“What do you mean choose?” Stantz cried. “We don’t understand.”
“CHOOSE!!” Gozer bellowed again.
Spengler placed a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I think he’s saying that since we’re about to be sacrificed anyway, we get to choose the form we want him to take.”
Stantz was intrigued. Sort of like a last request “You mean if I stand here and concentrate on the image of Roberto Clemente, Gozer will appear as Roberto Clemente and wipe us out?”
“That appears to be the case.”
“Wait, wait,” Venkman said quickly. “Don’t think of anything. Clear your minds. Blank ’em out. We get only one crack at this.”
They looked at one another, nodded, and tried to stand a still as possible, but the thunder rolled again.
My mind is blank, Venkman thought. I may wet my pants, but I’m not going to think of anything.
(. . . . .)
(. . . . .)
(. . . . .)
(. . . . X)
“THE CHOICE IS MADE. THE TRAVELER HAS COME!”
“We didn’t choose anything,” Venkman cried, but the swirling storm was already disappearing. “I didn’t think of an image.” He grabbed Spengler by the arm. “Did you?”
“No! Winston?”
“Man, my mind is a total void. Ray?”
Stantz was standing silently, his mouth open, shaking his head in terror.
“Ray!”
“I couldn’t help it! It just popped in there!”
“What?” Venkman screamed, grabbing him by the collar. “What popped in there?”
Stantz pointed off toward the south, the color draining out of his face. “Look!”
They turned and strained to see what might be coming from that direction, their minds now free to supply all manner of doom, but at first there was nothing but a deep, hollow, thudding sound, like a man walking on a giant base drum. Suddenly, beyond Columbus Circle, they caught a glimpse of white moving between the buildings.
Venkman’s mouth was dry. His hands shook and he wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to. Even if he hadn’t been on top of a building, they were dealing with a god, a god who had conjured up the ultimate horror—and conjured it up out of Ray Stantz’s mind. “What is it, Ray? What did you think of?”
Stantz was leaning toward the edge, babbling incoherently as the white shape loomed closer, still tenuously out of reach behind the intervening buildings.
“What is it?” Zeddemore screamed.
“Ray, talk to me!”
“It can’t be, it can’t be!” Stantz repeated over and over again as the thing emerged from Broadway and thundered slowly across Columbus Circle, snapping light poles and trees. Venkman strained to make it out. It appeared to be wearing something—a hat and a sailor suit?
“Ray, what is it? Ray!”
Stantz’s head dropped forward, like a poleaxed steer’s, and he sighed. He looked up and shrugged. “It is,” he said. “It’s the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.”
The marshmallow monster, a hundred feet tall and grinning insanely like its namesake, trudged slowly up the edge of the park, passing the Tavern-on-the-Green and heading unerringly for them. “I tried to think of the most harmless thing . . . something that could never destroy us . . . something I loved from my childhood.”
“AND YOU CAME UP WITH THAT?” Venkman screamed.
“The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. He was on all the packages we used to buy as a kid. We used to roast Stay-Puft marshmallows at Camp Waconda.”
“Great! The marshmallows are about to get their revenge. Still . . .” Venkman considered, his sense of proportion returning, “we aren’t down yet.” He fingered his induction gun. “We may get to roast a few tonight.”
“That’s a big marshmallow,” Zeddemore said skeptically as the creature lumbered past the Dakota, leaving huge gooey footprints. “I wonder how they’re taking this down on the street.”
Walter Peck was not taking it well at all. Having just seen his car go under the foot of a giant marshmallow, he was having a hard time convincing himself that what he was seeing was a matter of nerve gas. I don’t know how you did this, Peter Venkman, but I’ll get you if it takes a hundred years.
He ducked out of the screaming, running crowd and fought his way to a policeman, who seemed to be in the process of abandoning his squad car before the approaching monster. Peck seized him by an arm. “Are the Ghostbusters up there?”
“Yeah!”
“I want you to go up on the roof and arrest them. This time they’ve gone too far.”
The cop looked at Peck sharply, then handed him his nightstick. “You arrest them, jerkbag. I’m getting out of here.”
“No, you can’t . . . I—” Peck began, but the man was gone. Peck turned and faced the oncoming marshmallow. He shook the nightstick angrily.
“I’ll get you for this, Venkman!”
The four Ghostbusters had lined up on the parapet and were watching Stay-Puft draw abreast of their perch. The fear was gone, replaced by resignation. Zeddemore was certain that he would go to heaven. Spengler looked forward to merging with the cosmic energy continuum. Stantz was hoping that his conjuring of the marshmallow man wouldn’t hurt his chance for a lucky draw from the reincarnation pool. And Peter Venkman had fallen back on his sense of humor. When in doubt, cause as much confusion as you can and, with luck, there’ll always be a loophole. The marshmallow man looked up at them, smiling button eyes and neat little vest, a hundred feet of rampaging cuteness.
“Hey,” Venkman said. “He’s just a sailor in town for a good time. We get him laid and what’s the problem?”
Zeddemore peered down. “He’s big all right, but he’s still too short to reach us. How’s he gonna get up here?”
They got their answer almost immediately as Stay-Puft began to use a nearby church as a footstool. “That does it,” Venkman cried. “Nobody steps on a church in my town. Hit him!”
The streams converged on the thing’s chest and exploded with a rush of blue flames as the marshmallow caught fire. The Stay-Puft Man bellowed with pain and rage, flailing the air, sending burning marshmallow in all directions and continuing to climb toward them. He no longer looked cute.
“Good,” Zeddemore said. “Now we made him mad.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Stantz screamed. They scrambled back as a flaming sucrose fist slammed down the parapet, splattering them with burning goo. The puffy white hand slipped down, then caught and held as the monster began to lever itself up.
“Regroup.”
“We’re going to be killed by a hundred-foot marshmallow,” Venkman said, watching the immense white face appear above the skyline. The flames had eaten away at it, but there was still plenty of it left. Enough to do them in and then some.
“On the count of three. One . . . two . . .”
“No,” Spengler cried. He pointed to the two terror-dogs waiting by the great temple doors. “Them. Shoot them!”
“No. You’ll kill Dana . . .”
“AND,” Spengler added, “cross the streams . . .”
“You said that crossing the streams would be bad!”
“Yeah,” Stantz said. “It’ll kill us.”
“Life is just a state of mind,” Spengler replied calmly.
“But it’s my favorite state.”
“Either way we’re history. Look.”
The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man was rising above the edge of the building, blotting out the sky. It reached for them with a burning, dripping fist. Venkman grinned.
“Egon, I like this plan! So be it. Now.”
The streams of charged particles ripped out, streaking toward the temple, blowing away the two surprised guardians. “Okay,” Spengler cried as he saw the shadow of Gozer fall across him, as he felt the breath of hot marshmallow on his neck. “Cross the streams.”
Venkman smiled wistfully. “See ya on the other side.”
The streams touched, tangled, and broke into a billion inter
secting fragments. Time stopped. The temple doors melted. The interdimensional gate closed. And Gozer, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, its link to its own time gone, was consumed in a roaring firestorm. As the air rushed out, Venkman felt himself thrown forward by a great tongue of heat, rolling, bouncing, passing out . . .
“Everybody okay?”
Who said that? Venkman wondered. I’m supposed to be dead. He looked down and saw that his legs were gone. No pain, and they don’t feel any different, he thought. Strange. His toes still wiggled. He looked up as a huge white figure came around the corner.
“Aaaaaah!”
The figure wiped a hand across its face, exposing a familiar pair of eyes. It was Stantz. “Hey, Peter. You okay?”
Venkman shrugged. “I guess so. My legs though . . .”
“What’s wrong with your legs? Besides the marshmallow, I mean.”
Marshmallow? He raised his knees up out of the white goop. Well, what do you know? “No, I guess I’m fine. What happened to Gozer?”
“He’s spread all over the West Side,” Stantz said, helping Venkman to his feet. “The sun is out. We won.”
Venkman stumbled out of the cubby and looked about. He had tumbled into a spaced formed by two collapsing stone slabs that had caught against each other and held. Either could have crushed him but they hadn’t. Well, the old man always said I was lucky. And then he saw the charred forms lying at the foot of the collapsed temple. Dana . . .
Stantz stepped up behind him, wiping toasted marshmallow off his clothing. He sniffed curiously. “Something smells like burnt dog . . .”
Venkman looked at him.
“Oh, Peter. Oh, I’m sorry, really . . .”
Venkman waved him off and sat down beside the roasted terror-dog. Zeddemore and Spengler were picking goop off each other but seemed otherwise unhurt. Well, we did it, Venkman thought. We won. And I feel terrible.
“Peter.”
“What?”
“Look.” Stantz was pointing at the terror-dog. Venkman looked closely and saw that a section of the carbonous coating on the beast’s flank was pulsing. He jumped back. Ray raised his induction rifle, but Venkman held up his hand.
“Wait a minute.”
The flank cracked and a section fell away. A hand poked out. “Help . . .” a voice called weakly. “Anyone . . .”
“Dana!” Venkman cried, tearing open the shell and pulling her out. Spengler and Stantz ran to break open the other dog and found Louis Tully inside. He looked around, blinking at the ruined high rise, the weary Ghostbusters, and the coating of marshmallow and exclaimed, “Jeez. Somebody must have spiked the egg salad.”
“Dana, are you all right?”
She looked at Peter Venkman and nodded her head. “Oh, sure. I’m getting used to this.”
Louis Tully hurried over. “I’m innocent. Honest, Dana. I never touched you. Not that I remember anyway.”
“Cool it, Louis,” she said quickly, turning back to Venkman. “What happened to me?”
“Nothing. We just got rid of that thing in your kitchen.”
“Really? Is it gone?”
Venkman nodded. “Along with most of your furniture and personal possessions. This one took some work.”
She tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. “Thank you. Next time I want to break a lease I’ll know who to call.” She laughed and hugged him. “Thank you!”
“Who are you guys?” Tully asked Spengler as they headed for the stairs.
“We’re the Ghostbusters.”
“Really? Who does your taxes?”
On the street Walter Peck had just finished digging himself out from under a lump of melted sucrose the size of a Volkswagen. He looked around in confusion, trying to get his bearings. The street was a shambles; wrecked and flattened patrol cars littering the torn-up pavement, huge chunks of stone embedded in it like raisins in a cake. A National Guard truck lay on its side. Sirens were going off again. And there, in the center of the devastation, sitting untouched before the building, was the Ghostbusters’ Ectomobile. Peck stared at it. The red-haired receptionist was standing by the fender. She waved gaily at him. Peck stumbled off, mumbling to himself.
From the safety of a tree in the park, Harlan Bojay and Robert Learned Coombs watched Walter Peck go by.
“He appears to be heading for the lake,” Coombs declared.
“Probably going to wash himself off. That definitely looked like marshmallow to me.”
Coombs nodded. “Sure a lot of it though.”
“You would have to wonder why anyone would dump a marshmallow of that size right in the middle of the street.”
Robert Learned Coombs scratched his chin shrewdly. “I wonder if there might not be a very large cup of hot chocolate somewhere in the area.”
Harlan Bojay looked at his friend in admiration. “Robert, that’s very good. That would definitely explain it.”
As the Ghostbusters emerged on the sidewalk, Janine ran into Spengler’s arms. “Oh, Egon. I was so worried about you.”
“Me too. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Oh, Egon, you have such nice clavicles.”
Stantz and Zeddemore stowed their accelerators in the back. “Now, aren’t you glad you signed on with us, Winston?”
“I don’t know. We aren’t going to do gods often, are we?”
Peter Venkman and Dana Barrett stepped out into the sunshine, their arms about each other. “A lot of steps,” she said.
“Hey, you didn’t have to walk up.” He looked at her, definitely liking what he saw. “This is going to cost you, you know. Our fees are ridiculously high.”
“Talk to my accountant. Louis?”
Tully rubbed his hands together. “Great! I bet we could write off all the damage as an act of God.”
“Speaking of gods,” Dana said. “What’s going to happen to all those ghosts?”
“Well, with the Goze gone, I suppose they’ll settle down a bit.”
“And if they don’t?”
Peter Venkman grinned. “Call Ghostbusters, of course. Suppose we discuss it over dinner.”
She laughed and kissed him. “Okay, you win. I don’t guess I’ll be using my kitchen for a while anyway . . .”
“Not for about six months. That’s a lot of dinners.”
She kissed him again. “If you say so.”
Stantz leaned out of the driver’s seat. “Hey, you two lovebirds. Let’s get out of here before the crowd comes back.”
Peter Venkman looked at the ruined street full of potholes and marshmallow, overturned cars and confused people. At Stantz, Spengler, Zeddemore, Tully, Janine, and the Ectomobile. And at Dana Barrett. She reached out and picked a chunk of marshmallow off his cheek, popped it into her mouth, and grinned.
“Well, hotshot? What do you think?”
Peter Venkman threw his arms in the air. “I love this town!”
Table of Contents
CONTENTS
GHOSTBUSTERS: THE SUPERNATURAL SPECTACULAR
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Ghostbusters Page 15