Gremlins (6 page)

“If I ever see that dog in the bank again, you’re fired,” Mr. Corben said, turning on his heel and heading for his office.

“Yessir.” Billy nodded.

Gerald Hopkins shrugged and smiled scornfully. “I hope he’s bankbroken,” he sniggered. “If not, your time may be here sooner than you think.”

As Billy started back toward his window, he reflected darkly on the fortunes of this day. If the downward spiral continued at the same rate, by evening he would be in a degree of trouble experienced by few mortal men.

C H A P T E R
FIVE

T
he Mogwai, nearly asleep only minutes after finishing the delicious candy bar given him by the mysterious burly stranger, thought at first that the disoriented feeling was part of the prelude to the dreamland he often experienced following a hearty meal. The box was moving so slowly, so subtly, he barely noticed it. Then he heard the voices, soft and sibilant, as if the speakers were making a conscious effort to be quiet. Accompanying these symptoms were a rise in unfamiliar background noise and a sudden change in temperature. A cry of terror caught in his throat and then burst forth. He was being moved!

Now the voices outside the box spoke quickly, as if panicked, and the movements of the Mogwai’s tiny home were quick and jolting, all pretense at secrecy having been abandoned. Tossed back and forth in the box, the victim of some terrible upheaval, he tried to cry out to the Chinese man. Again and again he tried to form and pronounce the words of the strange language he had heard so often, but because of problems built into his species by Mogturmen, he was unable to emit more than a shriek of gibberish.

“Woggluhgurklllll . . . ,” he called out. “Mevvaffrummlldrd . . .”

Just when he began to think his body was about to shatter from the turbulence and dizziness he was experiencing, the box came to rest. The floor was at a slant but at least the earthquake was over. Two loud metallic slams, a grinding sound, and an engine roar followed, then a gentle, continuous rocking that would have been comforting had he not been utterly terrified. The tears came a few minutes later when he faced the probability that he would never see his Chinese man again.

“Don’t worry, Gizmo,” a deep soft voice soothed. “It’s gonna be all right.”

The edge of the burlap was lifted from outside, admitting the sudden flash of a neon sign through the openings in the box. The Mogwai screamed, threw his hands to cover his eyes. Abruptly the burlap fell and the voice said: “Sorry, old buddy, I didn’t realize . . . I guess what he said was true . . . But don’t worry, I’ll be careful. We all will.”

It had happened again. He knew it would, of course, since by Earth life standards he was virtually immortal. These beings lived such brief lives. Why couldn’t they hang on longer so that there would be less upheaval in his existence? He had been with the Chinese gentleman nearly forty Earth years, had seen him bend from a healthy and strong young man into a frail specter of his former self. Fortunately, the man’s mind remained active and alert; they understood each other. The Chinese man knew the rules, even a few words of the Mogwai’s language, and seemed to sense much more.

These transferals always threw him into such a fit of depression. He tried not to think of the numerous times he had barely escaped death because his “owner” knew nothing at all about his needs—or, knowing his needs, simply didn’t care to see that they were provided for. Even worse were those who discovered his powers and—how was it possible these humans could be so dense?—actually used him as a source of amusement. That they were amused only briefly before having to face the ultimate terror was of little solace to him. He merely wanted an enlightened caretaker, someone who understood or was as responsible as the old gentleman.

This burly man who was now transporting him heaven knows where did not seem exactly responsible to the Mogwai. For one thing, he kept calling him “Gizmo” over and over, as if trying to have him accept that as his name or description. Yet the man knew his was Mogwai—the Chinese man had told him so. Was it the first harsh reality of his new situation that he would have to be called Gizmo? It sounded truly terrible.

There were worse things, of course. Thinking back as they bumped gently along, he remembered the China Sea crossing just before he had encountered his owner-friend of nearly forty years.
They
had gotten loose then—there had been no way to prevent it. He shuddered. What would have happened had he not been rescued by the Chinese man just a few minutes before the ship was torpedoed? Before that was the incident at the Royal Air Force base. Incident? A near-tragedy of epic proportions! Somehow an extended joke had been made of the thing, but Mogwai knew differently. What would he do if it happened again? Probably nothing very much, as had been the case in the past, because he was largely powerless to act once it started. That’s why the Chinese gentleman had been such an exemplary guardian; without being told, he seemed to know how important prevention was. Even better, he realized that Mogwai did not mind strictures or avenues of freedom being closed off. That’s why the past decades had been comparatively hazard-free. The Chinese man had enough responsibility for both of them.

“Gizmo, Gizmo, Gizmo, my friend,” the burly man sing-songed above the sound of the car, “you and me and Billy are gonna have a terrific time together.”

Gizmo (yes, his Mogwai adaptability had already made him accept his new name) sighed, pulled his great umbrella-like ears over his face, and tried to sleep. A new life was beginning for him and he just didn’t want to think about it.

C H A P T E R
SIX

S
omehow Billy got through the rest of the workday, the worst part of which was the succession of triumphant leers from Gerald Hopkins every time their paths crossed. Barney fell asleep under the counter and was good as gold until lunchtime, when Billy took him home. Mr. Corben went to a luncheon given by the Tri-County Businessmen’s Association and didn’t return until nearly four o’clock. He seemed to have forgotten the incident involving Barney and Mrs. Deagle. Kate, as beautiful as ever, was Billy’s only continuing source of visual and—as he contemplated asking her for a date soon—mental pleasure.

By closing he was in a better frame of mind, although he did not relish the idea of walking everywhere until his car decided to let him rejoin the human race. On the other hand, walking at Christmas time was pleasant in that the town was colorfully decorated and most people seemed in happy moods. Kingston Falls’s main square was lined with lights when Billy closed the bank door behind him and started home. His plan was to mosey along, looking in store windows in the hope he would see something different and interesting for Mom or Dad. In recent years they had become tough cases as far as Christmas shopping went, Mom claiming she “needed nothing,” but she was always delighted when package-opening time came. Dad, of course, either had everything or was in the process of inventing it. He enjoyed the thought behind a nice present, though.

Crossing to the town square, Billy walked among the rows of Christmas trees, enjoying their fresh pine smell. His mind still preoccupied with the day’s turbulent events, he was the perfect target for Pete Fountaine’s joke. Dressed as a Christmas tree, complete with blinking lights, dangling ornaments, and silver tinsel, thirteen-year-old Pete stood perfectly still near the other trees until Billy was inches away, then reached out and grabbed his arm. Billy jumped.

“Hi, Billy,” Pete laughed. “Got you, huh?”

Billy laughed. “Yeah. Guess I was thinkin’ about something else.” He regarded Pete from head to toe. “How’s business?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me.” Pete shrugged. “Pop sells them and I just act like one.”

As they strolled along the edge of the tree-lined square, Pete dutifully recited his pitch whenever they approached a potential buyer. “Christmas trees, get ’em here,” he called out. “All sizes and shapes. Get one just like me.” As a frozen-featured man walked quickly by, Pete added: “Hey there, sir . . . Bet you could use a Christmas tree . . . huh?”

The man, staring at the ground, ignored him.

“Bet he’s got an aluminum one,” Pete said in a loud voice. “Or he puts lights on his cat.”

Billy smiled briefly until the cat reference made him think of Mrs. Deagle and her threat to destroy Barney. Was it possible her life was so bitter she would actually consider doing such a thing?

Pete’s father, an exact replica of him with thirty years added on, gestured to his son. “Help Mr. Anderson load this into his station wagon,” he said.

Billy grabbed the tall tree and, with Pete, went to the car. Mr. Anderson, an elderly gentleman, opened the back and they placed the tree inside.

“Thanks, Billy,” Pete said.

A psychologist, looking at Pete’s eyes and listening to the tone of his voice, would have known instantly that young Pete was expressing gratitude for more than the tree errand. Now at the pimply-faced, gawky, and totally insecure stage and filled with conviction that no one really liked him, least of all older teens, Pete’s admiration of Billy verged on hero worship. He was the older kid who actually treated Pete like a human being. Not that his father was unkind to him, nor was he picked on by his contemporaries. They merely treated him like something that was just there. Billy, on the other hand, seemed interested in him. If he wanted to, Pete felt he could tell him a personal problem, ask his advice, and not be regarded as either a jerk or a potential social offender.

Now, with business a bit slow and Billy at hand, Pete decided the time was right.

“Hey, Billy,” he said. “You’re pretty old—”

“That’s right.” Billy smiled. “I get my first retirement check next week.”

“I mean, you’ve got lots of experience, right?”

“Experience with what?”

“Well, with girls.”

“Sure.”

“You ever ask a girl out?”

“Sure. That’s usually the best way to go out with them—to ask.”

“Yeah,” Pete murmured. “How did you do it? I mean, what did you say?”

Billy shrugged. “It depends on the girl and situation,” he said, trying to sound worldly but not blasé. “You gotta be firm. Confident. Make it sound like you’re doing her a favor by asking her out.”

“Really?” Pete’s eyes were wide and bright with this new piece of knowledge.

“Sure. You can’t get all gushy and nervous. Never let on how much you really like her.”

“I get it.” Pete nodded. “Maybe you should zap her with a few insults first.”

Billy laughed. “That may be carrying it a bit too far. You got somebody in mind?”

“No, not really,” Pete lied. Then, amending himself, he said, “Well, maybe there’s somebody . . .”

Billy laughed. He reached out, trying to find a place near Pete’s shoulder to pat without getting jabbed by pine needles. “Let me know how it turns out,” he said.

“Yeah,” Pete answered, waving as Billy stepped off the curb and headed down the block.

Billy smiled, recalling their conversation as he walked. Why didn’t life get easier? To Pete he was a wise and cool young man, capable of dealing with life in general and women in particular. To himself he was hardly more proficient than at thirteen; words still got twisted in his mouth and thoughts muddled in his brain before he could articulate them. And yet the very notion that Pete considered him worldly and wise buoyed his spirits to the point where he decided to drop into Dorry’s Pub.

It was unlikely that Kate would be there yet; she usually went home to change before reporting for work. Even if she didn’t arrive before Billy finished a mug of beer, however, he considered it important to take the initial plunge of going inside. Once or twice in the past he had done so but had emerged in a depressed mood after seeing the attention lavished on Kate by the older men at the bar. Not that she returned their overtures. She was friendly, even joked with them, but was never intimate. That should have pleased Billy. Instead he concluded unhappily that if she rejected those sharp-tongued, sophisticated, successful men, what chance did he have?

Tonight he was determined to brave his own insecurity. Going inside, he stood at the entrance foyer, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Laid out as an old-fashioned Irish pub, Dorry’s was dimly lit, with small wooden tables and sawdust on the floor. The long bar was already crowded with young and middle-aged men, as well as a scattering of women. In the corner a pair of video games colorfully and noisily zapped aliens or threatened the player’s electronic hero with instant fragmentation.

Locating an empty table, Billy sat down, ordered a beer from none other than sandy-haired Dorry Dougal himself, the genuine Irishman who operated the pub. Ten minutes later, beginning to feel relaxed, he took out the drawing pad he always carried with him and began to sketch. Soon the lines evolved into recognizable forms—a muscular warrior battling a giant, horrifying dragon with a face too similar to Mrs. Deagle’s to be mere coincidence. In the process, the warrior was defending a young princess with an uncanny resemblance to Kate Beringer. Despite the bad lighting, Billy was pleased with the results he had gotten and was admiring the effect when a sudden shadow falling across the picture brought him back to reality.

“Terrific,” a sardonic voice said. “The world needs more unemployed artists.”

It was Gerald Hopkins. In deference to its being after hours, he had unfastened the two bottom buttons of his three-piece suit and loosened his tie slightly. Without being invited, he dropped into the chair opposite Billy and smiled in a superior manner. “Speaking of unemployment, guess who almost applied for it today.”

“I give up,” Billy said coolly.

“You.” Taking a long beat so that it could sink in, he then continued. “Mr. Corben had second thoughts, though. He gets all sentimental about the holidays.”

“Imagine that.”

“Yeah,” Gerald sneered. “I would have fired you in a second.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Billy deadpanned.