Gremlins (31 page)

The significance of the announcement did not register with Billy until he heard the gentle burbling noise in the distance. Then, playing it back in his mind, he heard the all-important words . . . Fountain . . . Water . . .

“No!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, breaking stride only to scream it again as he ran a few steps backward. “No! Turn it off! Turn off the fountain!”

He realized Kate was too far away to hear him, but perhaps if his father, several hundred feet behind him, heard his plea, he would relay the message.

In the meantime Stripe continued to run ahead of him, racing as fast as he could. Billy was gaining on him, but a tiny voice in his head told him the damage had already been done. The fountain was running. There was no withdrawing the water that had fallen, and its telltale murmur was a siren song for the creature ahead who was rapidly approaching it.

Barney, well in front of Billy, was following Stripe closely, snapping at his tail and hind legs. But that was only harassment and what they needed now was containment. If Barney had been trained as a watch or attack dog, he might have been able to restrain the Gremlin. Now the most he could do was irritate and distract him while protecting himself from Stripe’s slashing claws.

The northern end of the store was outfitted as a sort of greenhouse, filled with flowers of all kinds along the walls, which supported a magnificent skylight now covered by a large canvas tarpaulin. In the darkness the flowers blended together, forming an overhanging canopy, so that moving through the entrance was rather like entering a tropical rain forest.

Stripe abruptly turned at the door and gave Barney a swipe with his claws that sent the dog scurrying backward several feet. He remained at that distance, barking ferociously. Having taken care of his canine pursuer, Stripe looked directly at Billy, giggled triumphantly, and pointed to the glistening wall of water sheeting downward from the lip of the top fountain.

Billy’s chest seemed about to burst from exertion, but he forced himself to continue running . . . faster . . . faster . . .

Then . . . all of a sudden it was too late.

When Billy closed to within twenty feet of him, Stripe, taking no chances, leaped onto the ledge of the fountain, teetered there one tantalizing moment, and then did a gentle backflip into the water.

The sight turned Billy’s legs to strands of limp spaghetti. Leaning against the entrance wall, he allowed himself to slide slowly to the floor. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of the past twenty-four hours, but the Gremlin’s giggling, mixed with the sound of falling water, made it impossible to forget . . . Four times he thought he had solved the problem . . . at home . . . in the YMCA . . . the theatre . . . and now here . . . Successful each time . . . except for Stripe.

He took a deep breath and let the air out very slowly. Already he could hear the faint popping sounds as the bubbles that would become new Gremlins began to erupt from the surface of Stripe’s skin.

Gizmo, still at the wheel of his miniature Stingray, rolled through the entrance to the greenhouse and immediately saw the worst. Billy, sitting, distraught . . . Stripe, laughing despite the pain of reproduction . . . And nothing could be done to set matters straight.

Unless—

His gaze moving quickly from floor to ceiling, Gizmo chirped optimistically, whipped the car sharply to his right, and applied full power. One thing Mogturmen had done correctly was give his creation a mind that was capable of rapidly analyzing a situation and coming up with a solution. That’s why the tarpaulin, latch, and string were just objects in a big room to Billy the human, but answers to Gizmo the Mogwai. As soon as he spotted them, he knew there was still a chance to pull this one out.

Nearly crashing into the rear wall, he leaped from the car and raced for the spot where the rope was wound around the steel latch.

It was just out of his reach.

Babbling in Mogwai, he pushed the Stingray beneath the spot and leaped onto the hood. Working as quickly as he could with his clumsy paws, he slowly twisted the rope free of the metal latch. The final turn released it with such force Gizmo felt his feet lifted from the car and his body being carried upward at a breathtaking rate of speed.

Closing his eyes, he let go his grip, tumbling downward onto the hood of the car and then to the floor.

Above him he saw the canvas tarpaulin begin to roll away from the windows, the long narrow strips sliding neatly into compartments hidden beneath the sills. As they did so, a flood of bright early-morning sunlight cut a bluish white path through the middle third of the entire greenhouse.

Squarely in that path was Stripe.

Magnified and focused by the window glass, the sunlight fell across the prostrate Gremlin like a superheated girder, a searing weight he was powerless to move. Nor could he move his own body, weakened as it was by the light and the effort of reproducing new Gremlins. Soon hot fluids began to ooze from his pores, eyes, and the sides of his mouth. He tried to scream, but all that emerged was a guttural moan. Trapped in their brief moment of vulnerability before birth, the bubbles forming on Stripe’s skin smoldered, blistered, and cracked. The grisly product of both the cool water and the hot violence of the Gremlin’s death rose in a gray mist from the fountain and gradually dispersed, the final creation of the worst night in Kingston Falls history.

C H A P T E R
TWENTY

B
y the day after Christmas, reasonably normal patterns of living had returned to the Peltzer household and most of Kingston Falls. Newspeople from all over the state continued to pick through the wreckage—not only of buildings but of people’s minds—in their efforts to dig out the grisliest details of the event, but the townspeople as a whole seemed anxious only to forget what had happened and resume their ordinary lives.

Billy managed to avoid the newshounds. He did so not because he shunned publicity or notoriety, but because he knew that any exhaustive series of questions would lead to Gizmo’s part in the mess. Billy wanted to avoid that at all costs. He thought it would be difficult if not impossible because so many people knew he was involved, but preserving his anonymity was surprisingly easy.

The person who knew most about Billy’s involvement, Pete Fountaine, was so terrified when he heard that Roy Hanson had been killed by an unknown creature in his lab that he ran away from home, thinking the police would connect him with the murder. Kate, of course, respected Billy’s desire to be left out of it, as did his parents. Sheriff Reilly and Deputy Brent conveniently forgot that they had ignored a warning from Billy, but did accept an award for meritorious service by the National Association of Chiefs of Police. General David Greene appeared several times on local and national television, describing how he had relentlessly pursued the Gremlins until the last one was destroyed.

In any event, there being glory enough for everyone and little impetus to assign blame, Billy managed to stay out of it. As the furor began to die down, he started to believe there would be no more fallout from the Gremlin invasion.

He was correct, until the night after Christmas. Kate, Billy, and his parents had just finished dinner when the doorbell rang. Billy opened the door, revealing an elderly Oriental man. His expression was angry but controlled, like a parent who must punish a child. The wind blew through his straggly white hair, accentuating his doomsday look. Although Billy had never seen the man, he sensed immediately who he was and why he had come.

“Yes?” he asked timorously.

“I have come for Mogwai,” the old Chinese man said.

He looked past Billy, catching sight of Rand. Billy indicated that he should enter and the old gentleman stepped into the room.

At the sound of the old man’s voice, Gizmo, seated on the sofa nursing his sore back, immediately perked up his ears and lunged forward. Chirping excitedly, he nearly fell off the sofa in his efforts to reach the Chinese man, covering the distance in four big leaps.

Lifting the creature and nuzzling it gently, the old gentleman smiled slightly.

“I’ve missed you, my friend,” he said.

Looking at them together, Billy was both touched and saddened. He could see that they had not only love as a bond, but many years of understanding and comfort.

Rand, feeling he should at least state his rights if not assert them, walked toward the Chinese man. “Now just a minute,” he said softly. “I paid good money for him, and my boy’s quite attached to him.”

“I did not accept the money,” the Chinese man said. “My grandson did that, and he has been sentenced to his room for a month as a result.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a roll of bills. “Here is your money,” he said. “I did not deduct the expenses in order to find you and get here, because you lost possible interest the money would have earned if you had kept it. We’ve both lost, and are even. Here. Take it, please.”

Rand, his gaze alternating between the Chinese man and Billy, ignored the gesture.

“It’s not that easy,” he said.

“Never mind, Dad,” Billy murmured. “It’s all right.”

“I warned you,” the Chinese man said to Rand. “Mogwai needs much responsibility. But you didn’t listen.”

Rand shrugged. “Well, we know now. We’ll be more responsible in the future.”

“That is experience, not responsibility,” the Chinese man corrected. “Responsibility is doing the wise thing before taking punishment, not after.”

“Yeah,” Rand muttered, “well . . .”

“Chinese philosopher once wrote: ‘Society without responsibility is society without hope,’ ” the Chinese man added. Then he looked at Billy. “I am sorry,” he said.

“I’ll miss him, too.” Billy smiled grimly. “But maybe this is best. I can visit, I hope.”

The old Chinese gentleman nodded.

Gizmo, nestled comfortably in the old man’s arms, looked at Billy and felt a terrible surge of sadness. If only he could say the human words that would let his friend know how he felt . . . If only Mogturmen had . . . A pox on Mogturmen! he thought angrily. I can communicate. I must. And I will. I will project the human words and not be embarrassed if they come out gibberish. At least then I’ll know I tried my best.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated deeply and powerfully for a long moment. Then his tiny mouth opened and human words came forth, tinged with a Mogwai accent but nevertheless completely understandable.

“Bye, Billy,” Gizmo said.

Billy and his parents burst into laughter and tears at the same time. Even Kate was visibly affected, though she had known Gizmo only briefly.

“He talked!” Billy shouted, reaching out to kiss Gizmo on the top of his head.

“You have accomplished a great deal,” the Chinese man said. “We will always remember you.”

Billy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

“Good evening,” the Chinese man said.

As they went through the doorway into the cold night, Gizmo raised his paw in a little wave.

Billy waved back, then shut the door quickly. He did not want to watch as they moved slowly into the darkness and out of his life.