Gremlins (10 page)

He was already sure of one thing: he did not like the new additions very much. They seemed combative, uncontrollable, and, compared to Gizmo, aggressive. When they finished growing, Billy found a large cardboard box and put them inside, but they indicated their displeasure at confinement by gesticulating angrily, baring their teeth, and sticking their tongues out at him. The leader of the new group seemed to be a slightly larger one with a thick white stripe of coarse fur standing up from its head.

“I’ll call you Stripe, O.K.?” Billy whispered, trying to strike up a friendship with the new Mogwai.

In response, Stripe knocked over an ink bottle with a quick swipe of his paw.

As it drained down the side of the drawing board, Billy noted with horror that some of the liquid had spilled onto Stripe, Gizmo, and one other new Mogwai. Silently and nervously he watched the ink spots to see if anything happened. A few moments passed and nothing changed; apparently only water made them reproduce.

“At least that’s one break,” he sighed with relief.

Not long afterward, when it became obvious the new arrivals were hungry, Billy went down to the kitchen and brought up some cold chicken for them. Unlike Gizmo, who ate in a slow and civilized manner, the new Mogwai slurped and tore noisily at the food, spitting out gristle and letting saliva drain from the corners of their mouths. Filled, they belched grossly and then began to play with each other by spitting bits of food.

“Hey, Gizmo,” Billy said, “isn’t there some way you can help me make these guys behave?”

Gizmo’s sad eyes told him more than he cared even to suspect.

Fortunately, his parents had gone out for dinner. That meant he could delay his explanation and at least have time to form an idea of how difficult the new arrivals would be. He learned immediately that food made them drowsy; after gorging themselves and playing briefly, the five new Mogwai curled up in the box and went to sleep.

Gizmo, like Billy, remained awake, watching them. His expression was a mixture of apprehension and sadness, the same emotions he had worn during his first half hour in the Peltzer home. Billy wondered how much he knew. Was the downward curl of his mouth caused by knowledge or merely jealousy? He would have given a week’s pay to be able to have a meaningful conversation with his furry friend, but of course that was impossible.

Pondering the problem, Billy drifted off to sleep. But not to rest, for his mind provided him only more anxiety. In one nightmare, the Mogwai had continued growing until they were as large as his house; in another, which followed immediately, they were spitting fire and hurling bits of flame no larger than jelly beans, which clung to people like napalm.

Billy awoke with a start, experienced a moment of relief, and then became aware of a new terror. The room was completely dark. The small lamp on his desk and another on his drawing board, both of which had been on when he fell asleep, were off. No light entered the room except a thin parallelogram of illumination from outside. Was it possible that both bulbs had blown simultaneously? Even as he tried to convince himself such was the case, Billy knew the odds against it were astronomical.

In the background, from beyond the first layer of darkness, he could hear a rustling sound, a muffled voice, the sort of noise you hear at a surprise party, when everyone is huddled in corners trying not to laugh or move. It was eerie. For a long moment he lay unmoving on the bed, his ears straining to pick up a recognizable sound. At the same time, he moved his eyes from side to side as his vision adjusted to the darkness, hoping he could discover what was going on.

A minute passed and he relaxed. He had awakened, he told himself, in a fearful and susceptible mood created by the nightmares. Other than that, he was alive and well in his own room. Taking a deep breath, he swung himself off the bed and toward the desk lamp.

Suddenly he collapsed and found himself lying facedown on the rug. His legs were paralyzed!

A chorus of hysterical giggles unlike anything he had ever heard before filled the room. Whatever it was,
they
had caused it.

Dragging himself to his desk, Billy reached up and turned the switch. To his relief, the light went on. Pulling himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall, he looked across the room and then down at his legs.

They were taped together!

He could hardly believe his eyes, but the evidence was clear. Three neat bands of silver tape—one at the ankles, one just below the knees, and a third just above the knees—encircled him. Had he slept that soundly? Or, an even worse thought, were they such dexterous sneaks they had been able to tie him up without his feeling a thing?

Grabbing at the tape, he freed himself, stood up, and looked around. The room seemed different, but he could not figure out exactly how. Moving gingerly, he leaped and did a midair pirouette as something touched his arm.

The object fluttered to the floor. It was nothing more than an old comic strip from the newspaper. But what was it doing—?

Billy looked up and gasped.

The entire ceiling was covered with the array of comic strips, medieval drawings, and Frazetta paintings that he had collected and pinned to one wall of the room. As he surveyed the dangling articles, which in the semi-darkness resembled peeling wallpaper, he heard the unearthly giggles again.

“All right,” he called out. “It was a great joke. You can come out now.”

Going to the wall switch, he turned on the main light and promptly heard the giggles change to cries of pain. Reacting quickly, he flipped the switch off and went to his drawing board.

The addition of the second small light provided enough illumination for him to study the entire room. In one corner two of the new Mogwai sat, one on either side of Gizmo, as if guarding him to make sure he didn’t ruin their little jokes. A quick look around, even under the bed and in the closet, failed to turn up the other three. Billy fixed the two newcomers with what he hoped was an intimidating glare.

“O.K., where are your pals?” he demanded.

They looked at one another, twitched their pug hoses, and chattered lightly in Mogwai language, studiously ignoring Billy. Gizmo directed a glance at the door, for which he received a couple of not-so-playful pats from his brothers. Or were they sons?

Billy had no time to ponder it. Striding to the door, he turned the knob and pulled.

The door did not open.

Looking downward, Billy soon saw the reason: beneath the door had been jammed bits of erasers from his drawing board as well as rolled-up globs of silver tape. Now Billy was filled with a sense of urgency, if not downright alarm. Their tying him up, turning off the lights, and rearranging his clippings from wall to ceiling were clever pranks, but if they had designated two of their group to lock him in his room, the other three must really be up to something!

Tearing at the tape and erasers, he freed the door and started into the hallway. Thoroughly impressed with the guile of the new Mogwai, he moved carefully, his eyes alert for hidden wires or anything else that could trap him or cause him to fall.

The rest of the house, of course, was in almost total darkness. Proceeding slowly, he turned on small lights as he moved down the hallway and stairs. His first surprise came soon, when he stepped on a plastic cup that had been placed on the steps along with several dozen other pieces of china. The cup rattled to the bottom of the stairway, setting off a chain reaction of giggles from the first-floor area.

Turning right into the living room, Billy spotted the first Mogwai under the sofa, gleefully shredding the evening paper. It was so intent on its work that Billy walked past without attracting its attention. Another Mogwai was in the kitchen, delicately arranging packages on the cupboard shelves so that the slightest touch would send them toppling. The third was in the den, curled up on the sofa watching a rerun of “Gilligan’s Island.”

Billy breathed a sigh of relief. Although there was some indication of their rooting through things, he could detect no grand scheme or signs of wholesale sabotage. All he had to do now was round them up and clean the mess they had made. But how? The Mogwai moved at a slow pace, owing to their short legs and small size, but five of them were too big an armful.

“Barney’s transporter,” he whispered, snapping his fingers as the idea struck him.

It was still in the back of the basement, the large plywood box with handles and a lockable lid they had purchased during one period of Barney’s life when he absolutely refused to go to the vet’s without a struggle. Looking inside, Billy judged it would be large enough for five Mogwai, although sleeping peacefully would require a bit of cooperation. With the top opened, Billy tiptoed up the stairs and slipped into the den.

Catching the first one was easy; it had fallen asleep while watching television. Grasping him firmly beneath the tummy, Billy dropped him into the box, closed the top, and proceeded into the kitchen. That one, the Mogwai he called Stripe, put up more of a battle, but soon he was safely inside the transporter. After grabbing the paper-shredder from beneath the sofa, he retraced his steps to the bedroom where, to his surprise, nothing had changed.

A minute later all five Mogwai were safely in the box. They chattered noisily at him, but he was undismayed. “You can say anything you like,” he said. “Nobody will hear you, anyway, because I’m going downstairs to clean up the mess you made.”

Only after he had patrolled the entire house and set everything in order did Billy happen to glance at the clock. It was midnight! He’d missed his date with Kate.

“Darn,” he muttered.

He wondered if she’d even come close to hearing an excuse such as the one he would have to give if limited to nothing but the truth—that he’d been taped up and otherwise harassed by five strange beings who had been born that very day when some water fell on Gizmo’s back.

Somehow he had the feeling she just wouldn’t buy it.

Arriving home shortly after one o’clock, Lynn and Rand were both exhausted. The hall light was on but no light came from beneath Billy’s door.

“I guess he went to bed hours ago,” Rand said, yawning.

He brushed his teeth quickly and undressed, eager to experience their bed’s softness. Having already folded back the covers, Lynn gave him a little kiss as she went into the bathroom. Rand stretched, sat on the bed, lifted his perennially aching feet, and slipped them between the sheets.

Suddenly they encountered something cold and hard, causing him to recoil so violently he nearly fell onto the floor.

Billy was up early the next morning, despite sleeping only fitfully. Immediately after being locked in the transporter, the five new Mogwai had tried for nearly an hour to intimidate him with their threatening-sounding gibberish, but he had managed to outlast them. Stripe, the final holdout, had finally given up the ghost with a final snarl and all of them had fallen asleep.

They were somewhat restless but quiet when Billy got up, dressed, and went downstairs.

His mother was in the kitchen, having already made the coffee and set the table for breakfast. She smiled a greeting at Billy, then turned her head slightly sideways.

“Why did you do that last night?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Put the rack from the oven in our bed.”

Billy looked blank for a moment.

“Only you could have done it,” Lynn said. “I didn’t do it, and your father was so shocked I’m sure he didn’t do it.”

“Oh.”

“What’s that mean?” Lynn asked.

“It means I have to talk with you and Dad.”

“He’s in his workroom.”

Rand was at the bench in the incredibly messy basement area that served as his workroom. Years ago he had staked it out and paneled the walls himself, promptly lining them with portraits of Thomas Edison, Elias Howe, Alexander Graham Bell, Samuel F. B. Morse, Guglielmo Marconi, and perhaps his greatest hero, Whitcomb L. Judson. Once, when Billy had asked who he was, Rand had waxed eloquent. “These other men made great contributions and were rewarded with fame,” he said. “And there’s no doubt the phonograph, sewing machine, telegraph, and wireless have benefited our society. But where would we be without the zipper? That’s what Judson gave us, my boy, only they were called ‘universal fasteners’ or ‘slide fasteners’ back in the 1890s when he invented them.”

Now, bent beneath a giant blueprint of the Bathroom Buddy pinned to the wall above the desk, Rand was tinkering with the strange-looking object which could solve all one’s morning grooming problems, providing, of course, one had several engineering degrees and lots of patience.

Billy knocked lightly and entered.

“Just added a new feature to the Bathroom Buddy,” Rand said, not looking up from his work. Launching immediately into his sales pitch, he held up the object. “Say you’re a few minutes late before that big meeting. You reach up and touch your chin, and . . . Oh, no! You forgot to shave. Now what?”

“Do a lot of people forget to shave before big meetings?” Billy asked ingenuously.

“Sure,” Rand replied. “It can happen.”

“But then you’d have to forget to shower or take a bath, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Not necessarily. Some people shower or bathe the night before, so they’ll save time.”

Billy nodded.

Looking pleased with himself, as if he’d won a major point in the battle against ignorance, Rand flipped a switch. A tiny double-edged razor appeared from a slot in the side as if by magic.

“Hey, neat.” Billy smiled.

He reached out to take the Bathroom Buddy, holding it as if to shave. Then, noticing another button on the side near the razor, he said, “I guess this is for the foam, huh?”

“No—I mean, don’t!”

It was too late. Billy had already touched the button, causing a jet of white cream to head for the ceiling. Nearly dropping the Bathroom Buddy, he leaped aside as the spray ricocheted back down at them.

“That’s the shaving cream button,” Rand said. “But I haven’t figured out how to lower the pressure yet.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”