Gremlins (9 page)

“So they can build a plant here?” Billy murmured, aghast.

Kate nodded.

“It’s like a big Monopoly game to her,” he said. “We’re just pieces of paper to buy and sell.”

“You got it,” Kate replied. “We’ve got to stop her, Billy.”

“You and me?”

“For starters. Somebody’s got to do something.”

“Yeah, but what?”

“That’s what I say—what?” a familiar voice asked.

The response to Billy’s query came not from Kate, but from Gerald Hopkins, who had entered quietly while the young couple were bent over the map. As they turned to look at him, their expressions surprised and discomfited, he was in his glory. For the moment, at least, they were in his power.

“Snooping, eh?” He smiled.

Kate and Billy merely stared at him, there being no logical way they could deny their action.

“Mr. Corben doesn’t like snoopy employees,” Gerald said as he slowly took off his coat and hung it in the closet. Enjoying the game of cat and mouse, he looked at Kate through narrowed eyelids. “But maybe I don’t have to tell him,” he added meaningfully.

Kate didn’t answer.

“You busy tonight?” Gerald asked.

“I’m busy every night,” she replied. With a toss of her head, she stormed out of the office.

Gerald watched her go. Then, turning to face Billy, he forced a smile.

“I like her,” he said. “She’s tough. Just like me.”

“Just like you, Ger,” Billy repeated derisively.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry, Ger, I keep forgetting.” Billy smiled as he strolled out of the office.

He and Kate had little chance to discuss the problem the rest of the day, although Billy thought about it quite a bit. Did it mean his family would be thrown out on the street? If so, where would they ever find a place as nice as their present home? Depressed at the end of the working day, Billy went directly home, hoping to find some solace in Gizmo or the new cartoon strip he was working on.

Arriving home, he first went upstairs to check on Gizmo, who was sleeping peacefully, a happy smile on his face. Feeling a little better, he returned to the kitchen to find something good to eat.

The refrigerator didn’t offer much that interested him. He sighed.

“Have an orange,” his mother suggested.

Billy shrugged, took an orange from the refrigerator, and moved gingerly toward the unusual-looking appliance that sat on top of the counter.

“I think you can use it now.” Lynn smiled, no doubt sensing his nervousness. “Your father tinkered with it last night and it peeled an orange perfectly.”

“One orange,” Billy said, grinning. “Out of how many?”

“Don’t ask,” she said.

Shrugging again, he opened the top of the device, across the side of which was inscribed
Peltzer Peeler-Juicer,
flipped the switch to peel, and placed the orange in the stainless-steel bowl provided for it. Closing the lid, he pushed the
START
switch.

The appliance immediately began to shake and make gurgling noises. Billy moved several feet away, experience having taught him that Dad’s machines often had a way of giving one an impromptu shower. This time, however, it seemed to be working. From the bottom of the device a perfectly dry spiral of rind slowly unwound itself.

“Hey,” Billy exclaimed. “It peeled it perfectly.”

The machine shut itself off and Billy opened the lid.

Nothing was inside.

“Where’s the orange?” he demanded, turning the machine on edge, shaking it, hitting its sides.

“It’s supposed to be in the top,” his mother said.

“No,” he replied. “It’s not there. The darn thing peeled the orange and then ate it itself.”

“Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Lynn laughed. “It’s an automatic orange-eating machine.”

They were still giggling a moment later when a knock sounded at the front door.

“Anybody home?” Pete Fountaine asked, poking his head inside.

“Sure, come on in, Pete,” Billy said.

“I brought you that tree your ma said she liked the other day,” he said, dragging a Scotch pine behind him.

After replacing the sword, which had fallen right on cue, they set up the tree and studied it.

“Maybe I’d better see if I can get this trimmed before your father gets home,” Lynn said. “I think he’s been fooling around with something that hangs the tinsel automatically, and I’d rather not have him try it out.”

“Would you like us to help?” Pete asked politely.

“Not necessary. Thanks, though,” she said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and look at Gizmo?”

“That’s right.” Billy smiled, snapping his fingers. “I’ve got a new pet.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pete said. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“Come on,” Pete said skeptically.

“I’m not kidding,” Billy insisted. “Come on upstairs and see for yourself.”

Halfway up the steps, Pete said in a confidential tone of voice, “I called up Mary Ann Fabrizio last night. Asked her for a date.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?” Billy asked.

“Well, I was all ready to be smooth and confident, just like you said. But when she answered, I couldn’t remember my name.”

Billy laughed.

“So I said ‘wrong number’ in a real high voice and hung up,” Pete continued. “Maybe I’ll try again in a couple of days. Give her time to forget the voice.”

“Well, good luck,” Billy said. “Just try to remember that you’re doing her a favor.”

“Yeah. If I can remember my name.”

They entered the darkened room and made their way to the bedstand, on which Gizmo’s cage sat. Pete, who shared a room with his two brothers, was impressed with all the privacy Billy had. For one thing, there was a double bed, all for himself. And Billy could arrange things just the way he wanted. Walking slowly, taking it all in, Pete was fascinated by the walls, which were covered with comic strips, medieval drawings, Frazetta paintings of warriors. On the dresser was a miniature suit of armor, and farther on, a big drawing table covered with pens, pencils, erasers, a large green paper cutter, paintbrushes soaking in cans, and a stack of drawings with an elaborate title page reading
The Secret of the Dragon’s Lair.
Below it Billy had signed his name. Pete’s mouth dropped open slowly.

“Golly,” he said. “You’re really good.”

Billy smiled.

“Thanks. It’ll look even better when I smooth out those colors.”

Somewhat embarrassed at the praise, Billy was thankful that Gizmo let out a high-pitched chirping noise, attracting both his and Pete’s attention. The television set next to the bed was on, showing an old movie with Clark Gable as a racing car driver, and Gizmo was watching with intense interest, almost as if he were a human being.

“Holy cow, what’s that?” Pete whispered.

“It’s my new pet. We call him Gizmo.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“My dad brought it back from Chinatown.”

The two boys went to the edge of the bed, Pete kneeling so as to get a better look at the furry creature.

“You keep him in the cage all the time?” he asked.

“No. Just while I’m at work. We’re afraid he might get into things. You see, he’s very delicate, can’t stand light and—”

The telephone rang. Billy answered it and was delighted to hear the sound of Kate’s voice. As she proceeded to tell him some more scuttlebutt she had picked up at Dorry’s Pub concerning Mrs. Deagle’s plan, Billy gently lifted Gizmo from the box and held him in his lap. Pete moved closer so he could stroke the animal and listen to the contented sounds he made.

“What happened between you and Gerald after I left?” Kate asked finally.

“Nothing much. I called him Ger a few times, that’s all.”

He handed Gizmo to Pete and leaned back against the pillow, enjoying this moment with Kate. He liked being her secret ally in the war against Mrs. Deagle, even if he had no idea what to do to thwart her takeover plan. Kate had plenty of ideas, however, most involving petitions and getting the story to newspapers and television people. As he listened to her, Billy kept one eye on Pete and Gizmo. To give him some privacy, Pete had moved toward the drawing board and window, but as it was dark out, Billy saw no cause for alarm.

“Why don’t you drop by the pub when I get off and we’ll talk some more about it?” Kate asked.

“Well—” Billy stammered, suddenly realizing that she was very nearly asking him for a date. “What time?”

“I get off at eleven,” she said.

“Sure, O.K.,” he murmured.

“If that’s too late, it can keep,” she added. “You don’t sound too hot on the idea.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I was just surprised.”

“At what?”

“Never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”

“O.K.,” she said. “If you can’t make it, it’s all right.”

“No, it’s—”

He saw the situation developing in the same sort of slow-motion action they use to show football and basketball replays: Gizmo seated on the drawing table top . . . Pete stroking him . . . the edge of Pete’s jacket sleeve catching on the paint can with soaking brushes inside . . . the can tipping . . . a drop of water falling to the floor . . . then another, larger mass of water slopping over the rim . . .

Toward Gizmo’s back!

“No!” he heard himself shout.

It was too late. As the water struck the tiny creature’s back, Billy shouted “Accident!” into the telephone, hung up, and hurling himself across the room, tried to wipe the beading water from Gizmo’s body.

A high-pitched scream told him the damage had already been done. His eyes wider than ever, his spine arched and mouth open, gasping, Gizmo rolled over and over on the drawing board. A crackling sound, like a forest fire, seemed to be coming from his body, forming a hideous counterpoint with his pitiful cries.

“What did I do?” Pete shouted, practically in tears.

“It’s the water,” Billy yelled back. “It’s not your fault. He can’t be around water.”

Indeed, Gizmo appeared almost ready to burst. Five huge spots had formed on his back where the water had landed, and now they were growing, blood-red and yellow, like mountainous blisters. Spreading and popping like miniature volcanoes, the membranes tightened and stretched until one of them finally burst. A small furry ball popped out, landing on the desk top. Pete and Billy retreated, fascinated and horrified. Another ball popped from a second blister, then a third, fourth, and fifth. The crackling diminished then, as did Gizmo’s cries of pain. Billy wondered if he was dying.

In another minute it was all over. Gizmo, his breathing gradually returning to normal, lay quietly as the blistered areas on his back bonded together and began to disappear, like time-lapse photography of a wound healing.

“Thank goodness,” Billy breathed. “I think he’s all right.”

“But what are those things?” Pete asked.

The five balls had already started to grow and form themselves into shapes similar to Gizmo. Soon it was obvious that more Mogwai had been created.

The two boys watched astounded as the creatures grew. “This is better than Twilight Zone,’” Pete murmured.

“I just wonder what my folks are gonna say,” Billy muttered darkly.

“Maybe they’re good to eat,” Pete offered.

Now the five newcomers were half as large as Gizmo, who sat watching them with large tearful eyes. Once or twice he glanced at Billy reproachfully, then looked away sadly. Billy wondered if Gizmo was surprised by the incident, or if he had known or sensed that there was a possibility of its happening. Perhaps it had happened before.

Even as they grew, Billy could tell that something was different. The new Mogwai had slightly different coloring than Gizmo, but that wasn’t it. There was something strange about the expression on their faces and in their eyes. Though younger than Gizmo, they seemed less innocent. There was a craftiness there Billy had never seen in Gizmo’s large brown eyes.

“Can I have one?” Pete asked, interrupting Billy’s thoughts.

His first inclination was to say yes. Why not? If one of Gizmo was enough, six was certainly an excess. Yet Billy had no desire, having been careless once, to compound his error. Snatching up the paint can and mopping up every bead of water, he watched as the five new Mogwai continued to approximate Gizmo’s size.

“I guess not,” he said finally. “This may be a nightmare, you know. Until we find out, I think it’s best to keep them all here.”

Pete nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we should take one to Mr. Hanson and find out if it’s a new species or not.”

“That’s a good idea,” Billy replied.

“We could be rich and famous.”

Billy wasn’t so sure. Everything had happened so fast. Suppose instant reproduction occurred again? He remembered the “Star Trek” episode in which the cuddly creatures known as tribbles practically took over the entire spaceship. He had a quick vision of Mogwai stopping up the pipes of his home, lying wall-to-wall in every room and hallway, a blanket of squealing animals crying out for food even as they continued multiplying. Suppose more of them made them dangerous in some way? If they took over neighbors’ homes, would the police arrest Billy for starting the problem? And, on a more immediate level, what explanation could he give Mom and Dad? He had been careless and violated the Chinese boy’s admonition. To Pete, the new arrivals added up to being rich and famous. To Billy, they spelled nothing but trouble.

C H A P T E R
NINE

A
fter Pete left, Billy sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, trying to think as he watched the five new Mogwai reach maturity. Logic indicated that he should report what had happened to his parents immediately. He had not done such a terrible thing, after all, nothing more than relax his vigilance for a moment. The Chinese boy said to keep Gizmo away from water. But the Chinese man also said Gizmo ate rubber washers and cardboard, information that turned out to be false. How could he have known that such a minor oversight could lead to the creation of five new creatures?

Although logic was on his side, Billy nevertheless needed time to think. For a brief while, at least, he wanted to see if he could solve the problem himself. Pete had made one good suggestion. As soon as possible, one of the Mogwai should go to Mr. Hanson for scientific study. He wondered if some laboratories or zoos might be interested, also. Surely in a world filled with thousands of stray cats and dogs it would be possible to find a good place to unload the five new Mogwai.