Gremlins (16 page)

Closing the door but not locking it, he went downstairs. His mother was in the kitchen, going about her everyday business of making his breakfast, looking for all the world as if it were just another pleasant day.

For her, of course, that was exactly the case. Billy filled her in quickly, watching her expression change from mildly alarmed to briefly amused, and finally to properly horrified.

“I’d like to see those things,” she said when he was finished.

Following him upstairs, she gasped when she saw the four globs, then stood shaking her head sadly for a long time.

“The rug is ruined,” she murmured.

“Is that all you can say?” Billy demanded, startled by her composure. “There’s probably a monster inside every one of those pods and you’re worried about the rug.”

“It’s a front,” she said. “Of course I’m terrified that those things are in my house. But until we find out what they are, there’s not much we can do but watch. That’ll be my assignment for the day. You go to work.”

“All right, but I think we should lock the door,” Billy replied.

“Don’t be silly. How will you get in then? We’d have to break the lock.”

“Mom, listen,” Billy said firmly. “I’m not leaving the house if that door isn’t locked.”

“Oh, go on. I’ll be all right.” Lynn couldn’t help smiling, though, at his concern for her.

Billy shook his head, started to reach for the latch.

“Come on,” Lynn said, grabbing his hand. “You’ll be late, and jobs are hard to get these days.” Then she added what she hoped was a convincing fillip. “Especially jobs where you work right next to somebody like Kate Beringer.”

It didn’t work. “I’m not going to the bank until that door is locked,” Billy said resolutely.

“Your father won’t like paying a locksmith when we have to get in again.”

“But he’ll like it if you’re still alive,” Billy countered.

Shrugging, Lynn turned the knob to the locked position and pulled the door closed. Billy tested it, nodded.

As they walked downstairs, Billy still carrying Gizmo in the knapsack, Lynn could not resist adding an infelicitous thought. “Suppose,” she said, “just suppose that whatever pops out of those pressure cookers is not only a monster, but a monster with pretty fair intelligence.”

Billy looked at her blankly.

“What I mean is, if they’re smart,” Lynn continued, “won’t they be able to figure out how to turn the latch and just walk out the door?”

Billy sighed. What she’d said had some merit, of course, but he really didn’t want to think about it.

“If they’re that smart, Mom,” he said, “I figure there’s nothing the human race can do but learn how to surrender.”

C H A P T E R
FOURTEEN

I
t was Friday, the day before Christmas Eve, and throughout Kingston Falls the holiday buildup reached a crest, causing a lethargy in some and hyperactivity in others. In school, youngsters squirmed in their seats, as resistant to instruction as a cat to sarcasm, workers not under siege by last-minute shoppers went about their jobs in a desultory manner, like dieters approaching a plate of steamed carrots. In the shopping areas it was a different matter, however, as the lazy or super-efficient or guilt-ridden began their final sorties on the gift shops and department stores. Watching them carefully during the holiday season, one might have noticed a marked change in their attitude as the days clicked off before Christmas. Friendly, even jovial and outgoing at the beginning, now, as the final shopping days approached, they resembled fierce, dedicated soldiers or, in some cases, zombies programmed to perform a specific task regardless of the obstacles. Driven by desperation/determination to ferret out those last few presents, their eyes focused only on their goal. Like a plane or ship moving through dense fog or dead of night, each was an isolated pulse of life surrounded by a vacuum; the only beacon ahead or to the side was the gift—that special something that would bring a smile of delight to the person who had everything, convince Herbie the kid who started looking forward to Christmas in February that he need never fear disappointment again, or, best of all, provide the equalizing element so that no one would feel cheated.

A cold wind, the harbinger of more snow, whipped through Kingston Falls, knocking askew and then loose an “S” on the marquee of the Colony Theatre, which then proclaimed as its main attraction, NOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS. No one noticed, or if they did, they couldn’t bother with a second glance. It was, after all, a time for important decision making. In the town square, Pete Fountaine, Sr., seller of Christmas trees, trembled in the cold as he realized that once again he was nearing the point of no return. How much longer could he keep the tree prices sky-high? It depended, of course, on how many desperate people there still were, people who had waited this long and were afraid to wait longer. From this point on in the day, both sides knew it was a battle of wills to see who would weaken first. As often as he had played the game, Pete Senior never could predict how it would turn out. Three years ago, he had kept prices high to the end and been rewarded with a rash of late albeit angry buyers; two years ago, he had kept the prices high and been stuck with hundreds of trees; last year, he had lowered the prices early and still gotten stuck.

Pumping his arms to warm himself, he watched Father Bartlett stop at the corner mailbox and carefully drop in several stacks of greeting cards. Did he actually expect them to be delivered in time for Christmas? Of course not, Pete Senior chuckled. He knew that the cards, one and all, were addressed to those left off Father Bartlett’s mailing list who had surprised him with cards.

Pete Senior wished he could be as busy as the bank across the way. A constant flow of people went in and out of that building, for if Christmas was the very life of the holiday season, the bank was the heart. Nearby, in their warm patrol car, Sheriff Reilly and Deputy Brent, guardians of the town square, sat and watched to make sure no one’s holiday was marred by a bank heist, a fistfight over a present, or a fender battle over a parking space.

Inside the mercantile chamber, which pumped signatures on paper one way and cash the other, Billy and three other tellers worked as fast as they could. Nevertheless, the population of Kingston Falls had never seemed so large or single-minded; from the first minute after opening, a steady stream of customers, which snaked through a line marked by velvet cords, had been backed up nearly to the doorway.

Billy didn’t mind the work. In fact, he preferred having something to occupy his mind instead of worrying about those pods in his home. Only the fact that his mother was a very sensible, strong person who had promised to leave at the first hint of trouble kept his nervousness to a minimum. During several very brief breaks in the banking action he had attempted to tell Kate what had happened, but he had probably sounded incoherent. Having Gerald Hopkins standing nearby, watching for the first error he made, didn’t help his composure.

Nor did the appearance of Mrs. Deagle.

Watching her pause a moment after entering the bank, Billy knew she was going to head straight for his window. And for a few seconds it appeared that was her destination. Then, veering away from him, she caused him to exhale with relief as she pushed her way past the next customer heading for Kate’s window.

“Help you, Mrs. Deagle?” he heard Kate ask, ostensibly friendly but cold underneath.

“Yes, dearie,” Mrs. Deagle crooned. “I understand you’ve been circulating a petition trying to prevent me from closing that saloon you work in.”

“If this is a personal matter, it might be better to discuss it after business hours,” Kate replied.

“This is a personal business matter,” Mrs. Deagle shot back. “I always mix business with pleasure. And now it gives me a great deal of pleasure to tell you that your petition is useless. As soon as the holidays are over, I’m selling a hundred and four properties to the Hitox Chemical Corporation.”

“Just as I suspected.” Kate smiled.

“Just as you suspected, but are powerless to prevent. As you no doubt realize as a result of your snooping, your own home is one of those properties and so is that saloon. After the first of the year, I’ll sign the deal and all of you will have ninety days to get out. What do you think of that?”

“I guess there’s nothing I can say,” Kate murmured. “It’s just the kind of a Christmas present I can see you giving.”

“I’ll thank you not to be impertinent, young lady.”

Kate opened her mouth as if to respond but in a split second changed her mind. Instead, she spoke gently. “Mrs. Deagle, you’re going to hurt a lot of good people. My folks can afford to move, but some of the people you’re forcing out just don’t have the money to buy a new place. Isn’t there any way we can prevail upon you to change your mind?”

“You have two chances,” Mrs. Deagle said, smiling wickedly. “None and less than none. And now if you’ll deposit this check, I’ll be on my way home.”

Billy looked at Kate. For one of the few times since he had met her, she seemed truly hurt and at a loss for words. His next act was impulsive and certainly reckless. Spotting a broom tucked beneath the counter, he grabbed it and pushed it through the opening in front of him toward Mrs. Deagle.

“What’s that?” she mumbled huffily, drawing back as if he meant to strike her.

“It’s a broom,” Billy answered.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“I thought you might need a ride home,” he said.

Mrs. Deagle’s eyes widened as several customers in the near vicinity began to chuckle.

Leaving her holding the broom, Billy took the deposit slip in front of him and began to work on it, all the while sneaking a glance at both Mrs. Deagle and Kate.

The old woman was furious and seemed ready to explode. Kate, on the other hand, could not suppress a smile. Billy was not sure what was going to happen next, but he was certain that, whatever the outcome, brightening Kate’s day made it worth it.

Preoccupied with the object in his laboratory and exhausted from his long hours of research, Roy Hanson was as anxious to get through the day as his students, who were already restless to get into the new snow. Despairing of getting their attention with unusual teaching methods or subject matter, too stubborn to just let them sit and study or talk, he had decided to review their study of the brain in the hope a little material would stick with someone. Before him on his desk was a colorful, electronic model of the human brain with various sections that flashed on and off. Weighing close to a hundred pounds, it was a splendid instructional tool—and a shame to waste on such a lost cause of a day. Hanson had little choice, however, so he plunged ahead.

“Anybody know what we call this?” he asked, pointing to the lit portion of the brain.

No one answered.

“Chuckie?” Hanson said, nodding toward a chubby, oversized youth with prominent teeth.

“Ah, the crouton?” Chuckie murmured.

“The crouton,” Hanson repeated, rolling his eyes. “Get them in my Caesar salad all the time. Any other guesses?”

Samantha Weaver, the smartest student in the class, caught his eye. “Thalamus,” she said confidently.

“Close, but I’ll get another doctor to do my brain surgery,” he replied. “It’s the medulla oblongata.” Then, his irritation beginning to show, he said, “What is it with you kids? I mean, look at this thing. When I was your age, I was learning this stuff from old books. You people have something outa “Star Trek” and you still can’t learn it.”

He glared at them. They in turn avoided his glance. And in the grim silence that followed, a wet pop, like a piece of ripe fruit splitting, could be heard very distinctly. It came from the lab.

Hanson decided to ignore it, but when it happened again, he knew he would have to investigate.

“Open your books to page one-thirty-seven and study the brain glossary. I want everybody to know it.”

As he stood up to go to the lab, his gaze met that of Pete Fountaine.

That’s right, Pete, he thought, I believe its time has come.

Looking nervously at his watch, he strode smartly out of the classroom, breathing a silent prayer his chastised students would not hear their tough teacher scream for help a moment later.

Gizmo put his ear against the bedroom door and listened carefully for the tenth time since he had left the knapsack’s safety in favor of keeping watch. Too bad Billy’s mother didn’t share his concern, he thought. Oh, she made periodic trips into the hallway to see if anything dramatic had happened, but otherwise she seemed to go about her business as usual, answering the telephone and chatting in a completely normal way. If she was worried, she managed to hide it quite well, clucking good-naturedly at Gizmo as he crouched near the flower stand just outside Billy’s room.

There was no way she could have known what was likely to happen in a matter of minutes or hours; nevertheless, it maddened Gizmo to see how these Earthlings had adapted to living in the shadow of disaster. Blast Mogturmen! If he had made them able to communicate as well as most other animals, Gizmo would have been able to tell them that their best course of action was to burn the Peltzer house. Yes! It sounded terrible, but it was the only way. Bright fire, paralyzing with visual pain even as it destroyed. Otherwise . . .

“Oh, no . . .”

The sound of her voice, low and plaintive, interrupted Gizmo’s fatalistic chain of thought. Yet the sadness in Lynn’s tone gave him hope that she had come to the realization that drastic action must be taken.

Hurrying back downstairs, he moved through the dining room and stopped just at the edge of the kitchen, where she was talking on the phone. Listening to her was really not eavesdropping in the strictest sense, as he did not understand every word these people said; rather, he usually got a sense of what they were talking about, and now he knew immediately she was involved in a personal matter, distressing but not life threatening.

“But Rand, honey,” she said, sighing, “we’re expecting you tonight.”

At the other end of the line, standing in the middle of a frenzied convention room, Rand Peltzer tried not to be distracted by the parade of robots, bizarre mechanical toys, and noisy salespeople who moved back and forth. “I know, honey,” he said. “But they’ve closed most of the roads, at least the main ones. And the ones that are open . . . they’re so treacherous . . . But I promise if it clears a little, I’ll try to drive home.”