by Nancy Holder
The irony was not lost on him as the awning on the stand collapsed and the rest of the shelves fell over on top of him. Newspapers, cartons of cigarettes, and candy bars cascaded over him. He prayed that the ghost would move on, deciding it would be too much trouble to search through the debris for him.
A ghost chased me down the street.
Then suddenly the layers of debris above him began to shuffle skyward, like dirt clods being dug up by a busy dog, and he began to whimper. A ghost is looking for me.
If only he had believed her. But her sources were suspect. Nonexistent. In this day and age, evidence can be manufactured so easily …
Copies of Newsweek and Sports Illustrated shot into the crimson air. A cascade of loose cigarettes and a rain of Jolly Rancher hard candies pelted him.
I was wrong, he thought.
And he was wrong again.
The ghost was not looking for him.
The ghost had found him.
Eyes bulging, huge, toothy maw opening, it attacked.
* * *
The showdown at the Mercado was under way: police, SWAT, and National Guard troops had massed in front of Rowan’s stronghold. All weapons were trained on the building, but so far, the order to open fire had not come. Open fire at what? There was nothing to aim at except the building itself. Large glowing fissures had erupted from underneath the structure, as if something so large that it could not be contained was cracking it open like an egg. The soldiers and police officers were braced for battle, but the standoff was working on their nerves. The mayhem in the streets surrounding the building was monumental; it seemed like a waste of time to stand on alert when demons or ghosts or whatever they were wreaked havoc all over Manhattan. Scores of targets presented themselves most tantalizingly, but eyes and gun barrels remained focused on the Mercado, where the ultimate threat was housed.
Homeland Security Agents Hawkins and Rorke strode toward the building, confidently waving to the troops.
“Don’t worry,” Agent Hawkins assured those within hearing range of his mic. “Everything is going to be okay.” He spoke into his headset. “Bring it out.”
A big military truck rumbled down the rows of personnel. A giant weapon was affixed to it. It was a proton cannon that had been produced after reverse-engineering the objects confiscated from the so-called sad, lonely Ghostbusters. The cannon was aimed up at the building and Hawkins, for one, couldn’t wait to see it in action.
A police officer ran up to the two agents and gestured to the cannon.
“What is that thing?” he demanded. “Do you guys know what you’re doing?”
Another cop said, “You’ve tested this thing, right?”
Rorke was impatient to get under way. “Stand back, friend,” he said to the second cop. “We’ve got a city to save.”
When Agent Hawkins gave the order to fire, a beam shot out of the cannon and hit the building. The cracks from underneath the building got larger. The Mercado shone brighter. The proton charge was definitely making things worse.
“Huh,” Hawkins said, surprised.
* * *
Rowan’s borrowed body glowed a beautiful green as he directed it to step out onto the top ledge of the Mercado. Wind from the brewing storm buffeted its face as he scanned the broad street in both directions. The turnout of adversaries pitted against him was impressive, too many to count, and why bother. Puny mortals couldn’t hope to defeat him now; it was too late and too little. The masses of the once dead storming into this world awaited his command, awaited their chance for payback—some of which was a long time coming, centuries, in fact. Every single living person gazing up at him now in awe was dead as well, but didn’t know it. And if he had anything to say about it, they would all die horribly.
And … guess what? He had everything to say about it!
He spread wide his body’s arms and gazed down pleasantly at the soldiers and cops.
“Dear brave men of the protection services industry,” he began, “thank you for coming to my party. But instead of fighting … I would like to see you dance.”
From out of the supercharged ether, through the boiling columns of light, the Bee Gees’s “You Should be Dancing” began to play because Rowan willed it so. The music was so loud that as it traveled away from the paranormal nexus, the circular shock wave broke every window on every street, one after another. Even at a great distance he could see the cops and soldiers below him shifting anxiously, clearly confused and disheartened by this unforeseen development. Glee thrummed through the borrowed body’s bones, even as it responded to the plucky disco beat. The broad shoulders twitched, the torso twisted almost imperceptibly this way and that, and the feet began to rhythmically backpedal.
It was show time.
He pointed the puppet’s hands down at the assembled humans and a barrage of psychic energy shot out of the centers of the palms. The blurs of supernatural power were like guided missiles, seeking out and blasting into the chests of the agents, cops, and soldiers. At the instant of invasion, their bodies jolted, their weapons fell from their hands, and they stood frozen. But their minds remained free to puzzle out what had happened and what might happen next. Fear radiated upward in delicious waves from the street below.
With a flourish, Rowan struck a familiar disco pose: one arm extended in the air, finger pointed, hip thrust out, chin pulled in. Billboards filled with his image. From below there was a rustling of movement, like wind stirring piles of autumn leaves, as every person for as far as he could see in all directions assumed the same pose. The instruments of social control were in his command, to do with as he pleased. And it pleased him to make a mockery of their power, of their deluded sense of personal freedom and ambition. He could have made them kneel before him and bang their foreheads against the ground, but where was the fun in that?
Taking his cue from the music, he fell into the dance routine John Travolta had performed in Saturday Night Fever. For a physicist and nerd, Rowan had always been quite light on his feet. And he could tear up some of that Bee Gees. Unable to stop themselves, the massed troops followed his dynamic lead, dancing the same steps, spinning the same arm movements, and making the same facial expressions in unison. Fifty thousand or more mirrored his every gesture. Their eyes were the only things he allowed them to retain power over. And that was so they could gaze up at him and cower as their limbs and bodies jerked uncontrollably, knowing that the humiliation would stop only when he made it stop, imagining with dread what might come next.
A terrible laugh bubbled up from his throat. A laugh perfectly mimicked by the helpless thousands below. A laugh that echoed like a roar.
Oh yes, it was good to be a god.
23
Out of the garage and into the street, siren blaring, ECTO-1 blasted at top speed: a red and white hearse, apparently late to a funeral—perhaps even theirs. The early afternoon sky had turned dark as midnight and jagged crackles of lightning arced through it. Holtzmann lead-footed the gas and the heavy car roared away from Chinatown. As the g-force of acceleration squashed Abby into the backseat, she couldn’t help but notice the extra room beside her. For what had to be the two dozenth time, she wondered where the heck Erin was. Surely she was seeing all this on TV if not in person. How could she not get in contact with them?
Unless she can’t. Abby pictured the vengeful ghost of Mrs. Barnard as Erin had described her. Erin had told her that Mrs. B had “gone away,” but what if Rowan had let her back in? What if she was hunting down Erin at this very moment? Or had already done something horrible to her? And it didn’t have to be Mrs. Barnard; there seemed to be a bottomless supply of evil ghosts available.
Fear for her friend’s safety overcame her disappointment and hurt at once again being abandoned. This was a rescue mission, that was for damn sure, and the list of those to be rescued had doubled from one to two.
Ay, chihuahua, she thought but did not say, as Holtzmann rounded a corner on two wheels and the long, straight street a
head came into view, a canyon of gray buildings pressed side to side, and way down near the end, an incredible brilliance, like ten thousand klieg lights were blazing up into the sky. It was so bright it hurt her eyes to look. They drew closer and she could see it had to be the Mercado, a throbbing, glowing tower of supernatural light. Abby knew the shimmering was an artifact of supercharged particles, and the sheer scope of what they were dealing with rattled her a little. Unnatural clouds roiled above the building, blood red tinged with black, a sky soiled by the upwelling of pure evil. Hell had come to Manhattan.
From the looks of the Mercado, the number of people in need of rescue had jumped from two to a minimum of eight and a half million. And that was just for starters.
As long as the gates stayed open, there would be no end to the invasion. The meltdown they were facing would quickly go global.
As they drew closer to the nexus, the street became more and more crowded with fleeing pedestrians, and even though the siren was howling, they had to slow down. Holtzmann tried to swerve around the swarms of panicked people flowing in a river against them, but made better progress driving straight ahead. Patty grabbed the bullhorn microphone and hit the on switch. Her voice bellowed out of the speaker atop the roof, “Respect the siren, please.”
No one did. The pedestrians continued to pile up in front of the hearse, waves of them, bodies bumping off the hood and fenders, impeding their way. Patty got back on the loudspeaker.
“Hey! We’re trying to save your asses, so get out of the way!”
The crowd thinned a little, but as it did, and as ECTO-1 crept forward, they came upon a cluster of overturned pretzel and hot dog carts blocking the street from curb to curb. Holtzmann stopped, and the three of them hopped out of the car to move the nearest ones out of the way. As they took hold of a hot dog cart and started to lift it upright, a fat green ghost with an enormous mouth and a rotund stomach flew out from under the lid of the warming compartment.
“Whoa!” Abby cried, as they all jerked backward.
The ghost—Abby immediately nicknamed him “Slimer”—flew past them and dove into the driver’s seat of their idling hearse. Before they could do anything, it peeled off and drove off wildly away. Abby, Holtzmann, and Patty just stared as it sideswiped cars all along the street.
“Well, I guess we’re walking,” Abby deadpanned.
On foot, proton packs shouldered, the Ghostbusters set off up the street. Fleeing Manhattanites swept past without giving them a second look. They hadn’t gone far when they heard strains of odd music riding the hellish breeze. It sounded like an old-timey marching band, only twisted and scary. The tune lurched and the drums stumbled, and some of the instruments played crazy solos full of sour notes.
Up ahead, Abby saw a huge crowd of ghosts watching what had to be the Macy’s Parade. But it was the parade from the 1920s. There were huge parade balloons floating above the street, figures of weird, psycho-looking cats, frightening insects with stingers and teeth, and a Pinocchio with a nose like a gigantic russet potato. Abby noted that just like the current parade, there was that disturbing fat Santa and demented elf.
“People had a much higher tolerance for creepy back then,” Patty said.
“Still,” Abby said, “at least a parade is something happy. Keep them busy and in a good mood.”
As she spoke she had an uh-oh moment. The weird balloons all turned as one and appeared to stare right at them. Abby felt a twinge in her stomach as they all started floating down the street toward them.
“Uh … guys…” Holtzmann said.
The faces of the balloons had gone from creepy weird to chillingly murderous—and they were accelerating. It was clear from their inflated body language they meant the Ghostbusters no good.
“Pop some balloons! Now!” Abby said.
She fired her proton wand and an immense homicidal kitten exploded with a loud whap! Patty grazed the ear of the creepy elf, and the resulting pinhole leak caused it to fly wildly up, up, and away, a black dot lost in the red clouds above them. Haunted parade balloon versus proton pack was really no contest. The Ghostbusters worked methodically, and in a few minutes the street was strewn with strips of brightly colored rubber skin. Working together, the three of them popped a honking big one that was bearing down on them. When it went boom, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man balloon in its sailor suit floated forward from behind it. Before they could get out of the way, the immense white balloon toppled onto them, knocking them down. It pinned them flat to the street, then pressed its torso down like a gigantic pillow, trying to smother them. They were trapped within inches of each other, but unable to move. The squeaking of the balloon skin made it hard to hear.
“I can’t reach the trigger!” Abby cried.
Struggling to breathe, Holtzmann said, “This is always how I pictured my death…”
“Smothered by a Class Six possession with temporal displacement?” Abby said.
“Oh, it’s a Class Six? No, never mind.”
Then the sidewalk rocked with a tremendous bang and the crushing weight lifted. The haunted Stay Puft inflatable exploded in all directions.
Erin stepped through the shower of shredded ersatz marshmallow waving her proton wand around like a gunslinger.
“Proton guns are all well and good. But sometimes you just need a little help from the Swiss Army,” she said, holding up a Swiss Army knife with the blade extended.
“Oh, there you are,” Holtzmann said.
Erin grinned at Abby. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
Abby smiled a good-to-have-you-back smile, then said, “Okay, let’s go save this city and get our receptionist back.”
* * *
From his perch atop the Mercado, Rowan had a clear view of the street in both directions. He could see four ants moving against the tide of refugee ants. They were wearing familiar sand-colored uniforms with orange chest stripes and had angular packs on their backs.
His voice boomed down from the Art Deco heights. “Girls are always late. Finally, here they come. Let’s give them a proper New York welcome, shall we?”
* * *
“Girls are always late … late … late…” echoed between the rows of tall buildings.
Erin, Abby, Holtzmann, and Patty shared a look of disgust as they crossed a suddenly lifeless Times Square. On the other side of it, the Mercado loomed, glowing with an unearthly light as bloodred storm clouds roiled above it. Row upon row of police and soldiers stood frozen next to it. From a distance they looked like statues to Erin, with one hand all pointing up—to or at what? Or was it a salute? No way to tell, she decided. But that they apparently couldn’t move deeply concerned her.
She wasn’t alone in that. They advanced more cautiously, on full alert. With a bright flash, Kevin’s face appeared on the video screens around Times Square. His dazzling teeth were ten feet tall.
“Ah, there they are,” his voice said. “The Ghostbusters. All dressed up and nowhere to bust. I’ll tell you what. I can help you out. Oh, and nice not knowing you.”
Suddenly, all the buildings and modern electronic billboards started to melt and dissolve away, revealing the Ghost of Times Square Past—shabby, squalid, all glowing and otherworldly.
Erin took in the shimmering panorama of its entire history—stables, carriage houses, music halls, hotels, theaters, brothels, pawnshops, flophouses, and seedy bars. The ghostly denizens of the place across time were there, too, armed for close combat and itching for some bloodshed. There was a dude in a Revolutionary War hat with a cavalry sword, a mobster in a fedora and overcoat wielding a bloody ax, street criminals with knives and broken bottles, mumbling psychopaths with claw hammers; in other words, the full spectrum of homicidal bilgewater.
The scariest of the ghosts stopped harassing the somewhat less scary ghosts, and glared as if the Ghostbusters had invaded their sacred turf. Growling and shouting, they seemed to be working themselves up for a battle.
“I’ve never been good in
a fight,” Erin said.
“Well, you’d better get good at it,” Abby said. “Power up!”
Erin and the others switched on their proton packs just as the ghost army rushed them, a mob of incorporeal monsters out for blood. Terrified but with nowhere to retreat, the Ghostbusters battled them with their proton streams and all the wonderful toys Holtzmann had recently invented. Erin used her beam to grab hold of a pimp ghost in a ridiculous wide-brimmed fuzzy hat and bell-bottoms, and threw him into the gang of deceased street punks. They kicked up like bowling pins, flying backward and into the ghosts behind them. Abby and the others picked up on what she was doing immediately, and started using ghosts caught in their beams like clubs, bashing the trailing evil spirits left and right. It was a messy but effective technique; using it, they managed to keep the waves of ghosts from overrunning them.
Patty used her “ghost chipper,” a device that sucked in a ghost, chopped it up into ectoplasmic bits, and shot the debris out the back like a burst of exhaust. She also had a proton sidearm that Holtzmann had made for her. Abby put on her proton glove, which she used to punch holes in the “bodies” of her oncoming phantom attackers. Holtzmann had also created two kinds of grenades—“air filters” and “test tubes”—plus a proton grenade launcher for Erin and a “drop-down” gun for herself.
As Erin sent a drug pusher ghost cartwheeling off toward Rockefeller Center, Abby used her proton wand to smash the face of a flasher pervert ghost that had broken through their guard and was almost on top of her. The beam made ectoplasm burst in a plume from its head and it rained down on them in big, gooey spatters. Explosions rocked the square. Erin cut her gaze and saw Patty throw a second grenade behind the line of approaching ghosts. When it went off with a resounding crack, it sent the spirits flying, arms and legs flailing, ectoplasm exploding.
Holtzmann hit a trigger on her proton pack and two smaller weapons popped out. She caught both and, a skilled deadeye, started taking down ghosts with dual-hand ambidextrous precision.