Ghostbusters (17 page)

The prelate and the mayor were old friends from the days when they’d been priest and ward captain, Tim and Ed, but the formalities still had to be observed. He kissed the preferred ring. The archbishop smiled, that enigmatic smile they teach in seminary, Hizzoner thought. Too bad they don’t make one for politicians.

“Officially the church will not take a position on the religious implications of these . . . phenomena. However, since they started, people have been lining up at every church in the city to confess and take communion. We’ve had to put on extra priests. Personally, I think it’s a sign from God, but don’t quote me on that.”

“I can’t call a press conference and tell everyone to start praying. Rabbi, any thoughts on this?”

Korngeld shrugged. “It’s quite a deal. What can I tell you?”

A tall black man stepped forward. “I’m Winston Zeddemore, Your Honor. I’ve been with the company for only a short time, but I gotta tell you . . . these things are real. Since I joined these men I have seen jazz that would boggle your mind!”

The mayor rubbed his eyes wearily. “You, Venkman, how did this happen?”

“Everything was working fine, sir,” Venkman said earnestly. “We ran a safe operation.”

“Ha!”

Stantz rounded on Peck. “It was fine, just fine, until this jerk here shut down our power.”

“Is this true?” the mayor asked. Venkman stepped forward.

“Yes, Your Honor. This man is a jerk.”

Peck launched himself at Venkman, but two of the mayor’s aides pulled him back. Hizzoner stifled a laugh and glared at Peck. “That’ll be enough of that. So, wise guy, what do we do now?”

Venkman grinned. He liked the mayor. He would have done well back on the carny. “It’s this way, sir. You can believe this guy here . . .”

“That’s Peck!”

“. . . or you can accept the fact that this city is headed for a disaster of really biblical proportions.”

“What do you mean by biblical?”

“Old Testament, Mr. Mayor. Wrath-of-God type stuff. The seas boil, fire and brimstone falling from the sky . . .”

“. . . forty years of darkness,” Stantz chimed in. “Earthquakes, mass hysteria, human sacrifice . . .”

“. . . dogs and cats living together in sin . . .”

“Enough! I get the point.” The mayor looked at the assembled multitude waiting for his word. Aides, employees, supporters, the secular arm of the office, waiting for him to pull off the big save so they would all look good, or to fall on his face. To blow it. To create a power vacuum for one of them to step into. I hate these times, he thought. He glanced at the archbishop, who winked.

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, then
nothing
happens and you toss us back in the can. But if I’m right, and we can stop this thing . . . Well, let’s say that you could save the lives of millions of registered voters.”

Venkman smiled.

The mayor smiled. If this guy ever goes into polities, he could be very, very dangerous. I wonder if he’s a Democrat.

Peck pushed his way forward. “I don’t believe you’re seriously considering listening to these men.”

The mayor took a long look at Peck, then motioned to his aides. “Get rid of him.” Then, turning to Venkman, he said, “We’ve got work to do. What do you need from me?”

The mess at Dana Barrett’s building hadn’t gotten any better. In fact, things were considerably worse. Louis Tully wandered through a stream of tenants carrying precious possessions through the lobby as lightning roared and snapped around the building, cutting power lines, shattering windows, and blowing pieces of masonry into the streets. Policemen herded the frightened people into cabs and tried to keep the curious motorists moving on Central Park West, making sure there was room for emergency vehicles. In the confusion, no one noticed that Louis Tully was swimming upstream.

His floor was almost deserted. The lights were out, but a continual crackle of lightning was spilling from the opened apartment doors. A figure shuffled toward Tully, Mrs. Blum, a neighbor.

“Louis! What are you doing, standing there? Get out of the building . . . Don’t you know it’s an earthquake or something?”

Louis looked at her, amazed at the fleshbag’s petty concerns. The woman was carrying a bowl of fish, a symbol that did not register in the pantheon of the Destructor. A Shubb, he thought. Be charitable, enlighten her. “The Traveler is coming,” he said, his voice thick with reverent secrecy. But the creature would not comprehend.

“Don’t be crazy. Nobody is going to come and visit you with all this commotion going on.” She hurried off. Another lost soul. So be it. His duty was to Gozer.

He approached the sacred joining and knockcd three times, the thunder answering in concerto as the door opened. It was Zuul, the Expected One.

“Are you the Gatekeeper?” he asked.

“I am Zuul,” she said.

It was the moment. Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer, rushed to the joining as he and Zuul merged. She
was
the Gatekeeper and his key was ready. They sank down in the embrace that had been foretold and blew the roof off the building.

The mayor followed Venkman and Stantz through the corridors of City Hall, puffing to keep up and straining to understand. And, he was having second thoughts. By God, he thought, if these clowns screw up, I’ll make sure they never again see the light of day.

The Ghostbusters had begun their preparations and the City Hall area was swarming with vehicles and support people, not to mention reporters, tourists, groupies, and a large crowd of peddlers selling Ghostbuster T-shirts and dolls. A circus, Hizzoner thought. I hate trusting someone else when I don’t know what’s going on.

“I don’t understand it. Why here? Why now?”

Venkman shrugged. “What goes around, comes around, Mr. Mayor. The big lazy Susan of karma just keeps turning, and sometimes we get the short and of the stick.”

“What’s he talking about?”

Stantz clapped him on the shoulder. “This may be nature’s way of telling us to slow down. You have to admit, it’s kind of humbling, isn’t it?”

“We’re humble already,” Hizzoner shouted. “Hasn’t this city suffered enough?”

The Ectomobile was backed up to the loading dock, and Spengler and Zeddemore were charging the proton packs off a coaxial connected to the building current. A maintenance man was looking fearfully at the rumbling nuclear accelerators and trying not to get too close. He tapped Venkman on the shoulder.

“You’re sure this is all right?”

“It’s all right,” the mayor grumbled. The maintenance man glared at him.

“And who the devil are you?”

“I’m the mayor, you meathead.”

“Big deal.”

Hizzoner himself was about to ask if it was all right when Captain Bennett appeared. He had changed into field coveralls.

“We’ve cleared the whole building and cordoned off the street. I’m massing our special tactics squad and the National Guard is on standby.”

“Forget the tac squad,” Venkman said. “There’s nothing for them to shoot. But the National Guard is fine. People like soldiers. They give great crowd control.”

“What’s wrong with him?” the mayor whispered to Spengler.

“He’s in charge,” Egon replied bluntly. The mayor blanched. This is definitely going to give me an ulcer, he decided.

Spengler crossed to where Janine was standing anxiously by the Ectomobile. She smiled bravely. A romantic moment, Egon decided, and took her hand.

“Hi,” he said, making a mental note to ask Peter how to talk to girls. They were far more complicated than fungus, or ghosts for that matter. He wondered abstractly whether anyone had ever done a study . . .

“I want you to have this,” Janine said, handing him a coin.

“What is it?”

“It’s a souvenir from the 1964 World’s Fair at Rushing Meadow. It’s my lucky coin.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Spengler said firmly.

“Keep it anyway. I have another one at home.”

“Thank you,” Egon said, deeply aware of the gravity of the situation. So, this was what history was like.

Peter Venkman was not so sure. He looked at the long convoy lined up behind the Ectomobile; a police Cruiser, three National Guard trucks, three fire engines, a Con Ed van, a wrecker, and—ominously—a dozen ambulances. Okay, this is war. So be it. I’d just feel a lot better if Dana weren’t involved. On the other hand, if she weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to ride out and rescue her.

“Hey, Peter,” Stantz called from the Ectomobile, “You ready?”

Ready as I’ll ever be, he thought. They were all looking at him—Stantz, Spengler, Zeddemore, Janine, even the mayor. He took a deep breath and forced a smile.

“Okay, just remember, whatever happens out there, we are the professionals. Not only are we the best Ghostbusters around, we are the
only
Ghostbusters around. It’s up to us.”

He gave a thumbs-up and they each returned it. Then, raising his arm in the old cavalry signal, he cried, “Move ’em out!”

Have the courage to face a difficulty lest it kick you harder than you bargained for.

—Stanislaus I of Poland

Harlan Bojay and Robert Learned Coombs sat atop a stone wall in the park and watched the mayhem swirling about the front of the old apartment building. The NYPD barricades were keeping people out of the street, but they had lined up ten deep behind the sawhorses and, like typical New Yorkers, were beginning to divide up into religious factions, ethnic groups, and political-interest units. A chanting crowd of Hare Krishnas danced by, whirling and banging drums, followed by a contingent of punkers looking for trouble, until a mounted policeman trotted between them. The punks dispersed and melted into the crowd. Satisfied, the policeman galloped off to chase out of the street a covy of priests who were beginning an exorcism.

“What do you think, lad?”

Coombs shrugged. “Something to do with all this ghost business, I guess. Ooo-whee, look at that!”

A ring of lightning bolts enveloped the tower, shaking the old building to the bedrock. Chunks of stone and concrete rained down, bouncing on the pavement and scattering the cops and firemen. One boulder went through the top of the squad car, smashing the light bar on the roof and setting the siren going, which warbled eerily until a trooper darted out to switch it off. The crowd applauded his bravery but showed no further inclination to cross the barricades themselves.

“Rough night,” Coombs grunted.

“ ‘Twas such a night as this that Macbeth met three witches on the moors,” Bojay intoned solemnly. Coombs shook his head in admiration.

“For a guy who was gonna be a jockey, you sure have a lot of culture.”

“Yes,” Bojay cried, “and let that be a lesson to you!”

A minyan of Hassidic rabbis went by, bobbing and chanting prayers. “It is a wondrous fact,” Bojay proclaimed, “how a little bit of disaster seems to bring out the godliness in man.”

“And the ambulances.”

A hush fell over the crowd as attention shifted to follow this new attraction, a convoy of emergency vehicles, their lights rotating, as they drew slowly up to the building. “It’s the Ghostbusters,” someone cried, and others took up the cheer. It was obvious that the trouble had something to do with the ghosts that were rampaging over the city. The Ghostbusters were here. That was enough for the cheering multitude. The danger forgotten, they poured over the barricades and surrounded the Ectomobile.

“What do you think of that?” Venkman asked with a grin.

“I think they think we know what we’re doing.” Stantz said uneasily. “Do we?”

“Of course we do.”

Stantz was taken aback by his partner’s sudden confidence. “Really? What do we do then?”

“We do what we’ve always done,” Venkman replied. “We play it by ear.”

Oh boy, Stantz thought. Insight. The crowd began to press in closely, tapping on the windows and waving. Janine, who was jammed into the back with Spengler and Zeddemore, started to panic.

“They’ll turn us over. Do something.”

“Okay,” Venkman replied, pushing the door open and stepping out. He raised his hands and smiled broadly.

The multitude stopped, caught its breath, and waited. Venkman felt his smile beginning to slip. I can con a crowd, he realized, but this bunch is almost a mob, and a mob is nothing but trouble.

Spengler leaned through the window and tugged on his sleeve. “Say something,” he hissed.

“What?”

“Anything!”

Venkman fumbled the PA microphone from its hook and switched on the loudspeaker. “Hello.”

“HELLO!” the crowd roared.

“How are you all?” he asked. The reply was unintelligible but friendly.

“Get them out of here,” Stantz whispered.

“Hey, we’re the Ghostbusters—” Venkman started, but the mob went wild. The priests began praying, the rabbis started to wail, and a group of breakdancers broke into a pop-and-shuffle routine. From somewhere a gospel choir began to sing. It was like Lindbergh at Orly.

“This is nuts,” Venkman called to Stantz. “Let’s suit up.” He tried once again.

“People, the street is dangerous! Please move back.” A priest threw holy water on him and the choir slid into “Sing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The storm continued to rage around the building’s upperworks.

“We’ll never get rid of these clowns,” Stantz cried, helping Venkman on with his pack. How wrong he was.

A seismic shock wave tore through the street, tossing several of the dancers on their butts. An earthquake? In New York City? The crowd hesitated, then stampeded for the park as the street began to open up, jets of steam and water breaking through the pavement. More chunks of building roof rained down into the mob.

“Hey, an earthquake,” Zeddemore cried. “What could happen next?”

The Ectomobile bounced on its tires, Janine hanging on grimly, then screaming as she saw the pavement gape wide in a huge crevasse. A squad car tilted forward and slid into the pit as the continuing force of the shocks caused the earth to liquify.

“Ray, I . . .”

“. . . never been in . . .”

“. . . earthquake before . . .”

“Whoa!”

And they were gone. There was nothing but the tail end of the squad car, pointing skyward like the
Titanic
’s last moment, and a cloud of settling dust. Janine detached herself from the Ectomobile and tiptoed forward to peer into the opening.