Ghostbusters II

by Ed Naha

  The three Ghostbusters pulled out their hand-held monitoring devices and began to stroll through the studio area. Janosz was growing more and more nerv­ ous. Venkman sidled up to him.

  "You know," he said, "I never got to ask you: Where are you from, Johnny?"

  Janosz mind reeled. "Uh, the Upper West Side."

  Spengler glanced at his PKE meter. "This entire room is extremely hot, Peter."

  Janosz turned to Venkman. "What exactly are you looking for?"

  Venkman offered him a totally insincere, reassuring smile. "We'll know it when we find it. You just sit tight, Johnny. This won't take long."

  Stantz pulled out the shoebox-shaped Giga meter. It began to click in his hand. The needle began to quiver and quake, eventually sliding to the extreme right-hand side of the small screen. Stantz looked up. Inadvertently he had aimed the Giga meter directly at the Brobding­nagian-sized portrait of Vigo the louse. Venkman joined Stantz.

  He looked up at the painting of the fierce warrior. "This is the one that made ga-ga eyes at Dana."

  Venkman walked up to the portrait. He stared up into Vigo's dull eyes. "Hey, you!" he called. "Viggy! Look

  at me! Down here! I'm talking to you, stud! Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

  Stantz and Venkman watched the painting for any sign of movement.

  On the canvas Vigo's eyes remained motionless, focused lifelessly on something far off in the distance.

  Stantz sighed. Venkman's tactics weren't working. Venkman, however, refused to give up. He whipped out a small camera and began darting to and fro at the base of the painting, snapping away.

  "Beautiful, beautiful, Viggy. That's it. Work with me, baby. Just have fun with it."

  Venkman snapped away. After a full roll was used, he stopped his photography riff and turned to Stantz. "Okay, so he's playing it cool." Venkman shrugged. "Let's finish up and get the heck out of here."

  Stantz nodded. "I'll get one more reading."

  Venkman walked off, disgusted. Stantz, left alone in front of the towering painting, scanned the canvas one last time with his Giga meter. He started with the feet and worked his way up the legs to the torso, then aimed the meter at the neck. Finally Stantz found himself gazing at the face of Vigo.

  Vigo's eyes slowly flickered to life.

  Stantz felt his body stiffen.

  A fierce red light welled up Vigo's evil eyes.

  Stantz felt the power of Vigo enter his eyes and burn itself right down to the depths of his very soul.

  Stantz stood before the painting, transfixed. Deep down within him he knew what was happening to him. He knew he should turn away, but the conscious being known as Ray Stantz was gradually fading away, enslaved by a new evil being. Stantz's childlike eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. His open, optimistic face began to grow taut. His lips, capable of a smile at the most dire of

  occasions, slowly twisted themselves into a terrifying sneer.

  Stantz felt an arm on his shoulder.

  He blinked.

  His body regained fluidity.

  "Now that's one ugly dude," Winston said to Stantz.

  Stantz shook his head. "Huh? What?"

  Stantz made a concerted effort to figure out what had happened to him during the last minute or so. Everything was a blank.

  "You finished here?" Winston asked.

  "What? Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Sure," Stantz said, his legs still feeling wobbly.

  "Are you all right?" Winston queried. "You coming down with something?"

  Stantz managed a feeble smile for his good and loyal friend, Winston. "No, I'm fine. I just got light­headed for a second there. Let's go."

  Winston aimed Stantz toward the exit door. "Okay, buddy, but if you feel like calling it an early day, it's okay. I'll pick up the slack."

  Stantz nodded woozily. "I appreciate that, Winston. I really do."

  The Ghostbusters left the portrait of Vigo and the figure of Janosz Poha behind them.

  Janosz turned to the painting of Vigo and smiled.

  Soon, he realized, the Ghostbusters would stand in their way no more.

  19

  The Ghostbusters walked down the mu­seum's front steps toward EctolA.

  "There's definitely something going on in that stu­dio," Spengler surmised. "The PKE levels were max- plus, and the Giga meter was showing all red."

  Winston agreed. "I'd put my money on that Vigo character."

  Venkman smirked. "Yeah, that's a safe bet."

  Venkman and Spengler climbed into the rear of the EctolA. Venkman glanced at Stantz before shutting the rear hatch. "You and Spengler see what else you can dig up on Vigo and this little weasel, Poha. Those two were made for each other."

  Stantz said nothing. He nodded. He was getting a headache. A bad one.

  "Want me to drive?" Winston asked.

  "No," Stantz said. "I'm fine."

  Stantz slid in behind the wheel. Winston eased himself into the passenger's seat.

  A strange smile played across Ray Stantz's face as he turned the ignition key and slammed his right foot down on the gas, sending the Ecto-2 screeching away from the curb.

  Winston gave him a nervous look.

  Stantz sent the ambulance skidding and swerving around the streets of Manhattan as he ostensibly headed back for the firehouse. His eyes seemed vacant. His face was devoid of any awareness of the commotion he was causing all around him. Stantz swerved suddenly. He slammed his hand down on the car's horn.

  "Idiot!" he shrieked to a passing motorist.

  He cut off another car. "Move it, you jerk!" he roared.

  Winston glanced into the rear of the EctolA, where Venkman and Spengler were being tossed around like rag dolls, along with their ghostbusting equipment.

  Stantz began to pick up speed. Thirty-five. Forty. Fifty miles an hour. He roared through red lights, nar­ rowly avoiding pedestrians.

  Winston looked at Ray, beads of perspiration drib­ bling down his forehead. "Going a little fast, aren't we, Ray?"

  Stantz glared at Winston. His eyes were deranged, unfeeling. "Are you telling me how to drive?" he asked, sneering.

  "No, I just thought—"

  "Well, don't think!" Ray bellowed.

  He stood on the accelerator, fishtailing in front of a bus and two cars.

  In the back of EctolA, Venkman and Spengler con­ tinued to bounce around.

  "I want to talk to our mechanic about these shocks," Venkman muttered, his head slamming into the roof of the auto.

  Venkman and Spengler clung to the safety straps above their heads, twirling like aerial stars in a circus.

  In the front seat, Winston moved from panic level to out-and-out we're-gonna-die mode. He turned to Stantz. "Are you crazy, man? You're going to kill some­body!"

  Stantz emitted a devilish cackle. He turned to Win­ston and smiled demonically. "Wrong," he announced. "I'm going to kill everybody]"

  Stantz sent the EctolA sailing off the street and headed for a small public park.

  He carefully aimed the vehicle for a large tree.

  Winston's eyes widened in disbelief as he watched the tree loom larger and larger.

  At the last possible moment he reached over and coldcocked Stantz with a strong right hook. Stantz's body went limp. Winston reached over and, yanking the wheel, slid his left foot across the front of the seat and slammed on the brakes.

  The car lurched to a halt. It barely grazed the tree.

  The four Ghostbusters tumbled out of the car, dazed and shaken but unhurt.

  Stantz dropped to all fours, shaking his head. It was as if he were awakening from a deep, long sleep. He staggered to his feet, his senses still swimming. He glanced confusedly at Venkman.

  "What happened?"

  "You just picked up three penalty points on your driver's license," Venkman informed him.

  Stantz gaped at the EctolA and the tree. Within seconds Winston was at his side. "Are you all right?"

  Stantz nodded, the first flic
kerings of understanding playing across his face. "Yeah, I guess so. It was the strangest thing. I knew what I was doing but I couldn't stop. This really terrible feeling came over me and—I

  don't know—I just felt like driving into that tree and ending it all. Whew! Sorry, boys."

  Venkman turned to Spengler. "Watch him, Egon," he whispered. "Don't even let him shave."

  Winston inspected the damage to the car. "No big deal," he said with a sigh. "Just another fender bender in the Big Apple."

  Venkman rolled his eyes. Yeah. Right.

  20

  Venkman and Winston walked into the firehouse, bone-tired after spending most of the morn­ing haggling with an auto mechanic about getting the repairs done on EctolA as quickly and as cheaply as possible. The mechanic wasn't too responsive until Venkman threatened to summon up the spirit of the guy's long-dead mother-in-law. Within ninety minutes the Ecto 1A looked fine. The mechanic even threw in a tune-up for free.

  In the firehouse lab area, Stantz and Spengler were hard at work. Stantz took a small sample of the psycho- reactive slime out of a small container. He had painted a smiley face on the lid to keep the ooze calm.

  "What's up?" Winston asked.

  "We now know the negative potential of this stuff," Stantz announced. "We've isolated this specimen and we're running tests on it to see if we can get an equally strong positive reaction."

  Venkman was intrigued. "What kind of tests?"

  Stantz shuffled about before the container, embar rassed. "Well, we sing to it. We talk to it. We say supportive, nurturing things..."

  "You're not sleeping with this stuff, are you?" Venk­ man asked in mock horror.

  Spengler coughed, reacting as if he might be. Venk­ man and Winston watched intently as Stantz spooned some of the psycho-reactive slime into an old toaster.

  "We've mostly been going with the music angle," he said.

  "We've identified several songs that seem to have a calming or a mediating effect on the slime," Spengler added.

  "We tried all the sappy stuff," Stantz continued. " 'Kumbaya,' 'Everything Is Beautiful,' and 'It's a Small World' all scored high."

  Spengler offered a thin smile. "But the song that really goosed its molecules is the 1967 Jackie Wilson hit, 'Higher and Higher.' "

  Venkman didn't believe it.

  "Watch this." Stantz grinned. He walked over to a boom box and flicked on a tape. The sweet, silky voice of the late, great Jackie Wilson blasted through the room.

  The slime-encased toaster began to shake and spin. Winston's jaw dropped open as the toaster actually started to swivel back and forth—in time with the pulsating music. Venkman gaped in astonishment at the bopping toaster as it actually shot two pieces of dark­ened bread into the air and, swerving on the tabletop, caught them back in its slots without missing a beat.

  "I don't care what you say," Venkman said, beaming. "We're going to bottle this stuff and sell it. We'll make a fortune."

  Winston was a tad more skeptical. "Right, and the

  first time someone gets mad, their toaster will eat their hand."

  Venkman wasn't daunted. "Okay. Okay. So we'll put a warning on the label."

  Stantz switched off the Jackie Wilson tape and the toaster sputtered to a complete standstill.

  "We're investigating the practical applications," Spengler said. "But stocking stuffers isn't one of them. We think it could be a useful tool against certain types of spiritual manifestations."

  Venkman didn't get it.

  "We have a prototype designed for a pressure- forced, neutronically metered, fully portable delivery system," Stantz announced.

  Venkman still didn't get it.

  Stantz sighed. "Basically it's a slime-blower."

  He held up a bazookalike tube attached to a set of compressed air tanks.

  Venkman wasn't overly awed. "Yeah, well keep up the good work. See if you can keep it under a hundred and fifty pounds."

  Venkman walked over to the toaster and stuck his fingers in one of the slots.

  Venkman sneered at the slime within. "Go ahead, I dare you."

  Venkman suddenly screamed, as if the toaster were gnawing the flesh off his fingers. He couldn't remove his hand from the goop-empowered mechanism. The other three Ghostbusters leapt forward to his aid.

  Venkman faced them with a smile. "Just kidding," he said, easily removing his hand from the toaster.

  With that he left the room, leaving the other three Ghostbusters relieved, but more than slightly p.o.'d, behind him.

  After making a quick stop at Dana's deserted apart-

  ment, Venkman made his way downtown to his loft. He walked up to the front door, tentatively holding a small bouquet of flowers, as well as one of Dana's small suitcases.

  He produced his keys, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

  "Honeeeeey," he called. "I'm home!"

  He eased the door shut behind him. He gazed in terror at the sight before him. Never in all his years as a Ghostbuster had he witnessed such an appalling sight.

  "I knew it!" he muttered. "She cleaned!"

  The loft was spotless.

  The withering leftovers had been removed.

  The old newspapers and magazines had been ban­ ished.

  Books were now neatly stacked on shelves.

  The thirteen layers of dust in the kitchen had been washed away.

  The hairballs—and Venkman didn't even have pets —had been vacuumed from the furniture.

  Venkman heard the shower running in the bath­ room. Placing the suitcase and the flowers down, he slowly tiptoed to the bathroom. The door was half open. He peeked inside. He could barely make out the form of Dana, clad only in layers of soap, behind the shower curtain.

  Sighing, he eased the door closed and moved to the bedroom, where little Oscar lay asleep. Dana had sur­ rounded the tyke with large pillows to prevent him from taking an impromptu swan dive off the bed.

  Venkman smiled.

  Maybe this was what he needed in his life. He slammed the flat of his hand into his forehead. Naaah. This kind of life was for normal people, not Ghostbust­ing kind of guys.

  He spun around and collided with Dana as she exited the bathroom wrapped only in a towel. She quickly darted back inside.

  Venkman made a concerted effort not to drool. He had just gotten his shirt cleaned.

  Dana reemerged from the bathroom wearing a long terry-cloth robe. Venkman leered at her. "Now, don't tell me you didn't do that on purpose. You're trying to torture me, aren't you?"

  Dana regarded him impassively.

  "Are you all squeaky clean now?" Venkman asked.

  Dana shot him a withering smile. "Yes, I'm very clean. Did they find anything in my apartment?"

  Before Venkman could answer, Dana marched past him and entered the bedroom, closing the door in his face.

  "Nothing," Venkman shouted through the door. "They stayed there all night, went through your per­ sonal stuff, made a bunch of long-distance calls, and cleaned out your refrigerator. That's about it."

  Dana opened the door, still wearing the heavy robe. "So what do I do now?"

  Venkman grinned. "You get dressed and we go out. I've got a baby-sitter and everything. Trust me, you need it."

  Dana was tempted. "You don't have to entertain me, you know."

  "I know," Venkman said, trotting into the living room and returning with her suitcase. "I brought some of your clothes."

  Dana smiled, took the small suitcase, and eased the bedroom door shut. "Wear something intriguing," Venk­ man said to the closed door.

  He walked down a small corridor and opened his

  closet, looking for his good suit. "Did you happen to see some shirts on the floor in here?" he called.

  "I put them in your hamper," Dana said from the bedroom. "I thought they were dirty."

  Venkman shook his head mournfully. "Next time ask me first, okay? I have more than two grades of laundry. There are lots of subtle levels between clean and d
irty."

  He walked into the misty bathroom and attacked the hamper, yanking out pieces of clothing. Shirts. Slacks. Socks. "Hmm," he muttered, "these aren't so bad yet. You just hang them up for a while and they're fine."

  He smelled the armpit of one shirt, frowned, and, reaching into the medicine cabinet, sprayed it for a full minute with deodorant. He sniffed it a second time. Better. Definitely better.

  Pouring a healthy splash of after-shave into each sock, Venkman smiled.

  He was all set for a night on the town.

  21

  Janine sat in the reception area of the Ghostbusters' firehouse, working late. Above her, she heard noises coming from the lab area that she knew should have been deserted.

  She wasn't alarmed. She realized it would be Louis. Poor Louis, she thought with a sigh. The closest he would ever come to a brainstorm was a slight drizzle. Still, there was something about him that appealed to her.

  He meant well. Janine supposed what appealed to her about Louis was that he exuded the same type of personality as the pets she'd chosen as a child. While all the other kids picked pedigreed dogs, she'd always gone for the stray mutts. Dogs who were so goofy and out of whack that you didn't expect anything from them. If they gnawed the newspaper instead of carrying it into the house, who could blame them?

  She covered her computer and made her way up toward the lab, a warm smile on her elfin face.

  Inside the lab, Louis was dressed in a Ghostbusters jumpsuit. It fit him like oversize feety pajamas. He had a proton pack strapped onto his back, but the straps were so loose that the pack banged into his rear end when­ ever he moved.

  "Okay, Stinky," he muttered. "This is it. Showdown time. You and me, pal. You think you're smarter than I am? We'll see about that!"

  He faced the ceiling and squeaked. "Oh, hello, Pizza Man! Oh, two larges! I ordered only one. Pepperoni and pineapple, my absolute favorite. I guess I'll have to eat these both by myself."

  The green ghost Slimer poked his head down through the ceiling and scanned the room for the grub.

  "Okay, let's boogie," Louis whispered.

  Louis whirled around and fired a proton stream at Slimer just as Janine entered the room. Slimer retreated easily. Janine gulped and ducked as a ragged bolt of energy streaked across the lab and seared the wall behind her.