Gremlins (19 page)

In an instant he regained his feet but so had the green demon, which immediately hopped onto the lab table and started another bombing attack. Billy ducked, causing the Gremlin to clatter noisily against the wooden cabinets near the floor. It quickly regained its feet, sprung forward, and with one huge claw gouged a section of corduroy and flesh from Billy’s leg.

“Holy—”

The epithet died aborning as a second lunge by the Gremlin brought the two together in a clinch, one of the creature’s claws bearing down heavily on Billy’s eyes. Turning quickly away, he lashed out with his forearm, striking the Gremlin across the side of its face. It seemed more surprised than hurt by the blow, but Billy was able to slide out of its hot, greasy embrace.

“Mr. Sodlaw!” he yelled.

Simultaneously, he made a break for the door. Though smaller, the Gremlin made up the distance between them quickly, hurling itself against the wall in a kind of carom shot that closed the door and brought it face-to-face with its adversary.

Billy looked around. There was no other way out. His wound, which he had been able to ignore during the heat of battle, now began to throb with pain as he faced the leering creature blocking his way out of the lab.

Then, with frightening speed, the Gremlin launched itself once again, a savage missile speeding directly toward Billy’s chest.

In all his centuries of life Gizmo had never been in such a perilous situation.

He was actually in the clawed fist of a Gremlin, vulnerable to mutilation or death by a variety of means. How had it happened? And why? Only a few days before he had been happily snoozing away his peaceful life in the old Chinese man’s shop—and now this! Like mortal beings on every galaxy, he suddenly felt terribly unprepared as the moment of death approached.

The cackling face before him, identified by the coarse white fur, could belong only to Stripe, he thought.

“So, minority Mogwai,” its different but still recognizable voice grated. “We meet again.”

Gizmo nodded sadly.

“We’re almost ready now,” Stripe laughed.

Gizmo looked around the room at the remains of the four pods and three new inhabitants, who waited impatiently for Stripe to complete his business. Only slightly smaller than he, none of them had the distinctive Stripe mane, but Gizmo was certain they were every bit as evil.

“Let’s get going,” one of them said. “There’s no action here. It’s boring.”

“We’ll go,” Stripe yelled back. “How about a game of Gizmoball first, though?”

With that, he flipped Gizmo toward one of the others, giving his body a heavy spin so that objects whirled by crazily during the brief but frightening trip. The second Gremlin hurled him all the way across the room in much the same manner, but the third Gremlin conveniently allowed Gizmo to bounce off his claw tips before landing on the floor.

The unfortunate Mogwai could not help crying out as, his side cut and bleeding, he landed with a thump on his back.

Stripe went into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“Pick him up!” he yelled. “Throw him again!”

His partner obeyed. Five or six more times Gizmo made the horrifying, increasingly nauseating flight from one set of clumsy claws to the next. Then, caught by Stripe, he suddenly felt himself held aloft and turned head down so that he was looking directly into the fierce red eyes.

“One more throw,” Stripe giggled. “Then, the next time I get you back, I’m going to rip you to pieces.”

Going into a grand windup, he finally released Gizmo, sending him spinning toward the Gremlin awaiting him across the room.

Billy’s mind must have decided that, death being close at hand, it would slow down the final moments of his existence so that he might savor the very act of breathing. In any event, as the Gremlin flew toward him, Billy suddenly felt as if everything were moving in slow motion. Scant microseconds passed, but during that interval he scanned every section of the lab within his field of vision—into the cabinets filled with beakers and Bunsen burners (but no weapons); the counters, with their microscopes and slide dishes (but no weapons); to the walls, with framed pictures—

And a fire extinguisher.

A sudden rush of hope caused his body to perform a marvelously reflexive movement: as if he had had his legs shot from under him, Billy dropped downward like a rock, causing the Gremlin to fly over him, its claws flailing frantically in an effort to catch a piece of anything. Even before the falling motion was completed, Billy seemed to twist in midair, his body arching sideways and upward toward the hanging extinguisher. Like a third baseman knocked to the dirt by a hard drive to the chest, he was on his feet in one motion and at the wall.

Tearing the extinguisher loose, he got it in front of him just as the Gremlin sprang again. As it became a blur rushing toward him, he managed to hit the
ON
switch.

The velocity of the Gremlin’s flight caused it to become an instant casualty. Shrieking wildly, its head flew into the funnel of the extinguisher with such force it tore the instrument from Billy’s hands. As both the extinguisher and Gremlin struck the wall opposite, a terrible clatter was heard, followed by the rushing noise of the foam and the scream of the creature, which was unable to remove itself from the red tube. Thrashing wildly about the floor as it was force-fed the noxious foam, it kicked, jerked, and clawed great slices out of the wall before it died.

Billy lay on the floor, still stunned, until he heard nothing but Mr. Sodlaw’s continuing conversation far down the hallway. Getting slowly and painfully to his feet, he looked about him, just to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. But Roy Hanson was still there and so was the extinguished Gremlin.

Any exhilaration he might have felt at being spared had a very brief existence.

“Mom!” he called out, suddenly remembering that there might be four more of the same type monsters at home.

Rushing into Hanson’s classroom, he picked up the phone and dialed his home number. He was relieved when his mother answered after only two rings.

“You O.K.?” he asked.

“I think so,” Lynn replied. “I couldn’t get out of listening to Mrs. Haynie, who just finished psychoanalyzing me.”

“Is everything all right at home?”

“Yes. To my knowledge.”

“Listen,” Billy continued. “Get out of the house.”

“Why?”

“Those Mogwai turn into terrible things. Killers.”

“Really—”

“Mr. Hanson’s dead,” Billy interrupted her. “The biology teacher who was studying one of them. It killed him, Mom. I saw it. And then it attacked me.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m cut up a little—”

“Can you make it to Dr. Molinaro?”

“Forget me, Mom,” he said impatiently. “I’m telling you to leave the house. And take Gizmo.”

“But we’ve nowhere to go. And maybe those things won’t—”

“Mom, I’m telling you—”

“Just a minute,” she interrupted. “I think I heard something. A noise. Like a thump.”

“Leave. Just leave!”

“I will. First I’ll check upstairs one more time, and then I’ll grab Gizmo and go. O.K.?”

“Yeah. Hurry. I’ll stay on the line. Give me a shout just as you go out the door so my mind will be at ease.”

“All right,” she said, placing the receiver on the counter and starting out of the kitchen.

The flight that was scheduled to be Gizmo’s next-to-last turned out to be his last, thanks to an errant throw by the over-enthusiastic Stripe.

Careening wildly toward the Gremlin across the room, Gizmo realized—even in his disoriented situation—that he was not going to hit the intended target. Rising higher and higher, he passed above the gleaming claws and headed for Billy’s trophy shelf. As the objects raced closer to him, Gizmo tried to curl into a ball to protect himself.

Fortunately, he hit the set of yearbooks first, comparatively soft objects, spun down the length of the shelf in a whirlwind of papers and metal trophies, and finally dropped off the end—next to Billy’s laundry chute. For a split second Gizmo looked dumbly at the square opening before suddenly realizing that, wherever it led, it was his highway to freedom. Hurling himself upright as the Gremlins approached, their fangs bared and claws glistening, he hit the wooden door like a fullback sacrificing his body to get a first down. A moment later, his ears ringing and head throbbing from the impact, he plunged downward into the black void that smelled vaguely like his friend Billy.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” Billy nearly shouted into the receiver. It had been at least three minutes since his mother had promised him she would grab Gizmo and return with a final word before leaving the house. What could have taken so long? Was she in trouble? Was Gizmo in some godforsaken hiding place?

He looked anxiously at his watch, weighing the benefits of staying on the line—which was basically for his own peace of mind—versus hanging up and getting home as soon as possible.

“I’ll give her thirty more seconds,” he murmured, watching the digital numbers flash by.

As so often happens when an ultimatum is delivered to either a person, a nation, or fate itself, the response was less than the deliverer hoped—in this case, nothing.

“All right then,” Billy said decisively. “That’s it. I can’t wait any longer.”

Hanging up the receiver, he took off toward the front door, his mind filled with conflicting emotions. His sense of responsibility told him he ought to find Mr. Sodlaw so that the body of Roy Hanson would be taken care of; another voice warned him that the scene back in the lab, coupled with his running out of the building, could get the police after him in a hurry; but he was too anxious about the safety of his mother and Gizmo to do the “right” but very time-consuming things. Ignoring Mr. Sodlaw, who appeared out of a side corridor a moment later and began shouting questions after him, Billy slammed against the front door with his shoulder, spun around from the force of the impact, and raced toward the car.

Ten feet from the vehicle, in trying to save a few seconds, he reached in his coat pocket for his keys and, in separating the VW key from the others, took his eyes off the snow-covered ground ahead. A moment later, having missed the curb, he was lying facedown in a snowdrift.

The key was somewhere else.

Lynn was barely out of the kitchen when she heard the series of bumps and scrapes that told her where to investigate. The first sound came from above and proceeded vertically downward into the basement after a brief pause at the first-floor level. She recalled that the laundry chute had a wooden lip there on which clothes occasionally got hung up. She had asked Rand to repair it many times, but as he always managed to have an excuse, Lynn had been dealing with the situation by keeping a long pole in the basement next to the washer-dryer and chute. Playing the sounds through in her mind, she had no doubt at all that a small animal had fallen—or been thrown—down the chute, managed to cling briefly at the lip, and then continued into the basement. Because of the midpoint delay, it was likely the animal, whatever it was, was still alive and well.

Before descending into the basement, she paused.

“If . . .” she said. “Maybe I’d better . . . Just in case . . .”

Going to the kitchen cabinet, she got out the large sushi knife Rand had bought just after he’d discovered this Oriental delicacy (and become interested in developing a machine that would replace those talented people who put the dishes together right before your eyes). Moving down the steps cautiously, she went to the laundry chute and gently opened the door. Holding the knife in front of her, she looked inside.

A pair of glazed eyes stared back at her. Swathed in a jumble of undershirts and socks, the object blinked once but made no other movement.

Was it Gizmo? One of the others? Lynn couldn’t tell. The dim lighting and chaotic layer of dirty clothing prevented her from making a visual identification and she was not about to reach in and touch the creature.

While she hesitated, a series of other sounds from the first floor quickly convinced her that what was happening immediately above her was more pressing than getting this animal, whatever it was, out of the laundry chute. As a matter of fact, she thought with a flash of decisiveness, it might not be a bad idea to keep this baby prisoner for the time being.

Reaching into Rand’s tool chest, she grabbed a hammer and three-penny nail. A few seconds later the chute was nailed firmly shut.

Picking up her knife once again, she started quickly up the basement stairs, slowing down only when she reached the top step. Opening the door, she looked into the kitchen and took a step into the room.

A moment later one of her antique china dinner plates shattered against the wall behind and above her, sharp pieces and powder raining onto her head and down the back of her dress.

Lynn screamed. The sound was soon mixed with a high-pitched hysterical giggle.

Regaining his feet but not his composure, Billy looked about for the lost keys. Had they disappeared in the snowdrift along with him? Or been thrown clear?

He stood perfectly still so as not to disturb the snow or possibly bury the keys beneath his weight. Searching with his eyes from a squatting distance, he saw nothing. Meanwhile, Mr. Sodlaw was rapidly approaching, muttering inaudible imprecations.

“Hey, boy,” he shouted when he was a dozen feet away. “You’re supposed to check in with me before you leave. How do I know you ain’t got a microscope or something else stuck in your coat?”

“Hold it,” Billy said evenly, and then shouted back when Sodlaw continued charging forward. “Hold it, I said!”

Shocked into immobility, Sodlaw glared at the upstart, his wide mouth moving nervously as if working up to a good string of threats and rejoinders.

“I dropped my keys in the snow,” Billy explained. “Please don’t mess up anything.”

Sodlaw stood his ground while Billy looked, but he continued talking.

“Listen,” he said. “I let you in when I wasn’t supposed to, and then you run out on me. If somethin’s gone, I could lose my job.”

“Nothing’s gone, Mr. Sodlaw,” Billy replied.