical in shape rather than ovate, its skin covered and matted with a layer of sticky, veiny paste. Several strands of the wire cage—in which it had obviously been encased—were broken or bent outward by the heavy pulpy mass. A faint crackling noise, like saliva being sucked through the teeth, emanated from the general area of the object as the running sore that was its outer skin changed shape and texture even as Pete and Hanson watched.

“Wow!” Pete gasped. “Did this used to be that little animal? When did this happen?”

“Last night,” Hanson murmured.

As he spoke he began searching in a nearby tool drawer, presently locating a set of wire cutters with which he snipped away the remaining wires of the cage.

“Why’re you lettin’ it loose?” Pete asked, looking toward the nearest way out of the lab. “I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want it to be destroyed or damaged by the wires,” Hanson replied evenly. “There’s not much danger to us now, I suspect. It’s in some sort of pupal stage.”

Fascinated by the hideous pod, Pete could not restrain himself from reaching out to touch it. He immediately pulled his finger back, looked a moment at the gooey substance stuck to the end of it.

“Yeccchhh,” he said.

Seeing that he was about to rub his finger on his trousers, Hanson tossed Pete an old rag.

“Use this,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Boy, it really sticks,” Pete muttered, thankful that he had not used his pants as a receptacle for the gunk.

He watched as Mr. Hanson circled the remains of the exploded cage, studying the monstrous green gooey ball from all angles.

“What did you say this was?” he asked. “A putrid stage?”

“Pupal. Pupal stage,” Hanson replied.

“Like a student in school?”

“No,” Hanson said, “although it comes from the Latin
pupus,
meaning ‘boy.’ The pupal stage is the quiescent period in the development of an insect, following the larval and preceding the adult stage. Inside, this is going through a stage.”

“Like my mother?” Pete smiled. The short period of familiarity with the object had already lessened many of his fears.

Hanson smiled slightly. “No, that’s different,” he explained. “This is what we call a metamorphosis. A change in form . . . change in appearance.”

“Yeah, like my mother.”

Hanson made a note on a clipboard, then suddenly dropped the pencil and snapped his fingers. “Billy,” he said, his voice tinged with alarm. “Do you know his phone number?”

“Sure,” Pete said. “Why?”

“Because,” Hanson replied, “it just occurred to me that if we’ve got one of these things and it’s kind of spooky, I wonder how he feels with four.”

All he could remember was the line from
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
—“Where did they come from?”

Billy was still staring at the four faintly bubbling pustules, weighing whether he should try to slide quietly between them or make a mad dash for it, when the telephone rang. Almost grateful for the interruption, he grabbed the receiver so quickly the rest of the phone fell noisily to the floor. He let it lie.

“Hello.”

“Billy Peltzer?”

“Yes.”

“This is Roy Hanson. Something’s developed here at the school lab.”

“Yeah. It has here, too.”

“Your four Mogwai have entered the pupal stage?”

“I don’t know what it’s called—”

Hanson quickly described the mass in front of him until he was satisfied Billy had four of the same.

“They must go into this metamorphosis after a certain amount of time,” Hanson theorized. “That’s the only explanation I can give for what’s happening.”

“Did you feed yours after midnight last night?” Billy asked.

“Yes, now that you mention it. Is there anything unusual about that?”

“Pete didn’t tell you about feeding them?”

“No.”

“Well, the Chinese boy warned us not to feed them after midnight,” Billy said. “Pete was supposed to tell you that, but I guess he forgot.”

“Did you feed yours?” Hanson asked.

“Yessir. It was a mistake. Somehow the cord of my electric clock got pulled out of the wall. Maybe they did it. Anyway, I thought it was only eleven-forty, so I fed them something. But I didn’t feed Gizmo. Now Gizmo’s the same and the other four are sitting there like they’re getting ready to either explode or attack.”

“I seriously doubt that’ll happen,” Hanson assured him. “They may be making little noises, but that’s part of the hatching process. In a couple of days they’ll probably turn into some life form we’ve never seen before.”

“I can hardly wait,” Billy groaned. Then he asked, “When is this likely to happen?”

“No idea.”

“Is it all right for me to go to work and leave them? This is gonna be a really busy day, but I don’t want to leave Mom alone if there’s any danger.”

“I’m sure we have some time,” Hanson replied. “Anyway, show her what happened so she’ll be ready to run if those cocoons produce something horrible. And keep them locked in a place where they can’t get out.”

Billy looked at the vegetating masses. “There’s no way these things could produce anything but monsters,” he said direly.

“Don’t be so sure,” Hanson murmured. “Remember the butterfly. Let’s keep in touch the rest of the day, O.K.?”

“Yessir.”

Billy hung up and finished dressing, all the while watching his new roommates. Gizmo, meanwhile, continued to chatter away, his intonation a mixture of alarm and castigation.

“Don’t worry,” Billy soothed, “I won’t leave you alone with those things.”

Lifting Gizmo from his cage and putting him in an old knapsack he found stuffed in a corner of the closet, Billy gingerly picked his way through the field of giant blisters. Arriving at the bedroom door, he remembered a disquieting fact about the locking mechanism: the knob could be locked only from the inside. True, the catch could be turned before leaving and the door closed, but then you couldn’t get back in without breaking the lock.