Ghordon sat on his throne, pondering the objections raised by the minor demon standing before him. "I say when you will go to the other world, Wharon, not you." It annoyed him to see the little fiend fidget; Wharon, though one of his more versatile minions, was still a major annoyance. Annoyance was not what he needed right now.
"Why me?" the subordinate demon wheedled. "Why now?"
"Because you are my chosen emissary. The planetary alignment is nearly right and soon I will be crossing over myself," the archdemon answered with rare patience. His good humor could be entirely attributed to his anticipation of being able to finally take his proper place in the world of men, as their lord and god. They would finally have to bow down to him - those he did not choose to destroy.
"Can't I just come with you then?" Wharon continued pleading. "I can take over a human form then, like their leader, and then they'll follow me in following you."
It wasn't a bad idea, it was just one Ghordon had already come up with and discarded. "I am giving you the honor of dismantling the threat to me before I arrive," he told the demon, and his tone made it quite clear this honor was not one that could be refused. "You will take over one of those forever damned Ghostbusters and put them out of commission. Destroy their equipment, so that I can reach the world of men without any hindrance to the glory of my coming."
"But do I have to go now?" Wharon whined. Unable to stay in the world of men without possessing one of their physical bodies, it found the prospect of such a long exile in mortal guise unbearably tedious. "Can't I just stay here until right before you cross over?"
"No!" Ghordon roared, his fury building. If he didn't need this one to do the job he'd much prefer to leave the miserable pest behind with the rest of the failed nether spirits when he took over the world of the living. The transfer would drain him, and he needed to rebuild his energies to have enough power to cross over properly in 722 deligons at the peak of compatibility between the two dimensions. Admitting such weakness to an underling, however, was not something he considered advisable. Anger lent fire to his breath and the walls trembled with the force of his command. "You will go when I wish it, and you will be ready to make those Ghostbusters ineffectual at the proper time."
The demon shrank back, eyestalks down in deference. "Yes, Master. I hear and obey."
"One last thing," the commanding figure said, his mood mercurially swung back to contemplation of future enjoyment, though still tinged with his characteristic sadism. "See that you do not accomplish your mission through anything as crude as simple killing. I want these humans alive when I reach their world. They will make fine playthings with which to celebrate my triumph."
Its initial satisfaction at getting an easy, although boring, assignment abruptly evaporated. "But, Master," it began, the whine in its voice barely short of open protest.
"GO!" Ghordon spent considerable power shoving the demon through the fabric of the universe....
Egon Spengler shifted his weight on his lab stool, his attention turned to the PKE meter he held in one hand. The calibration of that specific instrument had seemed off earlier in the afternoon, especially when compared to readings from the one Peter had been carrying. But, now that he had the meter opened and its innards exposed, he couldn't see the source of the problem. Maybe he could ask Ray to come and help; Stantz's engineering background might allow him to see the misalignment sooner than Egon could. For not the first time, he was grateful for the combination of skills among their partnership and the way the differences between them enhanced each others' range of abilities. With his own physics background, Ray's engineering skills and interest in the occult, Peter's psychology training, and Winston's practical experience, together they had become more than any of them had ever thought "The Ghostbusters" could have been.
A faint smile crossed his face as he thought of his friends, then he dismissed the irrelevant musings. For now, his main concern was getting the equipment working and that meant getting a second opinion. Reconnecting the power couplings, he tried turning the meter on once again and jumped when it started its normal beeping. Not fully constructed, it could not give him an exact reading, but it was functional enough to indicate there was psychokinetic activity in the room.
He spun around and found himself face to face - if the term could be applied to a creature that didn't have a face to speak of - with an insubstantial cloud. It had an outline of rapidly changing color but a central mass that could be seen through. Half-a-dozen eyes stared back at him, protruding on stalks from all over the "body." The PKE meter continued to sound and Egon opened his mouth to call for help, for a pack and trap, when the creature charged at him. Fire burned his soul, and his scream faded as the essence of himself was shoved into one corner of his brain.
The scream penetrated through the firehouse and Peter Venkman sat up straight on the couch for a split second before hitting the floor in a dead run, halfway up the circular staircase before he found his own voice. "EGON!"
The door to the lab was already open and Peter skidded to a halt just inside it as he saw Spengler sitting on the floor, one hand held in the other. Ray was kneeling beside the physicist, his own hands holding Egon's. "It doesn't look too serious, Egon," the younger man said in what was meant to be a reassuring tone. "I'll get the first aid kit, and-"
"That's not necessary," Egon said, taking his hand back from Stantz. "It will be fine."
"What happened here?" Peter asked, crossing the floor and crouching down beside the pair. His eyes made their own assessment as Ray answered.
"The PKE meter shorted out while Egon was working on it." Stantz gestured to the meter lying a short distance away from them on the floor, blackened with damage.
"That the one giving you all that trouble this afternoon?" Peter asked with his head cocked to one side.
"Yes." The answer was a little harsher than normal, but that was to be expected. Their equipment wasn't supposed to blow up on them.
"Maybe I should take a look at it?" Ray suggested eagerly, more cheerful now that he was sure Egon wasn't seriously hurt.
"That won't be necessary, Ray," Egon said again, reaching for the meter, his lean features written over with an expression of annoyance. "I think I'd like to take this thing on myself."
"It's not healthy to treat inanimate objects as if they had a mind of their own," Peter stated with a smile, hoping the comment would lighten Egon's mood.
"As you are well aware, Peter, we have run into many an inanimate object that had life of its own," Egon replied somewhat idly, peering over the frames of his glasses at the damaged components of the meter.
"Yeah, but usually those objects were possessed by some sort of spirit or had some sort of spell put on them," Ray interjected.
"I still would prefer to overcome this problem myself," Egon answered a bit sharply. Well, it was to be expected; the last thing Egon would want was to be defeated by a piece of equipment he had created.
"Okay, Egon," Ray told him with an understanding smile. "But if you need any help..."
"I will certainly let you know," Spengler told him.
"C'mon, Ray," Peter said, taking hold of the redhead's arm. "There's a classic film on Cinemax - Sheena. You know, the jungle princess one. You'll like it."
Ray stopped just outside the lab, the door shut behind them. "Peter, you think Egon's okay?"
Venkman grinned at Stantz's concern. "I'm sure he's okay, the way he's acting."
"Then just remember," Ray started sternly as he headed for the stairs, "Mystery Science Theater 3000 starts in thirty minutes."
"Ah, no you don't," Peter cried, chasing after the other man. Sheena wasn't on that often and he wasn't about to give up dibs on the set again.
Reeling against the pain that flooded over him, Egon's conscious awareness of himself and the world around him suddenly shifted from one reality to another as his soul was shoved quite unceremoniously into a far corner of his own mind. Before he could fully reorient himself to perceiving his own disembodied mentality as an internal physical projection, amorphous gray matter from the foggy surroundings surged up to form barriers like prison bars, trapping him in a cage. There was a sound reminiscent of a cackle all around him, and a malevolent, echoing voice that chanted, "Gotcha, gotcha....!"
Reeling from the transition, confused, feeling as if all his nerve endings were raw even though he no longer had direct feedback from nor control over his physical body, he felt a power ripping at him like claws. As the invading demon searched through Egon's memories, his personal accumulation of knowledge and experience, he felt his own identity being torn from his control as his innermost thoughts and memories were violated, ruthlessly examined, and cataloged for the use of the alien being now inhabiting his brain, Mind-raped, Egon collapsed under the onslaught, too weakened by the attack to fight back and unable to stop the subversion of all he knew.
With the nuisance Ghostbusters gone for the moment, Wharon settled itself into the body it had found first by shoving the persona called Egon back deep into the dark recesses of his own mind and imprisoning him with a small part of its attention. With the body's owner trapped and kept unable to exert any control over either the physical body or the vast storehouse of memories in the brain, it would have access to the knowledge Spengler had but wouldn't have to put up with any bothersome and possibly dangerous interference from the physicist himself. Somewhere in the accumulated knowledge and experience of its host it should be able to find the means to do its master's bidding.
After only a few minutes of sifting through Egon's mind, Wharon realized it had been fortunate in meeting this particular member of the ghostbusting team first. That had been pure chance, and from what it could understand about the various skills each of the team possessed it would have been able to find a way to succeed no matter which of them it had come upon and taken over. The more esoteric knowledge of this Egon persona was, however, going to prove a necessity if it was to shield its presence from the ghostbusters' tools of detection for the length of time it had to wait until its master's arrival. From the information it was pillaging from Spengler's unguarded memories it knew the PKE meters they used daily would detect its otherworldliness before it could hope to complete its mission. But there were mechanical ways to shield itself from discovery and this mind knew how to design and build such a thing.
The shield would have to be compact and portable, since it would not be able to drag around something bulky and would not always be in close proximity to the machinery in the group's headquarters. Disguising the shield as some piece of ghostbusting equipment came first to mind, but Spengler's experience told him Stantz would ask questions - albeit innocently, with enthusiasm and wide-eyed curiosity - about the device and Egon's unwillingness to be parted from it. Under close scrutiny by Stantz's sharp mind and engineering expertise, any explanation would collapse. Under strict orders to leave the Ghostbusters alive for its master's pleasure, it could not afford to court the messy complications discovery would entail.
Some further rumaging through Spengler's mind, cluttered with ideas and theories, gave it an answer: a small transmitter, suspended on a chain around the body's neck, that would throw out a simulated pattern of normal readings blocking out the Class Seven emanations which would otherwise identify it. Drawing deeper on Spengler's training and aptitude, the demon-in-a-man reached for the tools on the workbench to build the disguise.
Shortly thereafter a green drip of slime hit the table, and Wharon turned bespectacled eyes upward to find the free-floating manifestation called "Slimer" floating overhead.
"Wha' Egon doin'?" the ghost questioned in a garbled voice, moving slowly closer. Apparently the ghost had been taught enough, either by accident or design, to keep clear of the physicist's work.
Quick review of memories associated with the green nether entity assured him Slimer was essentially harmless and posed no direct threat to his mission. Even so, that tame specter was the biggest danger Wharon could foresee. Not only might the ghost be able to detect its presence through the screen it intended to throw up around itself, but Slimer was here now and might soon notice that the dominant persona inhabiting this body wasn't Egon Spengler. Something would have to be done about the threat, but it had to be something unobtrusive enough it did not bring immediate attention and exposure.
"Slimer-" It reached for one of the traps lying nearby on the table. "I have been working on a theory about the escape capability of Class Fives and their ability to last in a trap, and I need your help to test it."
"ME?" the little ghost squealed, his macabre face turned up in a toothy smile.
"Yes. I need you to go into the trap and stay in there very quietly. Very quietly." This was almost too easy.
The manifestation with a personality looked at the trap for a long moment, then at Wharon with wide eyes. "Not leave in like Peter?"
"No," Wharon reassured him gently, assuming a studious attitude quickly drawn from Spengler's memories. "Not like Peter." Also prominent in memories associated with Slimer's presence was Venkman's attitude about the green ghost. Leaving him in a trap indefinitely would be the kind of revenge Peter would enjoy taking for being slimed. But Slimer had willingly been the subject of Spengler's tests before, and perhaps trusted the physicist as much as he trusted Stantz. Tripping the door release of the trap, Wharon waved the ghost closer to the shard of pure white light with Spengler's long fingers. "C'mon, Slimer."
There was a certain delight in watching the misplaced trust the ghost showed; Slimer flew to just outside the beam of light, skidded to a mid-air stop, then saluted. "Yes, sir, Egon." Then he flew into the beam, and was sucked into the trap.
Wharon let the control go, the doors closed, control light flashing, and it laughed as it took the trap and slid it to the back of the high closet shelf in the lab. Heartened by such an immediate, though minor, success, it was almost looking forward to the next few days. If only the rest of the chore set it by its master could be as easy and enjoyable as this simple betrayal had been.
The solidity of the bars of his cell faded, wavering as if seen through a heat mirage, but it took several minutes before Egon noticed, and several more before he uncurled out of his near-fetal position on the floor. On hands and knees, he hesitantly moved to the hazy wall of bars as the barrier faded further into the surrounding fog. The scientific instinct had not left him despite the recent experience; if anything his need to test the change and determine the limitations of the demon that possessed his body was an absolute imperative. Kneeling, he reached a hand into the space where the obstruction had been, shadows of its form still lingering, and his fingers passed through the haze without incident.
Too shocked by the initial invasion to have spent much time theorizing about the mechanism of his current imprisonment, now he forced himself to ignore the pain and trauma still reverberating through him as a result of that first attack and coldly consider what had happened to him. His best initial hypothesis was simply that he was trapped in his own subconscious and the seeming body he wore now was only a projection of his ego, he had no recollection of being removed from his body and taken elsewhere to be kept. Locked away where he had no motor control at all, it would be hard to design any experiment that would verify his idea so it would have to serve in the interim until he had a better working theory to go on. However, at the moment it appeared he had a chance to escape, to regain control while the demon that had taken him over slept. Its attention, in the form of the bars, was not presently directed so strongly at keeping him separate from control over his own body and this was probably the best, if not the only chance he would have to warn the others.
Stepping carefully, scanning the soft gray floor and fog-shrouded middle distance that represented his own mind, he moved slowly out of the cell the demon had built for him. Somehow he had to reach his own central consciousness and regain control before the demon was aware of what he was planning. Not certain of the direction he should be going, he paused for a moment to consult the only guide he had, his instinct, and wondered how much time he had to figure out what he was doing before the demon became aware of his actions.
"I am always aware of what you are thinking, Dr. Spengler," came the chilling voice from just before him, and Egon found himself confronting the rainbow-hued creature, its eye stalks waving. "Any attempt you make to escape is pointless." A blast of color accompanied with shattering pain shoved Egon back into the cell, and the bars reformed around him, solid once more. "Do not try my patience again."
The agony of the reprimand's force had Egon doubled over, but he straightened with an effort, not wanting to lose the opportunity to gather some information. "Why are you doing this?" he asked the demon. It was a somewhat stupid question, he knew; after all, they had meddled in the affairs of a great many nether entities and if demons were to hold a grudge against anyone in parrticular, it would be the Ghostbusters. But the question might just get his unwelcome host talking and any facts he could gain about the demon might be useful.
"Because my master bade it," the demon told him, pulsing blue as it spoke.
"Who is your master?" Egon quizzed it, emboldened by its apparent willingness to talk.
"That is of no concern of yours," was the answer he got. "You are still here because you are useful, Dr. Spengler. I need your memories, your knowledge. But should you come to be more of a hindrance to me than a help, I can banish you from this body as surely as I have taken full control of it, and I will. Have no doubt of that."
Egon didn't, and he knew such banishment would be the effective equivalent of death for him. Instead of pushing that line of inquiry, he tried another tack. "What does your master want here?"
The demon's upper eyestalks twitched. For whatever reason, it seemed to be in a talkative mood. "What does everyone want? Freedom. My master wants the freedoms of this world. You and those other Ghostbusters are what stands between him and that freedom. With you eliminated, he will be able to come and go as he pleases."
It wasn't so different a wish from the desires expressed by so many other otherworld beings they had met, but it was still not a pleasant prospect. Demons wandering the streets of New York had nearly become commonplace but the rest of the world wasn't ready for it, and most demons wanted a bit more than simple freedom. Worshipers, sacrifices, and slaves to be tortured at will, usually, which was why the Ghostbusters' business had been doing well despite New York's growing familiarity with demonic visitors. "Eliminated?" he demanded. "How? Kill us all?"
"Don't be so dramatic," the demon told him. "That is a pleasure my master is reserving for himself. I simply have to clear a path for him." The nerve-wracking sound that followed reminded Egon of hysterical laughter, then he was alone again.
"Morning, Egon," Janine called as the tall blond passed her desk, sending her pulse about ten beats higher per minute. To her surprise there was no response from her employer. Spengler walked right past her desk without a word, heading for Ecto-1.
Annoyed, but figuring the physicist simply had something on his mind, Janine stood and watched as he walked down to the far end of Ecto-1 and opened the car's rear door. Hands on her hips, she stood for a moment, knowing it would dawn on the man in about a minute that he'd walked right past her and he would come back and apologize. Probably.
The probably turned into a definitely not and, after counting to 180 (that gave him three minutes), she walked down the length of the garage area purposefully making as much noise as possible with her high heels. That racket alone would wake the dead, much less catch even Egon's attention. When she reached the rear end of Ecto-1 she stopped, finding Egon in the open back doorway of the car, tool kit out and one of the PKE meters in his hand. "Is there a problem?" She let her voice indicate she didn't mean with the meter.
"Quite possibly." His answer told her he did mean the meter. "There has been a problem with several of the PKE meters, and it may require recalibration of the spectral detection and analysis circuitry."
"Oh." Egon knew more big words than most people had hairs on their head. Absently, her own hand reached up to her hair. "Anything I can do to help?"
"No, thank you." His voice was curt and abrupt, his attention focussed totally on the work before him. "This is something I have to do."
"Well, how about asking Ray for help?" Janine suggested snidely. It was a fine thing for Egon to cop an attitude like this. "I bet he could find the problem in just a minute or two." See how Egon liked being snubbed. Doubting his intellect was about the most insulting thing someone could do to Egon.
With a longsuffering sigh, Egon set the meter aside and looked up at her. "Janine, if you will remember, I designed and built the PKE meter and I know best how to troubleshoot them. Now, if you don't mind-"
Oh, she didn't mind, not in the least. With an audible sniff, Janine backed off and headed for her desk, her heels clattering like jackhammers. Just wait until he asked her for something. She'd show him what ignoring Janine Melnitz got in return!
The bust wasn't going well at all, Peter thought as he ran up the back stairs of the old rambling house turned bed-and-breakfast. The one simple Class Two they'd been expecting had turned into two Class Fives, who were dive-bombing them the way Slimer had when they'd first run into him at the Sedgewick. Slime covered Peter in a multitude of colors, and some of it was starting to soak through his uniform and the teeshirt he wore under it. A shower was definitely in order when he got home - a nice, hot, long shower.
They'd almost had one of the spuds, he and Egon, but the thing had twisted in the beams and broken away, only to laugh, spray them with more slime, and head through the wall it had backed them against. They'd split up after that, both of them determined to nail the spirits.
It was revenge time now, Venkman vowed, and he tightened his hands on his thrower. He'd have those two slimeballs trapped and in containment before the hour was over. See how they liked dealing with the likes of Samhaine and the rest of the fun crowd in containment. Nobody got away with sliming Peter Venkman like that.
The maniacal laughter was a dead giveaway, and Peter whirled to find one of the berserk ghosts hovering just behind him. Pink, this time, which meant this was either the other one or the same one manifesting with a different hue. Pink was one color not on the brown jumpsuit. Yet. The powerful, purring sound of the unlicensed nuclear accelerator strapped to his back was a comforting back-up to his assurance as he aimed the thrower and watched the bluish-gold beam lash out for the specter. "Hey, guys, I got one!"
Had one, he quickly amended as the beam from his thrower suddenly shimmered, flickered, and died out. The apparition cackled and dived for him, smearing pink slime over the melange of colors he already wore. What the hell? Peter wondered as he spit traces of the ectoplasm from his lips, staring at his thrower in perplexed anger.
"Peter!" Ray's anxious voice caught his attention and Venkman turned to see the younger man at the head of the stairs, his sand-tinted uniform looking as if it had been fingerpainted. His thrower was in one hand, a trap in the other. "Where is it?"
"Gone. It broke out of the beam when my pack died," Peter snarled.
"Died?" Ray questioned, holstering his own thrower and clipping the trap back to his belt. "What do you mean, died?"
"Quit in the middle of the action - like mine," Winston said from the off-shoot hallway, stalking into the middle of the confrontation.
"And mine," Egon said, appearing at the head of the stairs just behind Ray.
"Whose turn was it to recharge the packs?" Winston growled.
With a sick look on his face, Ray's hand slowly slid up.
"But I did recharge them!" Ray stated from the back seat of Ecto-1. "I did! I charged them yesterday afternoon before I put them back into Ecto."
Winston wasn't in the mood to hear denials or excuses. It was bad enough they had to call it a night and head back to headquarters leaving the goopers still running amok through the boarding house, bad enough all his hard work over the last three days getting Ecto ready for the Yankee Clipper car show was shot to hell. It was the last straw that Stantz wouldn't even admit to the error. Usually Ray was the first one to take the blame for anything so for him to deny the accusation was odd, but there was no other reasonable cause for what had happened and therefore Ray had to be wrong.
Usually Peter wasn't the type to rip into one of them either, especially Ray who took both criticism and praise more to heart than the others. But Venkman's barrage of pointed commentary had been non-stop, on the slime that covered them all and now the interior of Ecto (much to Winston's dismay), on the annoyance he felt over the throwers' breakdown, and over Stantz's unwillingness to admit his error.
"Goddamn it, Ray, just say you made a mistake and get it over with!" Zeddemore didn't habitually curse, especially taking the Lord's name in vain, but Ray's denial was getting on his nerves, too. If an admission of guilt would shut Peter up, it would be worth whatever loss of face Ray seemed to be trying to avoid.
Using the rear-view mirror he could see Stantz sink further back into the seat, curling into himself as much as the seat would allow, head bowed. This was not a good sign, Winston realized. Ray only did that when he was beaten down. That hadn't really been his intention, but after yelling at the youngest member of their group he doubted Ray would listen wholeheartedly to an apology from him.
Peter should be the one to start mending the situation, since he'd lobbed the first accusation, but Peter was ranting and raving about irresponsibility and denial and slime. Winston shifted his eyes from the rearview mirror to the man seated beside him. "Egon," he started, sotto voce. The blond didn't look up from the PKE meter he held in his hands. "Egon," Winston tried again, a little louder. "Aren't you going to do something?" It only seemed logical that Egon be the one to intercede; after all, he was the only one left.
"Why?" Spengler asked, never raising his eyes from the meter. "Peter has got a point."
That was the last thing Winston had expected to hear from Egon, the physicist normally avoided blaming anyone when a situation could not be improved or solved by determining who was at fault. Shaking his head, Winston resigned himself to having to wait until they reached the firehouse to deal with his partners.
Peter stalked up the spiral stairs, leaving ectoplasmic footprints all the way. Let Ray clean those up, too. After all, it was his fault the bust had gone - bust. Venkman smirked at his own humor. It was about the only thing he felt he could be amused by.
Stopping at the top of the stairs, Peter held on to the railing and took a deep breath. Today could not be called a good day. Bad, weird, abnormal - all of those might qualify, and a dozen more. Usually there was no reason to check the power level on the packs before they went in on a bust, but it was something he did occasionally do. Today he hadn't, and the result had been getting caught flatfooted when the equipment failed them. Usually the first call didn't escalate in class or number like that. Today their information had been totally wrong, and a relatively straightforward job had turned into a major debacle. They'd probably have to charge this bust out at half the normal fee because of their own errors. Even more peculiar, Ray didn't usually screw up and then refuse to admit a simple mistake. He could be counted on to take responsibility, even for things he wasn't responsible for. It wasn't even like it was that big of a deal in the long run, and they all knew it. It was unfortunate their aggravation at the sum of all the preceding minor annoyances had been vented against Ray.
"Gonna stand there all night, homeboy, or you gonna move it?" Winston's voice startled Peter and he turned to see the other man standing on the next-to-top step. Peter's gaze flashed down to Zeddemore's stockinged feet.
Winston mimicked the look. "They were so full of slime, I didn't want to track it up here." He surveyed Peter's sludge-covered boots. "Okay, it was an idea whose time hadn't come."
Peter shrugged. "There's gonna be so much of it to clean up." He stepped out of Winston's way and, still leaning against the railing, unlaced his boots, letting them fall in a glumpy pile on the floor. "I got dibs on the shower."
"In a minute, Pete," Winston said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let me ask you something."
Venkman was reasonably sure he knew what the question was going to be, but he nodded anyway. "Go ahead."
"Today. Pete, in all the time you've known Ray, has he ever screwed up that badly?" Winston leaned on the railing beside him.
Peter sighed. "Ray tends to get - well, sometimes he acts before he thinks things through."
"But he's good about doing things, unlike some people." Winston's grin offset the unspecified accusation. "He wouldn't forget to recharge the packs."
"And he wouldn't say he'd done it if he hadn't," Peter finished. "I know. I shouldn't have gotten on him like that."
"We all hit him a little hard," Winston confirmed.
"I'll talk to him," Peter promised, looking back down the stairs. "Where is he, anyway? Isn't he coming up?" When Ray was feeling down he tended to pull into himself, and the bunkroom was the usual place to find him.
"With Egon, last I saw," was the answer.
Egon. Peter had heard the physicist's comment about his tirade and it had been enough to shut him up. The damage had already been done, though; Ray had shut down amid the barrage of comments and the rest of the ride had been made in silence, Ecto-1's interior thick with tension. It had been an odd comment from Egon, one Peter wouldn't have expected given Egon's generally forgiving nature. Hopefully he had just been as out of it as the rest of them and now, with everyone home and calmed down, things would get back to normal.
"The shower's still mine," he called, heading toward the bathroom door. "And the spud better keep away from me while I'm in there!"
"Where is the little guy, anyway?" Winston asked as he headed for the bedroom.
"Haven't seen him all day," Peter said, pausing at the bathroom door. "I can't say that's the main thing on my mind now." Right now the main thing on his mind was de-sliming himself, and maybe then seeing what he could do to make up for his behavior toward Ray.
"Egon?" Ray sat in the opened back end of Ecto-1, staring at the drained packs racked in place. "Is it possible the packs could drain spontaneously after being fully charged?" He had charged the packs the day before, he distinctly remembered doing it, and the only way they could have been anything but full for the job that evening was if they had somehow drained on their own while stored overnight.
It was implausible, he knew that much himself. He'd helped build the proton packs and knew how they worked. The only thing that came to mind was some sort of unanticpated disintegration caused by constant use, some flaw in the design brought to the fore by constant wear and tear on the mechanisms and their shielding. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
Spengler straightened from his slouched position against the car's rear door, slimed boots in one hand. "There is a way to check." Discarding the boots to one side, Egon opened a small compartment in Ecto's back end and pulled out a Geiger counter. "If there has been any leakage, this should give us a higher reading than normal background." Flipping the counter on, he held it toward the packs and lowered it to eye-level for Ray.
Nothing. The readings were perfectly normal. Ray stared at the meter's needle, flinching when it went to zero suddenly, and then the meter was placed back in its compartment. Stantz turned his gaze to Spengler. "Egon?"
"No leakage," Spengler said dispassionately. "Which means the packs were not charged at all."
"But..." Ray stared first at Egon, then at the packs, then back to the physicist.
"You made a mistake, Ray." The voice was harsher this time, a tone Ray wasn't used to hearing. "Don't let it happen again."
The censure from Egon was like a slap in the face and the last of Ray's resolve crumbled at the words. "I won't," he answered in a small voice.
Culinary skills weren't one thing he advertised but Peter, clean, free of slime, and hungry, had managed to throw together a plausible version of a late dinner while first Winston and then Egon made use of the large-capacity hot water heater and showered. Tuna casserole was something Peter used to make when he was young and his mother had worked late; it was warm, filling, and nourishing. It was also apparently a success, as Winston and Egon took care of over two-thirds of the entrée.
It had required an admonition to them to keep them from polishing the rest of it off, too. He had dished a serving onto his plate, then yelled downstairs, "Dinner, Ray! Come'n get it!" But there had been no appearance of Stantz and Peter toyed with his food while waiting for the occultist to materialize.
He could see Winston eying the rest of the casserole and reached out to slap the darker hand as it reached for the serving spoon. "Leave it for Ray."
"Or Slimer," Egon said, peering up from his book.
"Where is the spud?" Winston wondered aloud again. "I expected him to be all over the kitchen the minute I smelled this cooking."
"Maybe he's with Ray," Peter speculated. "After all, Slimer's the only one who didn't get on Ray's case today."
That idea earned him a raised eyebrow from Egon. "Perhaps."
"I think I'll go down and see," Peter said, pushing his chair back and heading for the stairs.
"I'll go ahead and get dishes started," Winston offered, then continued at Peter's frown, "Yes, I'll leave the rest. I'll even stick it in the microwave for you guys. Just bring that boy up here and get him to eat something." He still felt pretty badly about the way he'd snapped at Ray on the ride home.
Smiling his thanks - washing dishes after making the casserole had never been his favorite chore - Peter headed down the stairs, calling out, "Hey, Ray, we're gonna let Slimer finish off the casserole if you aren't up here in about five seconds."
There was no answer. That in itself worried Peter more than he cared to admit. Reaching the first floor, he passed the desk Janine had deserted several hours earlier and looked around, not noticing anything out of place at first. "Ray?" Had he gone into the basement so he could look at those damned packs down at his workbench? Was that why he hadn't heard the call to dinner? "Ray!"
"Here, Peter." The voice didn't come from downstairs, but from Ecto. Venkman crossed the firehouse's first floor, finding the car's right-hand rear passenger door open and Ray sitting half inside. A bucket of water sat beside his feet and, as Peter watched, Stantz dunked a rag into the bucket, wrung it out, and turned back to the car's interior.
"What'cha doing?" Peter asked, brow furrowed as he watched Ray exert himself on one bit of the back seat.
"Just trying to clean the slime out of Ecto." Ray's voice was matter-of-fact, flat, and lifeless. "Winston's got a car show in a couple of days and it's my fault it's in here."
"Whoa, wait a minute," Peter reached for the rag as Ray started it back toward the bucket, snatching it out of his hand. "Cool down here. It was an accident, Ray. It happens."
"But it didn't - " Stantz's words were bitten off mid-sentence. "You don't even believe me, Peter."
That would be the first obstacle to deal with, Venkman could see. "Ray, I believe you believe you charged the packs."
"That's not the same thing," Ray told him, slumping on the bench seat.
"It doesn't matter now," Venkman told him. "You shouldn't be down here cleaning Ecto like this by yourself. This is a group effort if ever I saw one. C'mon." Peter looked over the slime-encrusted jumpsuit Ray still wore. "Let's get you out of those things, into a hot shower, and put some dinner into you."
"'m not hungry." Ray took the rag back from Peter and plunged it into the soapy water in the bucket.
"You mean you're turning down Mama Venkman's boy's famous tuna casserole?" Peter pulled the rag from Ray's hand again and dropped it into the pail, soapsuds leaping at the impact. "Ray," he said quietly when he got no answer from the younger man, and reached down to grasp one wrist. "C'mon. Shower, dinner, and then we get Winston and Egon down here to work on this. They helped mess it up, they can help clean it up too."
Pulling, he brought Stantz to his feet, but Ray's head was still bowed. "Ray, it's okay. Really. So we got a little slimed and we make a return performance tomorrow at Madelane's Bed'n'Brunch. It's no big deal." He reached out and ruffled the auburn hair, then grimaced at the slime still in it that now coated his hand. "But we gotta get this stuff off'a you!"
"You're not mad at me?" Ray asked in a small voice.
"Do I feed the people I'm mad at?" Peter retorted with a smile, holding his ectoplasm-coated hand away from his clean clothes.
"Winston and Egon are mad," the soft voice continued.
"Nah," Peter countered. "Annoyed at being slimed, yes. Tired, yes. Mad?" He gave a short burst of cackled laughter. "Mad scientist is about as far as Egon gets and Winston promised to save the rest of the food for you despite an apparently overwhelming desire to finish it off, so I know he's not harboring any lingering resentments."
Even then Ray didn't look convinced, so Peter threw concern for his wardrobe away and pulled Ray into a tight hug. "I'm sorry I yelled at you today," he said quietly, hoping that would get through to Ray as nothing else had. "I was just - "
"Slimed," Ray answered, his voice a little lighter than it had been a moment ago. He returned the hold for a minute, then pulled back, looking at Peter. "Like now."
"Great." But there was no malice in Peter's voice, and he looked down to see only faint ectoplasm stains on his jeans and 'Hard Rock Cafe' T-shirt. "Once Ecto is clean, I'll get the packs charged and you can run laundry. Starting with this."
Ray's mouth pulled into a small grin. "Already planning to."
"Then come on. What're you waiting for?" Peter pulled the younger man toward the stairs. "With our luck, Slimer's eaten the rest of dinner anyway."
The bars wavered again and Egon sat up straight, attentive to his artificallly constructed surroundings. This time he had been expecting it, because in the world outside his head it was night and his body was sleeping, the demon evidently quiescent and, like last night, less aware of Egon's presence. Early in the day the physicist had discovered, quite by accident, that if he let his concentration drift away, ignoring his apparently solid form so that he entered a light trance state, he shifted to a half-awake condition in which he could hear and see all that was happening around him in the 'outside world' as if he were present there normally. However, as soon as he exerted any concentration at all toward moving his physical body or trying to take control of what words left his mouth, his awareness reverted instantly to this gray prison where he was totally disconnected from any outside sensation. The demon allowed Egon to be a spectator to the actions his body took, nothing more, and it was perhaps even more cruel than keeping the physicist completely unaware of what happened around him would have been. With no other way to know what was going on, Egon had spent the entire time that his body was up and moving around in a semi-asleep daze, observing a horror film starring his best friends, with himself as the monster. That was the most horrifying part of it all: they didn't suspect the monster among them. All Egon could do was watch events play out around him and fume at the damage being done.
While his body slept, he had every reason to believe the demon was still monitoring him and would stop any attempt he made at escape. But he had to try, to take the chance even at the risk of his soul being thrown out of his own body. Besides, he wasn't sure a demon like the one that possessed him had the power to do such a thing. What he wouldn't give for the ability to take a few PKE readings off his own unshieded body right now. The demon had invaded him before he had been able to get a true reading on it; the half-constructed meter he'd been holding at the time had only told him of the demon's presence, and that too late to do him any good at all.
But even if he was in danger of forceful eviction from his body, the risk was worth it. During the preceding fourteen hours he had been witness to the demon's deliberate draining of the proton packs and the subsequent aftermath. Testing its options for sabotage prior to its master's coming, obviously, and the team would be caught completely unaware and wiped out unless Egon could somehow get a warning to them of not only the approaching evil but of the hazard in their midst. He had been delighted at the protest Ray had lodged, refusing to take the blame for something he hadn't done. That might just get attention paid to the demon's actions, something had to have caused the packs' failure and if Ray wouldn't accept the responsibility, the true cause would be searched for and hopefully discovered. Peter had shot his mouth off as usual, but the quick temper had made way for the normal caring and support Venkman was known for, and those traits could soon lead him to look for the root cause of the problem even if Ray didn't care to pursue an inquiry. Winston had also done his best to remedy the bad feelings of earlier in the evening, offering to run up into Little Italy for Italian ices for dessert after they were done cleaning the car. That calming influence would also help the guys get back on track. Egon hoped desperately that it would be soon enough, but he didn't even know yet how much time they had.
The demon had finished the day by making himself act in a manner perfectly normal for Egon, book in one hand, sitting apart but not far from the group. It had pained Egon to see Ray keeping a shy distance from him while the four of them worked over cleaning the car. With no control over his physical actions any longer, Egon felt some distance between them would be in Ray's best interest. It might also be another clue for Peter or Winston to pick up on, and hasten detection of his condition. The demon had seemed to delight in adding to Ray's unhappiness, and if Egon was observed behaving like that much more he knew Peter would soon be prying into the reasons behind such an uncharacteristic attitude.
Cautiously, he got to his feet and approached the barrier. This time he did not plan on trying to leave before he knew where he was going, and intended to decide on a definite course of action before risking the demon's wrath. His day's meditations had not given him any better idea what direction to go in than he'd had the night before, and he peered carefully past the indistinct bars searching for some differentiation in the formless gray fog that could give him a hint.
"Thinking of going somewhere?" the demon's voice inquired suddenly, and Egon startled at the sudden appearance of the amorphous cloud.
The barrier around him was solid again. "No, not at all," he replied casually. "Is there somewhere else I should be?"
"No." Circling around the cage, eye stalks all peering at the captive within, the demon inspected his prisoner without further comment.
"What do you want?" Egon finally demanded of the creature before him, driven to distraction by its unnerving attention.
An amused cackle broke its silence. "Entertainment," was the answer. "I knew this was going to be a dull assignment and I'm already getting bored."
"Have a while to wait before the master shows up, then?" Egon asked innocently.
"Days," replied the demon in a pouty tone barely short of a whine. "Bored, bored, bored. Most fun I've had since I got here was pinning the blame for your equipment failure on that wretched Ray human. He's such an easy target." From the thoughtful way its words trailed off, it was frightfully clear what sort of cruel ideas were forming in its evil mind. "He's the greatest danger to me and my mission, with his knowledge of your equipment, and will have to be dealt with anyway before he figures out what is going on." Glee had crept into the demon's voice, obliterating the whine. "How fortunate that I can have some fun while I'm serving my master."
"Leave him alone!" Egon ordered rashly, fists clenching as if he could challenge the awful creature and have any chance of landing a blow on its insubstantial form.
The fire struck again, burning every nerve from the inside out, and he barely heard the demon's words past his own harsh breathing as the agony washed through him. "I don't think you realize who is in control here, Dr. Spengler." Renewed clawing in his mind drove Egon to his knees as the demon scrabbled through his memories, a violation too obscene to bear. There was no way to fend it off, no way to make the vile invasion stop hurting as information was sorted through with intentional ruthlessness.
The physicist grasped the essential shape of the idea as soon as the necessary facts were torn from his mind. "You'll never be able to get him to take them," he whispered raggedly, even as he realized with sick certainty that the plan might work very well. If things were played right and Ray only saw the action as concern from Egon's own hands, then the idea would probably succeed just long enough to prove disastrous to the Ghostbusters.
"I won't have to play it that way at all. The less chances taken, the greater the odds for success," the brute within his head told him cheerfully, and vanished.
Left alone, Egon slowly collapsed all the way onto the floor of his prison, curled into a shaking ball, and barely kept himself from crying. Everything he knew, everything he was, had become a weapon that would be used to destroy everything important to him, and all he could do was watch.
Wharon opened the physicist's eyes and looked carefully around the room as it sat up in bed. The other three occupants lay at rest in their beds, the soft sound of snoring filling the room. So long as they slept through its actions everything would go smoothly.
Pushing the covers aside, it reached for the physicist's glasses, cursing once again the physical disability that slightly hampered its actions. Even possession couldn't undo the physical impairment and that was enough to annoy it. Anything that stood in the way of its new-found amusement was an irritant to it, though it couldn't stay too upset about such minor details. Intense despair emanating from the trapped soul it kept within filled it with the elation and confidence that only came from the best sadistic acts artfully performed, and a few small inconveniences were not so much to pay for such good subjects dropped so perfectly into its power.
It was halfway through the room, heading for the door, when it heard the soft voice question, "Egon?"
Turning, it found the black man sitting up in his bed. "Something wrong, man?" Winston continued in a hushed voice.
"No, nothing," Wharon answered in as quiet a tone. "I'm feeling a bit restless, and believe I will spend a short while reading."
"Oh." It was clear Egon didn't need company in his intended pursuit, so Zeddemore settled back down into his bed. "G'night."
"Good night, Winston." Wharon slipped out through the bedroom door and across the hallway to the communal bath.
The medicine cabinet was hidden behind the mirror over the sink, and the magnetic latch released with a soft 'pop'. Scanning the bottles of medications lining the top shelf, the demon smiled at the set of unfinished prescriptions still stored there. Tylenol 3 laced with codeine, Darvon capsules, tetracycline tablets - its hand stopped over his target. Phenobarbital, a brown bottle made out in the name of Peter Venkman, dated six months earlier and nearly full. From the knowledge it had drawn out of Spengler's memory, it wasn't surprised at all to find the drug barely used. Venkman wasn't the type to depend on medication of any kind and would hate the physical and emotional effects the pharmaceutical would cause.
But, with such a powerful drug so readily available and fresh there would be no obstacles to doing what it intended. Smiling, it took the bottle from the cabinet, opened the child-proof cap, and shook several of the tablets out. Replacing the bottle in the cabinet, it slipped from the bathroom and across the hall to the third-floor lab.
The simple tools needed were in there. Placing the half dozen tablets into the bowl of the mortar, it took up the pestle and ground the pills into a fine powder which it then poured into an empty test tube from a rack to one side. Feeling virtuous about its caution and taking additional pleasure from doing even the tiny details of a simple job correctly, it then wiped the mortar out carefully, cleaned the pestle, and replaced both. Taking the sedative-filled tube it glided from the lab to the spiral staircase, moving on silent bare feet down the metal steps to the refrigerator.
Reaching into the chilly depths, it pulled out the plastic container of orange juice. Nicely acidic, the caustic taste of the juice would hide the bite of the drug. Spengler's information had told it that while all of them would drink the juice, Stantz was the one who habitually drank the most and would thus end up with the highest dosage. It dumped the contents of the test tube into the jug, sealed it tightly again, and shook the container well to mix the powder into the liquid. The juice would be mixed again in the morning, to create a fine froth on the top and ensure the drug was well integrated.
Smiling to itself, Wharon returned to bed, satisfied that the next few days until its master's arrival would not be so intolerably boring after all.
Winston awoke to the smell of coffee and bacon emanating from below and sat up in bed. The sound of the shower could be heard from across the hall, and he looked around the room to see who might be where. As he expected, both Egon and Ray's beds were empty and made. Ray's Dopey Dog doll was draped over his pillow, obviously placed there after resting in Stantz's arms the night before. Peter, on the other hand, still lay face-down in his bed, the covers coming only to his waist and his smiling face half-buried in his tightly-clutched pillow. Probably dreaming about Kim Basinger again, Winston thought with humor. He wondered how long it would be until the object of his dreams turned into Michele Pfeiffer, since Peter now longed for a video copy of BATMAN RETURNS.
That left a 50-50 chance at guessing correctly who was in either the bath or the kitchen. His hopes were that Egon was below; Ray's cooking could be hazardous to one's health if one attempted to eat it. Rising, Winston reached for clothes - his shower last night had been long and cleansing and he didn't really feel the need for another at the moment - and dressed as his mind returned to his previous contemplations. That wasn't really fair, Ray could whip up the simple meals they all enjoyed just as well as the rest of them. It was his experimentation that could be considered perilous. He couldn't do much harm to bacon and eggs, could he?
Leaving his shave until after breakfast, he meandered down the stairs and was secretly relieved to find Egon standing at the stove drawing crisp strips of bacon off the griddle and piling pancakes onto a plate. "Morning," he called, sauntering into the kitchen and reaching for a mug and the full pot in the coffeemaker.
"Good morning, Winston," Egon answered without taking his eyes from his chore. "Would you mind taking these out to the table?"
"Sure," Zeddemore answered, taking the indicated platters out to the already-set table. Surprised at the amount of work already done, he stopped back in the kitchen as he returned to the refrigerator for the butter and syrup. "You're up awful early this morning, especially with being up late last night," he commented.
"I slept very soundly when I returned to bed." Egon's voice held more than a trace of complacent self-satisfaction.
"It's too early to be smug," Peter growled as he entered the kitchen, still in his pajamas and robe. "Fi-Fum-Fo-Fee, I smell a big, fresh pot of coffee."
Winston grinned and pressed the butter dish and syrup bottle into Venkman's hands. "Take these to the table and I'll bring you a cup."
As expected, he found Peter sitting in his regular chair, elbows on the table and face in his hands, and slid the cup of black coffee under the dark, rumpled head. "C'mon, sleepyhead, we've got a job to finish this morning."
"Madelane's," agreed Ray from the staircase as he descended.
"The sooner we get those Class Fives taken care of, the happier I'll be," Winston said as he took his own place at the table, coffee cup held above the plate. Egon came to the table as Ray did, the older man holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a tall glass of orange juice in the other.
"Good morning, Ray," Egon said in his moderate tone, placing the juice glass before the empty seat and keeping the cup of coffee for himself.
Ray looked at the glass at his place as he sat, and Peter laughed. "Mister Excitement here doesn't need a caffeine jolt to get him going in the morning." Venkman drained his cup and forced himself to his feet, heading into the kitchen for more. "Three pancakes for me, eh, Egon?"
Spengler began dishing out the flapjacks he'd cooked. "That's what I made for you, Peter."
A flash of light caught on metal hanging from a chain dangling outside of the pink oxford Egon wore. "New piece of jewelry?" Winston asked as a plate piled with pancakes and bacon was handed to him.
"Old, actually. Something my father gave me some years ago. I found it the other day, and..." The blond shrugged without finishing the explanation.
Something in the man's voice did not encourage further questioning. Egon rarely mentioned his father, although his mother came to visit on occasion. From what little had been said, Zeddemore got the impression the Senior Spengler did not approve of his son's avocation and the less the situation was discussed the happier Egon was. Sometimes the past was something unofficially off-limits, like Ray's parents. The look in Stantz's eyes when they were mentioned was painful to see so it was a subject rarely mentioned. This appeared to be another of those matters discussed only when the party concerned opened the topic deliberately, so Winston let the matter lie.
Peter returned to the table, full coffee cup in one hand, a smaller orange juice glass in the other, and seated himself at his plate. Dousing the pancakes in butter and syrup, he dove into his breakfast with enthusiasm. "Not bad, Spengs," he commented around a mouthful, washing it down with a gulp of the juice.
"Hey, guys!" Janine's voice carried up the stairs from below. "There's a call on the machine from Madelane wondering when you're going to get the spooks out of her place."
"Let's go," Ray said, pushing his chair back from the table and leaving his breakfast half-eaten.
"Sit down and finish, Ray," Egon encouraged him, a forkful of pancake halfway to his own mouth. "The ghosts will still be there in half-an-hour. A good breakfast is the best way to fortify yourself for the job ahead."
"I've got to shave, besides," Winston finished, wiping the last of the syrup off his plate with the last triangle of pancake.
"And I need to get dressed," Peter finished, gesturing with his coffee cup to his current attire.
"Finish up, Ray, and drink your juice." Egon gestured to the barely-touched glass before Stantz.
Chagrinned, Ray took the glass, draining half the drink in one long swallow. A pleased look was on Egon's face as Winston pushed back his chair and started for the stairs. For some reason that look gave Zeddemore an undefinable bad feeling, but he had no idea why it should.
Madelane's hadn't changed since they were there the afternoon before. Slime still coated the walls and soaked the carpet, and Madelane Cunningham was more irate than ever. "I couldn't even put up any guests last night," she'd complained when they arrived late that morning. "I expect you to get rid of those... those..."
Peter had easily charmed the older woman into a calmer state, gotten her to settle in the kitchen with a cup of tea, then - checking the packs charged just the night before, to ensure against leakage - they headed off in pairs after the two goopers that had tormented them the night before.
Egon had paired himself off with Stantz, a normal occurrence that made Ray peculiarly uneasy. That uncomfortable feeling was disturbing to Ray; he'd known Egon for over half his life and trusted him many times with his very soul. To be uneasy in the man's presence was the last thing he expected or could understand, but there was something about Egon this morning that made him feel nervous, something as subtle as body language or the way their eyes met though neither of those things had changed. He also couldn't help remembering the admonishment the older man had given him the night before, a reprimand so uncharacteristically cold that it had to have been deserved because Egon never made statements like that casually. Today he'd just have to do better than ever and show Egon he didn't make stupid mistakes. Even though he had charged the packs before the last job. How the packs had drained so fast was still a mystery he couldn't solve. When they got home after the Class Fives were caught, he wanted to drag the equipment into the basement workshop and see if he could find the problem. It had to be a wear pattern associated with use that caused a stress to the shielding he hadn't anticipated in the design, or something similar, something he could pin down with a little work. For all their sakes he was going to have to find it before the accelerators failed in the middle of a really big, dangerous job.
Egon held the PKE meter out before himself, his thrower still holstered and his eyes on the meter's screen. "One of them is down at the end of the hall, in..." he gestured with the meter, "that room."
Ray nodded and, thrower in hand, inched down the hallway with his back against the wall. Without warning a wave of exhaustion passed over him and he held himself upright only by leaning on the wall with one hand, thrower drooping in the other. "Ray?" Egon asked from behind him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." With determination Stantz pushed himself vertical, heading down the hallway again despite the slightly dizzy feeling that lingered. Reaching the indicated door, he triggered his power switch and heard the whine of the accelerator start, an accompanying one coming from the pack Egon wore. Nodding at Egon, he flung the door open and fired at the bright blue specter in front of them.
Egon's beam joined his, seizing the ghost, and the two of them struggled with the slimeball until they had it under control. "The trap, Ray," Egon called, and Stantz tightened his right hand around his thrower as he reached with his left for the trap. Then the dizziness struck again, his grip on the thrower slipped and he swayed, squeezing his eyes shut against the vertigo.
"Ray!" Egon's voice was sharp and Ray managed to get his eyes open just in time to see the blue ghost, free of Egon's beam, cackle and head straight for the two of them in the doorway. It covered both of them with blue ectoplasm before it flew over their heads for freedom.
Taking a deep breath, Ray managed to steady himself and turned a hesitant gaze to Egon. The blue eyes glared at him with the power of laser beams. "Are you totally incompetent now?"
Everything seemed to be coming through a haze, even the sharp words, and Ray was unable to form answer to the query. To him the question had come out of left field, something he'd never had to contemplate a reaction to. The accusation was a cruel insult of the sort he'd never heard from Egon, and his confusion only added to the disorienting feeling of unreality he was experiencing. The cry of "Gooper!" from down the hall finally shocked him into motion and he turned away from the empty room to the hall. Down at its far end Peter and Winston, colorfully decorated, were holding on to the same blue specter with two beams, the ghost frantically struggling to get free.
Egon had stepped out in front of him and now his thrower spit out its fire, making a third bond around the wailing spirit. Aside to Ray, the physicist muttered scathingly, "Do you think you can get a trap out?"
Ray reached again for the trap he carried, throwing it out beneath the blue blob. With a determined stomp he triggered the release pedal, and the box opened to a glaring white light that seized the ghost from the streams and dragged it into the trap's confines. Only once he was sure the ghost was firmly entrenched in the containment did Ray lift his foot from the pedal, letting the doors of the trap close.
"That's number two, and the whole shebang." Peter's cheerful voice was a comfort and relief to Ray, even as the dizziness swam over him again.
A touch was there in seconds, someone's hand under his chin, and as the world stopped swirling around him Ray found Peter's face just inches from his. "Ray? You okay?"
As reality settled around him again, Stantz found himself on his knees, most of his upper body weight and that of his pack supported by Venkman's other hand on his arm. "Y-yeah. Just dizzy."
"Dizzy. Did you hit your head or anything?" Peter's eyes peered deeply into his, then broke away to look upward at Spengler and Zeddemore, gathered behind him. "Egon? What happened?"
"No," Ray answered before the blond could.
"Nothing happened," Egon stated.
Ray let his weight rock back onto his heels, pulling away from Peter's grasp on his arm and taking in a deep breath. "I'm okay, Peter."
Venkman still didn't let go of his chin, turning it by fractions of a degree while peering closer. "I see." Peter didn't look at all satisfied but he could see no signs of damage and backed off, his hand moving to grasp Ray under the arm. "Well, we got this job done. Egon, I'll see that the boy wonder here gets to Ecto if you'll take care of Mrs. Cunningham."
For a moment it seemed to Ray that Egon would protest the division of labor, but the physicist only nodded and turned from the group. Peter then took one side, Winston moving to take the other arm, and the two of them drew Ray to his feet. "C'mon, homeboy, you can go home and catch a snoozer," Winston told him. "See if that doesn't make you feel better."
"Catching those two slimeballs makes me feel better," Peter declared with a wide grin. "I can't wait to hear what Mrs. Cunningham has to say to Egon."
The ride home was a cheerful one, but the lingering haze seemed to sit over Ray like a cloud. He could fathom no reason for his tiredness, once things had been settled the night before he had slept as well as he usually did. Or at least he thought he had. Had the mishap of the day before kept him from sleeping, or disturbed his sleep so much the weariness lingered into today? If so, why didn't he remember it? If he hadn't gotten enough sleep, why had he woken up so easily this morning?
Caught in the haze and his own thoughts, he didn't realize they'd reached the firehouse until Peter pointedly asked, "You gonna sleep in there?"
With an effort he pushed himself out through the open back door and stood leaning on the car's side, one hand bracing himself upright. It took him a minute to regain his equilibrium and, when he looked up again, he found a frowning Janine in front of him. "You look like hell," she informed him.
"Thank you," was the only answer he could come up with.
"You guys are clear for today, but you've got a Class Two vapor on the schedule for tomorrow," Janine told them, standing there with her arms folded.
"I'll take the traps down to the containment unit," Winston offered, taking both traps out of the back of Ecto. "Then I'll recharge the packs."
"I've got dibs on the shower," Peter called, but he stepped closer to Ray. "C'mon. Go upstairs and catch a nap. You look like you could use one."
Ray nodded and headed for the stairs, feeling more secure to have Peter's presence behind him.
"I think I will change out of these clothes," Egon stated, and Ray stiffened. Egon's earlier words still rang in his ears and he couldn't suppress the flinch that came at the apparently innocent statement.
"Ray?" Peter's voice was soft, right behind him. "You sure you're okay?"
Ray only nodded. There was no reason for him to say anything, all of Egon's comments had been called for. They had to have been. Egon didn't usually find fault with his friends so for him to do so there had to be cause, it was that basic. Even if Ray couldn't see what he'd done that quite deserved that extraordinary censure. He wasn't sure he could see much, as fuzzy as his brain felt right now.
"I'll get him to bed, Peter," Egon offered behind them, his voice the normal, even tone Ray had known for years. "You go ahead to the shower."
"Okay," Peter said, moving on up the stairs past Ray, and a firm grip took Ray's elbow from behind.
"Come on, Raymond," Egon encouraged him, and Ray forced himself to relax. Egon was his pillar, his support, his friend. He was family. There was no reason to shrink from the man. Anything critical Egon had ever said to him was meant to help him. There had never been any reason to fear the man. None at all.
Once in the third floor bedroom, Egon shed the blue-and-pink uniform he wore, peeling to his pink shirt, tan pants and red suspenders. Boots discarded to one side, Spengler slid his feet into the loafers sitting beside his bed.
Ray watched his actions with near-hypnotic interest, and only broke his attention away when Egon turned to look pointedly at him. He had the zipper of his jumpsuit halfway undone when the physicist strode toward him, stopping at the foot of his bed.
"I don't know where your head has been these last couple days, Stantz," Egon said bitingly, his tone harsh. "But it's obvious your failings are coming through strong and clear."
The words hurt as much as if Egon had slapped him. Ray gasped, dumbfounded at the accusation. Egon had never spoken to him like that. "Egon, I got dizzy."
"Are you going to make excuses like yesterday?" the blond demanded. "I thought I knew you better than that. Apparently, I was wrong."
The whole world started spinning and Ray made a grab for the rail at the foot of his bed. "Egon," he said again, pleading this time, but Spengler had started for the door.
The physicist stopped just inside the room, hand on the doorknob. "I've not seen such incompetence since we first met you." Opening the door, Egon exited, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Stunned, Ray stared at the closed door, his mouth working but no words coming from it, then he slid to sit at the foot of his bed, oblivious to the ectoplasm seeping into the bedclothes. Egon had always been his friend, always listened to him, always been there. What had he done to cause that to change?
Drained, his face dropped into his hands, and he shivered at the sudden emptiness that overtook him.
Peter stepped out of the tub into the steam-filled bathroom, delighted he'd been able to get through the whole ritual with no sign of Slimer. The little ghost's habit of invading his privacy during his showers was highly annoying, and the rare treat of solitude in the shower had been wonderful.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he rubbed at the fogged mirror, then used his fingers to shove his wet hair into place, and wondered at the spud's absence. It had been nearly two days since the last time he'd seen Slimer and it was strange that the little pest wasn't in their food, in their hair, in their beds. Had the green glob of goo gotten mad at them and run off to sulk? It wasn't impossible, Slimer had been known to go off on his own before. But for this long? Without complaint to at least one of them? Not likely, Slimer's flair for the dramatic exceeded Ray's but not by a very large margin, and he'd never made an exit without making it a production number.
He was still puzzling over the question of the missing ghost as he crossed the hallway to the bedroom. Opening the door quietly, he expected to find the lights dimmed, the blinds pulled, and Ray sound asleep on his bed. Instead, the lights still glared brightly and Ray was sitting at the end of his bed, head buried in his hands, bent over halfway to his knees.
"Ray?" Concern rose in Peter's throat. Had something happened, something he and Egon hadn't been aware of? "Hey, are you okay?"
The auburn head rose, brown eyes seeing him then seeming to focus on a point somewhere over his left shoulder.
"Yeah," came the distant reply, one Peter didn't believe. He took a hesitant step toward the occultist but Ray drew away, suddenly upright, and Peter stopped. With a grin, he turned back to his own corner of the room, pulling underwear from the dresser and jeans from their hanger. Sliding into both (in the proper order), he looked again at Stantz, who had resumed his original slumped posture.
"Ray," he said softly, crossing the room and crouching before the younger man, peering up into the sheltered face. "C'mon, talk to me. What's wrong?"
Ray rocked up slowly, his eyes closed and hands on his knees. Drawing in a breath, he started to speak, then stopped, letting the air out again.
"Ray..." Peter started, catching one wrist.
"I'm just - dizzy. Tired." He shook his head, then opened his eyes. "I'm all right, Peter."
"You sure you didn't bump your noggin or somethin'?" Peter asked as he placed a hand on the side of the other man's face, still concerned. The normally bubbly Ray had turned into this dragging creature before him and he didn't like the change at all. "That gooper didn't do anything to you, did he?"
Ray shook his head again, dislodging the touch. "No. Nothing but slime me and Egon."
Peter looked at the taupe jumpsuit and the drying blue smears on it. "C'mon," he encouraged. "Let's get you outta this thing and let you get that nap."
"Why does this sound like last night?" Ray asked, but he offered no protest as Peter pulled down the zipper of his jumpsuit and unlaced his boots for him. Venkman pulled the footwear off and steadied a wavering Stantz with one hand on an elbow as Ray stood to shed the uniform. Peter stood to pitch it into the pile already made of his and Egon's, and placed a hand on Ray's shoulder.
"God, you're tense," Venkman told him, pushing Ray back down to sit on the bed and moving around behind him. Both of his hands rested on Stantz's shoulders, fingers digging into the tight muscles under the teeshirt. "C'mon, let go..." It wasn't that unusual of an action, carrying forty-pound packs on their backs often strained any of them and backrubs were common between the four. Egon seemed to give the best, with his long, nimble fingers, but Peter hadn't had any complaints recently. His expert pressure on the knots in Ray's back slowly worked the stress away, and Stantz seemed to relax under the touch.
After a few minutes of the massage Peter bent down lower, with his mouth only inches from Stantz's ear. "Wanna tell Uncle Peter about it?" he asked softly.
"Nothing to tell," Ray answered in a voice that told Peter there was something to tell, but Ray wasn't ready to share it yet. There was no point trying to bully Ray into talking, it just wouldn't work. When Ray was ready to open up he would, and Peter would just make a point of being there when it happened.
Instead he slowly eased the kneading, letting his fingers slide slowly from the shoulders, then he moved around to Ray's bureau and dragged out a set of clean pajamas. "Okay, kiddo. You heading for the showers voluntarily or have I gotta throw you out of the game?"
Ray started at the comment and Peter made a mental note. This sudden skittishness was something else to add to the equation he'd be working on while Ray was coming to the point where he'd talk about whatever was troubling him. After a long moment, Ray rose and turned toward Peter. "I can take a hint," he said somewhat listlessly.
"Yeah, but can you catch?" Peter jibed back, throwing the pile of neatly folded clothes across the bed. The pajama pants started to unfold midflight, but Ray managed to snag the bundle before it fell all apart over the blanket. "Hey, Center Field!"
That brought a smile to Ray's face and a matching one to Peter's, one that vanished as soon as Ray had exited the room. Someone, or something, was dumping on him, that was obvious, and Peter was determined to find out exactly what was going on.
Egon lay in his prison in his half-aware trance watching the world around him, barely in touch with reality from the remote vantage point of his own mind. Repeatedly during the day he had tested the limits of his perceptions, the boundary where observance stopped and enough control was present to return him to the gray featureless cage. The line was not very well defined, it seemed to shift slightly at the whim or concentration of the demon possessing him, the single constant factor being that Egon was never allowed more than the faintest tantalizing hint of freedom before he was abruptly cut off from the outside. He was quite certain he was being toyed with, that his efforts and frustration amused the demon nearly as much as Ray's pained confusion at the mixed messages he was being given. There was nothing else he could do, however, except watch and experiment and wait in hope for some chance to appear.
At the moment, Winston sat on the other side of the lab, and Egon craved just an instant of control to warn the man, to let him know it wasn't him behind Ray's unhappy condition. But to monitor what was happening he had to remain aloof somehow, no matter how his emotions were torn by what he saw and heard. It was an exhausting pastime.
"So you think there's something wrong with Ray?" Zeddemore questioned aloud.
"Not necessarily wrong, Winston," the demon answered, and Egon could sense the glee in its tone. "But Ray has, shall we say, not been up to par recently?"
"Yeah, well, we've all had some bad days, m'man, even you," Winston defended their absent partner, and Egon silently cheered the black man on. "I could mention the werechicken, or the baby or...."
The demon raised Egon's hand. "Winston, enough, please." Damn, the fiend was finding the right reactions and using them flawlessly. Winston was only grinning, knowing Egon's own dislike of mention of either incident. "I only meant-"
"I know. Give him a chance. Maybe it'll all work out. Maybe he's got something on his mind." Zeddemore leaned back on his stool, feet hooked in the rungs. "Has he gotten anything strange in the mail recently or had some bad news?"
"Not that I have noticed." Egon fervently hoped Winston would get back to his previous train of thought, leading away from denigrating Ray. The trouble the demon was brewing might destroy the team as thoroughly as the destruction of the equipment.
"They haven't cancelled Captain Steel again, have they?" Winston queried and Egon felt his jailor start, searching frantically for the proper answer. Spengler extended his tenuous link with his body, pushing to shift his own breathing pattern while the demon was distracted with dredging up the correct memories. He thought he had nearly succeeded, he was almost certain he had affected some tiny measure of change, when the information sought for was torn from him with a needlessly vicious wrench that left him struggling to maintain merely his vision of the outside over the waves of searing torment that drew his perspective back to his isolated cage.
But that brief wrestle for control was enough to draw a reaction from Winston. "Egon? Hey, you okay, man? Are you sure that gooper didn't do something to you and Ray?"
The demon shook the blond head, firmly in control with nothing having slipped past its guard. "No. I was just... remembering. Ray does have a way of focusing on inconsequential, childish things."
The dark eyes narrowed. "Hey, now, that's not fair. Everyone's entitled to their hobbies, whether it's comic books or mold collections. There's some people out there who'd scoff at my Christie and MacLeods. If Captain Steel makes Ray happy, let him go for it." Winston's expression turned to one of confusion, and Egon hoped this clue, too, would be picked up. "I never thought you had a problem with that, anyway. Ray's been reading comics since he was a kid."
"I don't, Winston. I'm just edgy and worried. Ray's not acting like himself and there doesn't seem to be a reason for it." The demon shrugged Egon's shoulders. "Let's see how he is in the morning."
"I'd better go get the packs charged before we have another incident like yesterday," Winston said, sliding off the stool.
When Zeddemore had gone, Egon's vision of his lab suddenly blanked and he found himself back in his cell, confronted by the demon whose name he still did not know. Anger radiated from it along with sharp jolts of pain designed to keep Egon's attention focused exclusively on what it had to say to him. "Do not ever try that again, Dr. Spengler, or I will rip your soul from this body no matter how useful your knowledge might be. If you warn your colleagues I will kill them immediately, whether my master approves or not."
Pinned in place by the onslaught, Egon trembled but refused to give the sadistic monster the pleasure of hearing him scream aloud. The risk of punishment had been there when he took the action and he did not regret it, the chance of success had been well worth the penalty for failure. As it was, he had learned a valuable fact about his ability to influence his body at times when the demon was preoccupied. There was no way of knowing when or even if he would be able to use that knowledge, but that was another chance he was willing to take. He had nothing better to do, and even less to lose. The problem was that to gain victory he needed far more information than he had now and he had the feeling that he had very little time in which to acquire it. "What master?" he tried asking, his voice no more than a hoarse croak.
A last wave of escruciating agony crested over him, then he was left alone again, his question unanswered. Slowly crumpling to the floor, he cursed the devil keeping him helpless rather than his helplessness. If he had something more to go on, anything, there would be some use to making plans for escape or warning, but even if he could get through to the guys in the next five minutes he could tell them nothing useful. Without anything more to go on, any hint of a name for either the master or the servant, even if he had a copy of Tobin's it wouldn't help. They would have to face a major evil power without any opportunity for adequate preparation.
Dinner had been cleared by Ray, and Peter's nerves had shuddered when he heard the 'crash' in the kitchen, fortunately without the accompanying sound of breaking glass. Janine's advice had been good, Corningware was a sound investment. The other three had abandoned the dining area for the commonroom, collapsing in different places. Peter took up residence on the couch, sprawling on it but intending to make room as soon as Ray came in. Egon had taken the chair to its side, stretching his long legs out onto the table before him. Winston had abandoned them to sit in his normal chair back behind the couch, Craig's A Pint of Murder in his hands and halfway done.
Venkman snagged the remote and switched the television on. Monday nights hadn't been the same since MacGyver went off; it had been a favorite all the way around. Egon and Ray would offer suggestions aloud on how the hero could use the elements around him as his tools of escape or attack, and usually they were right. The times they weren't usually resulted in a discussion regarding the real-life failings of the television plan, strictly from a physics and engineering perspective, which frequently lasted far past the time he and Winston lost interest and got into Monday Night Football.
Channel-hopping, he found very little on to catch his attention, the selections ranging from innocuous sitcoms to some "real-life drama" schlock to a rerun of a rerun of Barnaby Jones. Finally, on his fifth revolution of the channels offered, a long-fingered hand reached out and took the control away from him.
"Enough of the channel surfing, Peter," Egon stated, pressing an assortment of buttons which resulted in a screen filled with scantily-clad natives beating sticks, and a haughty british-accented voice carrying on about cinnamon.
"What's this?" Venkman protested feebly.
"The Spice of Life. The Learning Channel. So learn." There was light humor in Egon's voice, and Peter was about to respond to the challenge when soft scuffing sounds came from the dining area.
"Guys, I'm kinda tired, and I think I'm just going to go to bed. Okay?"
Venkman narrowed his gaze on Stantz. A restless afternoon of napping didn't seem to have done Ray any good, he still looked haggard and drained. Hadn't touched much of Winston's beef stew for dinner either, Peter recalled.
Neither of the others had answered, and he realized suddenly they were waiting for him to do so. "Yeah, no problem, Ray. Get some rest." He watched as Ray reached the circular stairs that went to the third floor and used the railing to help himself up the stairs. Ray wavered on the fourth step and Peter's breath caught even as Ray caught tight hold of the metal bannister, holding himself in place until he was steady. Once Ray was out of sight, Peter turned to Egon. "You think maybe he's sick?"
Egon shrugged. "Perhaps. It would explain quite a few things about his recent behavior."
Venkman nodded. "I'll check him in the morning."
"Hey, have either of you guys seen Slimer in the past few days?" Winston asked suddenly from behind the couch.
"No," Egon said firmly.
"That goes double for me," Peter added. "No slime in the shower, no slime in my bed, no slime on me - at least, not green slime," he amended, looking back at Zeddemore.
"That's even more of a mystery than this is," Winston said, holding up his marked book. "The spud's not one to stay away from home unless he's upset. Usually when he's upset he lets everybody know it."
"Think maybe there's a ghost convention in town?" Peter quipped.
"Don't even say that," Winston warned.
"Perhaps that is part of what is bothering Ray," Egon speculated in a thoughtful tone. "He and Slimer have a special relationship."
"I'll ask him in the morning," Peter said, yawning widely. "As for now, I've been feeling kinda draggy all day so I think I'll get some sleep myself."
"My eyes don't want to focus either," Winston said, placing the paperback aside. "I think I'll crash, too."
Peter stood and jerked the remote from Egon's lax hand, punching in the channel for MTV. "Enough intellectualizing for one night, dude. Learn how to rock for a while."
He was on the stairs when he heard the set switch off, and Egon's voice followed. "The only kind of rock that interests me, Peter, is the kind that moss and lichen grows on."
"Good night, Dr. Fungi," Peter cracked as he made the last circle to the top, leaving Egon alone in the commonroom.
The gray fog surrounded him again as his contact with the real world faded, and Egon wondered idly at the fact he hadn't slept since his body was inhabited by the newcomer. His body, itself, seemed to be in the inert state most of the night, but his mind wasn't, and the demon's attention to him never waned to the point that he could get very far from his cage before he was recaptured and shoved back into it. Quite probably since he spent all his body's waking hours in an inert semi-trance, his mind accepted it as close enough to sleep and he did not need any additonal period of unconsciousness to refresh his energy. Eventually the difference would catch up with him, he suspected, but he also hoped this ordeal would not last so long that he experienced such a period of compensation. When I am free of this, he thought with determination, I will sleep for a week. Until then, having an additional ten hours per day to think was an advantage he was grateful for. Not that it's produced much of any value. But he did have a plan, that was something, more than he'd had the night before.
Moving with silent step to the bars of his prison, Egon noted they had once again reverted to insubstantial fog-images more effective as a territorial marker than a barrier. Hopefully a full day of scheming and betraying had tired his unwelcome guest to the point of such internal inattention that there would be time for him to get control of himself and take some action before he was discovered. It would be too difficult to wake the others and warn them, that much he was aware of; although they had gotten nowhere near the dosage Ray had, both Winston and Peter had been exposed to the phenobarbital through imbibing the orange juice. There was no way to leave a message the demon couldn't subvert or explain away, but it would be far simpler than that to alert the others to what was going on. All he had to do was get the PKE shield off his neck and inactivate it. If he could do that undetected, the next time he got within range of an operating PKE meter the whole game would be up.
He had slid a hand through the fog-bars and was about to ease a foot out when a blast of pain hit him, throwing him back against the bars on the other side of the cage, now as solid as steel. The roar of colors came after him, cornering him against the 90o bend of the bars.
"I warned you, Dr. Spengler, not to try that again." The voice thundered at him, and Egon felt the not-heat that seemed to delineate the demon's presence even as every nerve ending vibrated with the burning agony the demon had dealt. "I will keep my threat to evict your meddlesome soul from this container and without your body you will cease to exist."
"That is open to debate, depending on the validity of out-of-body experiences and the true nature of the soul." Egon drew a great deal of calm from the argument, it was a topic he had naturally devoted a great deal of time to researching over the years. Being able to act rationally and discuss a subject he knew quite well gave him a focus for concentration that helped slow his pounding heart and made it easier to ignore the anguish smoldering in each fiber of his ego-projected but quite realistic form.
"I doubt you really would like to find out for yourself right now," It stated, but its presence backed off slightly, easing the torture being done. "But whether you want to or not, you will know from personal experience soon enough. When my master comes, he will be happy to help you determine in person whether there is life after death. Slow, painful, humiliating death, granted, but it should serve well enough to answer any of your questions."
"Just who is this master of yours?" It was the one thing he really needed to know, the single fact more important than the name of the minor sub-demon doing the preparatory dirty work,
Instead of giving him an answer the creature disappeared with a final outpouring of the searing heat, leaving Egon weakly panting and leaning against the solid bars, frustrated once again at having absolutely no progress to show for the bout of agony he had endured. Only knowing that his feelings of hopeless despair would delight his torturer kept him from giving up, but it would have been so much easier to bear all the suffering with Peter's cheerily obnoxious voice telling him everything would be all right in the end, just hang on.
Ray awoke to find a hand on his forehead and he opened bleary eyes to see Peter, fully dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "No fever," Venkman reported to someone out of sight, then he smiled down at Stantz. "Morning, sleepyhead. How do you feel?"
Ray took a moment to search himself out. He did feel better than he had the day before, but there was still a heavy sensation in his limbs and his brain felt as if it weren't firing on all cylinders. "Mostly okay, I guess, but - "
"It still might be best to take a little more bedrest, just in case you are coming down with something," Egon's voice said as he came into view with a large glass of orange juice in his hand. "We certainly don't want you to get sick."
"He's got a point, Ray," Peter echoed. "It won't do any harm for you to take an easy day today. Janine says all we've got on tap is a measly Class Two. We can manage that on our own, easy."
Ray looked from one man to the other. Granted, a Class Two could readily be handled by the other three, it might even take only two of the Ghostbusters to do the job. But, came the question from the back of his mind as he looked at Egon, were they trying to tell him they didn't want him? That he was more hindrance than help?
"The best thing for you to do is try to stave off whatever's trying to get you," Egon continued, holding the glass of orange juice out to him. "Vitamin C does wonders for that."
"Only if you take enough to keep the cold off before it gets to you, Egon. Anything else is just an old wives' tale. Once you're sick it doesn't do any good." Peter sounded stern in his statement.
"Anything's better than Egon's mom's concoction," Ray said, sitting up and taking the glass of juice from Egon. The concern there seemed natural, so maybe he was reading too much into what had occurred over the past several days. He knew full well that when he got sick, he got out of sorts, and small things could get confused or misconstrued.
"I'd be glad to call her and have her come down and tend to you," Egon offered with a gleam behind his lenses. "The blender's all ready, and-"
Ray wrinkled his nose even as Peter raised his hands, making a cross of his fingers. "Back... back..." he intoned, holding the sign up at Egon. The blond took a sudden step backward, and Ray grinned at the show.
"Drink up, Raymond," Spengler encouraged from his backpedaled position. Stantz did so, drinking deeply from the icy-cold liquid, and felt the froth that lingered on the end of his nose as he set the empty glass on the table beside the bed. Peter reached out, wiping it away and then cleaning his hand on his jeans.
"Can't take you anywhere," Venkman gibed, and Ray tried not to feel hurt at the innocuous reproach.
"I'll take this down and wash up, then we can get going after that Class Two," Egon said. "Ray, if you feel up to it, would you go into the lab about two and adjust the output on the pack I have in there? I'm trying to discern the effect of low-level ionization on ectoplasm."
"I thought we wanted him to stay in bed," Peter protested as he rose from the bedside.
"I don't mind. It's not that far... and, Peter," Ray turned to Venkman, "I gotta get practically that far to get to the bathroom anyway."
"No bedpan detail here," Peter agreed with a grin. "Okay. Just take it easy."
"Just shift the dial up to 2.5," Egon instructed. "I'm working on a logarithmic curve."
Stantz nodded and settled himself back down in bed as the other two exited. Farm-raised, it was rare for him to stay in bed when the sun was up, that was more Peter's avocation. Still, considering how draggy he felt, it was probably the best thing. He'd just sleep a little longer, then he'd go and get his shower and check on Egon's experiment. He must have misread the man last night, Egon wouldn't entrust an experiment he considered important to someone he didn't have confidence in.
Holding the full trap, its light blinking in a friendly rhythm, Peter leaned back in the front seat of Ecto while Winston maneuvered the car in backward through the open double doors. The chase had been short and sweet and the little orange gooper had barely been a challenge for the three of them. He almost wished he'd sat the bust out, letting Egon and Winston handle it, while he stayed home watching over Ray. With it being Janine's day off, Ray had been left at the firehall all alone. Not that it was that big a deal, the flu got around to everyone eventually, even to those who rarely were struck. At least Ray didn't have the icky stomach variety.
He climbed out of the car as Winston brought it to a halt and shut off the engine. "Let me just-"
"Let me, bro'," Winston offered, holding out his hand for the trap as he came around the front end of the car. "You go up and check on Ray. You've been itchin' to, ever since we caught Sweet Potato here."
Venkman grinned and handed over the trap. "Treat him good, Winston. He didn't lead us on a merry chase, after all."
"Thank goodness for that," Winston agreed. "I'm taking Ecto to the car show day after tomorrow, and I don't want to have to de-slime it again."
"I hear you," Peter said, heading for the stairs. "Coming, Egon?"
"Right behind you," the bass voice acknowledged.
Peter jogged his way up both flights of stairs, knowing the clatter his boots made on the metal circular stairs would let Ray know they were coming. He headed for the double doors of the bunkroom, noting that Egon had turned right and was heading for the lab. Typical, he wanted to check his experiment first.
Opening the bedroom door, Peter frowned to see the unmade bed empty. "What the?" he started.
"What the hell?" thundered Egon's voice, almost as an echo, and Peter dashed quickly across the hallway to peer over the taller man's shoulder.
Hell was an appropriate term, the lab looked like it had been bombed. Burn marks scarred the walls near the scorched pack, shattered apparatus and broken equipment lay everywhere. In the midst of the disaster sat Ray, now dressed in jeans and a worn Columbia sweatshirt, his eyes unfocused and staring off into space.
"Ray," Peter called, pushing past the shock-stilled Egon and crossing the room, ignoring the sound of glass cracking under his boots. "Ray, are you okay?" Crouching down beside the younger man he reached for Stantz's chin, turning his face upward.
Ray blinked suddenly, focusing on Peter's face. "I... I think so," he answered slowly.
"What happened?" Not that it was uncommon for an explosion to occur in the lab, but something must have happened to set it off.
"I'll tell you what happened," Egon said in a deadly voice, one that Peter rarely heard out of the older man. "He misadjusted the pack output and set off a chain reaction."
Peter interrupted the building anger he could hear in Egon's voice. "Hold on, wait a minute, Egon."
"I didn't," Ray protested before Peter could continue. "I came in here, changed the dial to 2.5 like you asked and - ka-boom!"
"Impossible," Egon stated in a brittle voice.
"Not necessarily," Peter argued for the defense. "You know your experiments, Egon. They do have a tendency to erupt all on their own."
"I would certainly know if one of them had a predilection to do so, Peter." Egon's voice seemed to chastise even him. "Perhaps he was just clumsy and didn't realize how high he'd shifted the dial up."
"I didn't," Ray protested again, his face filled with determination to be believed.
"Well, regardless, we'd better get you back to bed, long as you say you're okay," Peter finished. How Ray had managed to escape any injury in the midst of such a mess was beyond him, but something he was grateful for. "Uh-oh, no shoes?" He noticed the black socks Ray wore, decorated with the Ghostbusters' logo, and knew crossing the glass-strewn floor without shoes was hazardous. "I'll go get you some."
Egon watched as Peter left the room, hearing glass crush to fine powder under his heavy boots, and fumed. The 'accident' had been nothing of the sort. The demon had drawn on Spengler's scientific knowledge to rewire the pack, changing the firing power adjustment potentiometer from a geometric current rheostat to one based on a logarithmic curve. Ray would have had to set the dial no higher than the level he'd been instructed to use to send the proton emission level high enough to set off the nitrate charge left in place of the experiment's ectoplasm. The whole thing had been rigged as a bomb to catch Ray in a trap, and it had worked very well indeed.
They had been extraordinarily lucky Ray hadn't been hurt, which was no small consolation to Egon's helpless feelings of guilt for his unwilling complicity in devising the pitfall. It was also extremely fortunate the casing on the pack hadn't been ruptured by the explosion, or they'd be dealing with the indescribable mess, personal and public liability, and lethal danger of radiation contamination and exposure. An event like that would have put them out of business and into jail so quickly their heads would spin. Egon tried very hard not to think about those consequences very much for fear the demon might find such a means of incapacitating them greatly appealing. He'd been near to screaming inside his own head ever since the snare had been rigged, but he had no way to stop it, warn the others, or protect Ray; and his intense emotional involvement continuously jeopardized his tenuous link with the outside world when he could least afford to not see what was going on. To maintain his connection with his physical senses he had to be aloof enough to stay calmly entranced no matter what he saw or felt, and walking that emotional tightrope was slowly wearing him down and tearing him apart in a way the periodic bouts of torment dealt by his captor could not begin to match.
For one short moment Egon wondered what long term effects the demon's plan would have if the master didn't manage to kill them all before he was defeated and contained, The possibility existed that enough incidents like those in the last couple days would forge a permanent wedge between the four of them, or at the very least between him and Ray. It might not even be necessary to put Ray off the track, simply causing mistrust and bitterness between the members of the team might be enough to keep them from functioning with the perfect symbiosis that had always made them so effective in crisis situations. With the threat of this demon's master coming, division in their ranks could be fatal to them all - them and the rest of the world.
Egon shivered in his cage, and spent another frustrating, fruitless night trying to puzzle his way out of the inescapable fate that already had him and was coming for his friends.
Janine was just draping her sweater over the back of her chair when three-quarters of the team came tromping down the stairs. "Get in a little too late last night, Melnitz?" Venkman needled her, a grin on his face. "Need to borrow a comb?"
She waved him away. "Don't get on me, Dr. Venkman. A bad hair day is the least of my problems." She'd spent an angry night trying to sort out her reactions to Egon and his seeming indifference toward her. Usually she didn't get the response from him that she'd prefer, but he normally wasn't so short with her, either. Her restlessness had kept her from falling asleep until half the night was past, and then she'd slept right through the alarm and into the bad hair.
"So where are you off to this morning?" she questioned him. "Where's Ray?"
"Still under the weather," Winston answered as he reached the first floor. "We're off after a particularly nasty Class Two."
"Nasty Class Two?" Janine had enough experience in the business to know most Class Twos were nuisances but relatively harmless.
"It seems this ghost enjoys jumping out at people at the top of a flight of stairs," Egon explained. "There have been several accidents, a few serious."
"Oh," was all Janine said as she looked at the source of her current condition.
"Keep an eye on superkid for us, okay?" Peter asked as he headed for Ecto's driver's seat. "He's supposed to be in bed, but you know Ray."
She smiled. She knew Ray very well. Even the flu couldn't keep him down, and he would be easily bored lollygagging around in bed. "I'll check on him occasionally." Not so much that he'd think he was being checked on, but enough to keep him - and her - company. Usually that was Slimer's job, but the little slimeball hadn't been around much in the past few days. The roar of the Caddy's engine drowned out any answer Peter may have given so she simply waved and moved back to her seat, starting up the PC and keying in the billing program.
Halfway through the overdue billing process (including the printing of one of Dr. Venkman's patented 'no, this isn't a threat, not really' letters), she smelled something cooking. Without conscious effort she identified it as ground beef, the scent coming from upstairs. Glancing at her watch, she found was already half-past twelve. Damn. She hadn't meant to get so involved in her work, she'd meant to go up and check on Ray an hour ago. Now it seemed he was up and around and Peter would give her hell for not keeping him down. Well, she wasn't a baby-sitter, she was a secretary, and if Ray wanted to make lunch that was his prerogative.
The sudden yelp that came from the same direction as the aroma brought her out of her seat and flying up the stairs. "Ray!" She could see the smoke by the time she reached the landing, and ran into the kitchen to find the frying pan ablaze. Stantz stood back from the stove, still in pajamas, looking dazed and coughing from the smoke.
Darting past him, she dove for the fire extinguisher hanging on one side of the cabinets and yanked it out of its holder. Pointing it at the fire, she pulled the pin, then squeezed the trigger, letting the white foam bathe the blaze and the whole stove under its cover. Finally, sure all the flames were out, she spun to look at the perpetrator. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing?" she barked.
Tears were streaming down Ray's face, although whether they were from the smoke or something else she couldn't tell. "I - I wanted to fix lunch for the guys - you know, hamburgers, fries - I mean, since I can't go out on busts with them and..."
She found herself smiling at his effort and the innate thoughtfulness it spoke for. "Ray, sweetie, you're sick. You're supposed to be in bed, not up cooking for a bunch of ingrates. They're supposed to be taking care of you." You are, too, echoed a voice inside her head, and she slapped down the guilty feeling by mentally promising to take care of matters now. "C'mon. Let's get you upstairs and back into bed."
"But - but what about-?" He gestured to the mess the kitchen had become.
"Don't you worry about it," she reassured him. "I'll get everything taken care of. You, first." Tugging on his arm, she turned him toward the doorway and slid a friendly arm around his waist to guide him back upstairs.
Winston was grateful Peter was driving today, the spill he'd taken down the steps hadn't exactly been fun. At least the nasty little gooper was caught and could spend the rest of his days in containment, trying to scare all the other ghosts. Until someone bigger and a lot nastier got cheesed off and squashed the little creep. The thought made him smile.
He eased himself slowly out of Ecto when Venkman had parked it in the garage, and caught hold of Peter's arm as the other man came around the car. "I get dibs on the shower this time. I've got bruises on top of bruises."
"It's all yours," Peter magnanimously offered. Of course, Winston noted, neither was the man slimed this time. "Me, I'm for lunch, and a lot of it."
"I wonder where Janine is?" Egon wondered aloud, and Peter grinned.
"Trust him to notice her absence, and not her," he told Winston. "Maybe she went to get some lunch. It's past most people's normal eating time."
"Peter, one-fifteen is not all that late," Egon chided.
"Methinks I smell food here," Winston continued, following his nose slowly toward the staircase. "At least, I think it's food."
Peter took a whiff. "Smells sorta like hamburger, but there's something else there too." He took the first two stairs, then stopped and turned to the other two. "You know, Janine wouldn't do anything like fix us lunch."
"Maybe she did for Ray," Winston offered, passing Venkman by and pulling himself up the stairs by the bannister. "And maybe there's leftovers."
"Yeah," Peter agreed. "There might be, if the spud's not back." He charged up the stairs, leaving Winston to exert his way up, Egon still behind him.
Peter was at a full stop in the doorway to the kitchen when Winston made it to the top of the stairs. Venkman had a hand on each side of the opening and seemed stuck there. "Pete?"
"This place is a mess!" Peter finally said just as Winston reached his back. Looking past Venkman's shoulders, Zeddemore could see the white goop covering the stove and everything on it.
"Ectoplasm?" Egon's voice asked from beside him.
"Extinguisher," answered Janine's voice from the stairs to third, and Winston turned to see her descend. Her skirt and blouse were dabbed with more of the white foam. "We, uh, kinda had a little grease fire here."
"A little grease fire?" Peter repeated, his voice startled.
"'We'?" Egon questioned.
Janine straightened her spine. "Ray and I. Well, Ray, really. He was trying to cook lunch."
"That imbecile!" Peter spouted off. "He's sick, he knows he's supposed to be in bed, and what does he go and do but-"
Winston clamped a hand over Venkman's mouth before the psychologist could do more damage or raise his voice. "Go on, Janine."
"He said he wanted to cook lunch for you guys, and..." She shrugged.
"You let him," Peter said accusingly as he pushed the hand away from his mouth.
"I didn't 'let' him. He's a grownup, no matter what you guys think, and he can do what he wants. He was trying to do something nice for you, not that you deserve it." Angry now, she finished climbing down the spiral stairs and stomped her way to the flight to the first floor.
Winston strode forward, catching her arm. "Janine, we're sorry. This, well, it just scared us a little. With Ray sick and all."
She took a deep breath and the anger seemed to drain out of her. "It's okay. I got him back to bed and gave him another glass of orange juice. He seemed really out of it. I was going to come down here and get this place all cleaned before you got back."
"We'll do it," Peter said, his voice quieter now and his attitude sincere. "Thanks for looking after him for us."
"Not a problem," she answered, heading down the main stairs. No sooner was she out of sight than Peter pulled out of Winston's grip.
"Where do you think you're going?" Winston asked as Venkman made for the staircase.
"To check on him."
Winston could tell from Peter's tone that the other man was calmer than he had been a few minutes earlier but, once aroused, the famous Venkman temper hovered very close to the surface. "I'll go with you and see for myself - how Ray is." He hoped his lapse wouldn't be caught.
Peter shot him a sharp look, but said nothing as he headed upward. Winston followed closely and trailed the psychologist into the bunkroom. Venkman sat down on the near side of Ray's bed, and rested the back of his hand against Ray's pale cheek. "He's not feverish," Peter reported, a frown forming between his eyebrows. "Hey, Ray? Superchef, you in there?"
It took a firm shake of the flaccid shoulder to get a response from Stantz. "....mpf?" was the most coherent part of it.
"Hey, how're you feelin'?" Peter continued in a softer voice than Winston thought was possible after the way he'd blown up downstairs a few minutes ago.
"'s all foggy," Ray muttered out, his eyes barely open. "'m just tired, Peter."
"You're just sick, you mean," Venkman said with a grin, and he ruffled the auburn hair affectionately. "I'll get you something to make you feel better, okay?"
Before Ray could answer Peter slid off the bed and headed out of the room. Winston took the opportunity to take his place, and smiled down at the younger man. "I knew this was a firehall, but I didn't expect you to make it live up to its name."
"I'm sorry, Winston, I-"
Zeddemore's upraised hand cut him off. "No apologies necessary, m'man. You tried to do a nice thing. Can't ask for more than that. But let yourself be sick once in a while, okay? You've earned the right."
Ray had just smiled when Peter returned, paper cup in one hand and a blue-and-white capsule in the other. "Upsy, Ray."
"What is that?" Winston asked as he moved around to help Ray sit up. The last thing they needed was Peter prescribing without a license.
"Contac 12-hour formula. It does wonders for me." Peter reclaimed his position on the bed and held the capsule out, letting Ray take it from him.
"You mean it makes you into a cranky bastard," Winston shot back. "Of course," he went on to mutter thoughtfully, "some days that can definitely be an improvement."
"I mean it makes the world tolerable again," Peter answered, after sticking his tongue out in response to the insult. He dropped the pill into Ray's hand and gave him the cup of water. "Here, wash it down. I know it's not orange juice but I'll get you some more later, okay?"
Ray tried to nod at the same time he was drinking from the paper cup, and as a result rivulets of water ran down either side of his mouth. Venkman pulled the cup away and Winston tried to hide his grin at the look of chagrin on Stantz's face.
Peter just grinned too, and used a corner of the sheet to wipe the water away. "That stuff might really make you sleepy, so if it does, let it and just snooze away."
"I'm already sleepy," Ray muttered, settling back down under the covers even as Peter stood.
Winston glanced back as he and Peter reached the door, to see Ray already in the slow breathing of sleep. In order to tell if the cold remedy was making him drowsy, they were going to have to wake him up to look for the effect. "Whatever this is must really be wiping him. He's already out of it."
"Yeah, I noticed." There was a note of concern in Venkman's voice that worried Winston.
Wharon stood at the doorway of the bunkroom, barely hiding the smile that threatened to take over the features of the host body. There was nearly a week of human time left until its master would take over the world, but it was almost wishing the time could be longer now that it had discovered something fun to do while it waited. As soon as Ghordon showed up, the master would take over all the fun and then kill the humans, which wasn't a bad thing but the change in power would mean the end of one of the few times when Wharon had the privilege of its own personal living playthings. It had been a very long time since Wharon had been permitted to torture anyone, Ghordon had held his minion on a tight leash for the past few centuries.
It was a great pleasure to abuse such a susceptible creature as Ray, and the host it now possessed had also proven surprisingly full of potential for entertainment. These two were a real joy to torment, their feelings feeding it in a way no physical energy source ever could match for sheer enjoyment. All the anguish Spengler felt whenever something abominable was happening to Stantz was a sensual ecstasy comparable to the richest and most decadent cheesecake, and Ray's bewildered hurt at the apparent rejection and betrayal by his friend was like the heady bouquet of a fine wine.
Now Wharon had a prime opportunity to play with one of its toys and it was looking forward to the game a great deal, savoring the internal counterplay of its own anticipation with the poorly suppressed dread coming from Spengler. Twilight had settled while the other three had ordered out and then cleaned the kitchen, and Peter had ended up as covered in CO2 foam as he had been with ectoplasm the day before. Now, while Peter started the day's laundry, there was a clear shot at the unattended Stantz, since Winston had claimed his hot shower before Peter could cut in.
"Ray?" Wharon called softly into the dimly lit room. The figure in the occupied bed stirred and turned toward the sound as the physicist's body strode into the room, seating itself on the edge of the bed as it knew the real Egon would. "How do you feel?" The eyes of its host had adjusted to the dusk in the room well enough to see the frown that wrinkled the younger man's forehead.
"Foggy," Ray admitted sleepily.
"You'll feel better in the morning," the demon promised, knowing the drug would have had time to clear out of his system during the night and he would indeed feel better then. At which point it would be time for another dose. "I, ah, came to apologize for yelling at you yesterday." Keeping the youngest member of the team off-balance made manipulating him much easier, but even more important to Wharon than that, it was a great deal of fun to mess with Ray's head. "It had not been the most of auspicious days. I have had a potential article for Fungus World on my mind, and with the experiment going awry..." It left the tiniest hint ot accusation in Spengler's voice, just enough to be sensed by someone extremely sensitive to the tone, and could see from the dark eyes that Stantz still felt enough guilt for the explosion to pick up the subtle nuance.
"Egon, honest, I didn't-"
Wharon stopped him with an upraised hand. "It is nothing to concern yourself with now. Just concentrate on getting well. When you are better, you might be able to assist me in recreating the experiment - that is, if you think you can."
It saw the flush that came to the younger man's face and hid its own grin. Finding in Spengler's mind the information about Stantz's lack of self-confidence regarding some of his own qualities had been easy and very promising, and finding ways to play on that flaw would keep it occupied and amused for the coming days. Maybe, Wharon suddenly thought, when its mission had been safely accomplished it could indulge in the ultimate betrayal and kill this Stantz itself. To see the expression in those hazel eyes and feel the pain that would pour off him as he died at the hands of his friend, that would be something worth risking Ghordon's wrath for!
"I'll - be glad to help, Egon." But the cheery voice Wharon had found representing Ray's normal state in its host's memory wasn't present now.
"Good. Then you just get some sleep." Meanwhile, the concentration of drugs in his system would make a mess of his sleeping habits and he'd become even more vulnerable to emotional influences. Sliding off the edge of the bed, Wharon faced the doors and finally let the grin take Spengler's face. This was going to be be a great week!
Egon sighed, and in the grey prison where he lay alone the very atmosphere seemed to gloat over his misery. Unable to make any progress without information which he had so far been unable to acquire, he was nearing hopelessness. There seemed to be nothing he could do to derail the demon's intentions, and he did not even feel like making another escape attempt. He knew he was being toyed with when the bars faded and resolutely closed his eyes, preferring to use the quiet solitude during the night hours for thought rather than wasting his energy on another pointless confrontation with the malignant entity infesting his body. Since he could not devise a plan to save himself at the moment, he chose to occupy his mind with planning for after this was over. Assuming the Ghostbusters and not the unknown approaching threat won the coming confrontation, there would be plenty to straighten up afterward.
One major concern was Ray, obviously. With the way Ray was being drugged, anyone would be a mess both physically and mentally. Ray was stronger than the demon was giving him credit for and would normally be able to shake off what had happened to him in the last couple days. The barbiturates certainly were not helping, neither was the fact Ray had been set up for a couple pretty humiliating incidents, but in Egon's estimation Ray was too inherently positive a personality to be destroyed by such minor setbacks. He could be depressed and made to feel bad, but so could anyone if something evil and determined enough spent days working on nothing else. Once the source of his trouble was gone he would rebound to the same basically optimistic soul he had been before. Ray had survived in Morrisville under less positive conditions than he had now, yet when the time had come he'd faced Gozer and Samhaine, Vigo and the Bogeyman with fearlessness. No, not fearlessness. They'd all been afraid. Determination. Chutzpah. Excitement. If this demon thought that by making Ray confused for a week it could ensure the team would fail to function at a critical moment, it was in for a surprise that Egon found himself looking forward to seeing.
There was another consequence he was not able to dismiss quite so lightly, the results of his perceived actions on his own relationship with the team. Even if - when, he forcibly reminded himself - they all survived this, he wondered if he would ever be comfortably accepted within their inner circle again. They would know he had been possessed and what they had seen him do had not been of any will of his own, but he'd had enough psychology courses himself to understand some of the workings of the human mind and how lingering impressions could poison relationships. The things that had been said to Ray and the attempts to discredit him with the others, these were memories they would all have and in their minds they could not help but always see Egon doing those things and hear his voice saying the hurtful words. There was no other face to pin the blame on. Stantz would forgive him, that was simply Ray's nature, but conscious forgiveness did not guarantee a total resumption of the unconscious freedom and ease they had developed between them. If that unquestioned trust was lost, the demon and his master would have won a victory after all.
Egon took some comfort in his knowledge that Ray was a stronger and wiser person than most would suspect, and that Peter and Winston would help their friends with anything, but whether it would be enough to overcome everything being done he could not tell.
"So who's gonna check on sleeping beauty?" Peter asked over the breakfast table. Wharon glanced up from perusing one of its victim's magazines, having chosen that means to keep itself from having to join in on a discussion of the Giants' chances of making the playoffs. Spengler's mind didn't hold much information on football, but there were memories indicating the physicist usually didn't involve himself in sports discussions.
But now the time had come to take control of matters and make them worse. "I assume you are referring to Ray," it said in its host's controlled bass voice. "I'll go and see how he is."
"Ah, you just want to get out of doing the dishes," Peter jibed with a grin even as Wharon rose to its feet. "Or was getting a decent breakfast for once too much for you?"
"Decent? Not exactly the word I would have chosen. I must confess, Peter, your omelet was the most... interesting breakfast I've had for some time." Wharon got to the circular stairs before finishing the retort. "I'm sure it will stay with me. All day." It held a hand over its stomach as it finished.
"If he's still feeling bad, the Contac's in the medicine cabinet," Peter called as Wharon started up the stairs.
Luck was with it today, the demon exulted as it turned first for the bath, heading straight to the medicine cabinet. It had practically been invited to amuse itself by simply mimicking an act of kindness, and there was no need for risky subterfuge. The blue and white package was ignored in favor of the prescription bottle, and Wharon shook two of the barbiturate tablets out of the brown canister. Placing the childproof cap, it filled a paper cup with water and went across the hall.
"Ray?" it called softly into the morning-bright room, walking to the bed where the softly snoring form lay amid tangled blankets, more evidence of the restless night Stantz had gotten. Looking down at the profile of the man in bed, Wharon smiled. When there were so many other things it could do to torment the man that might prove even more entertaining, this simple unpleasantry was a waste of great potential. The only problem with most of the more interesting alternatives was their sheer visibility, they would all bring a rally of the other Ghostbusters to Ray's side. A little screaming and they'd take away its plaything, and might even reveal Wharon for what it was and jeopardize its mission before the master came. Instead of really having a great time, it would have to let subtlety work for it and just make do with the pleasure it was able to get safely. Sitting on the edge of the bed, it shook Stantz's shoulder. "Ray? You in there?"
After a long moment, Stantz stirred. The delay didn't surprise Wharon, it drew on Spengler's chemical knowledge and realized the combination of drugs in his system had made Stantz even more out of synch. "Ray, it's time for your medication." It held the tablets and the cup out even as the dark eyes opened.
"...mmm?" was the only comment Ray tried, but he rolled himself onto an unsteady elbow and held a hand out. Smiling, Wharon handed him the two tablets, cognizant that Stantz was too fogged to have a clue what he was really being given. The barbiturate in pure form would do wonders to continue that condition, and if Venkman continued to introduce antihistamines into his system it would only intensify the effects.
Ray downed the pills without a glance and took the cup, hand trembling at the weight. In an admirable simulation of concern, Wharon helped him hold the cup until the water was gone. It took the empty cup from Ray's hand and set it on the bedside table, then was surprised when there was sudden weight against its leg. Turning its head, Wharon found the auburn head nestled against Spengler's knee, burrowed down as if to draw energy or comfort from the contact.
The demon smiled. It had them, then, if this one still trusted in the man he thought was his friend after all that had happened. Success was inevitable, Stantz had been the main danger with his knowledge of the systems and he was now effectively neutralized. The only real caution left to take would be to guard against the other two's sharper observations and, so long as it managed to keep up the appearance of a worried physicist, remaining unsuspected would be child's play. In just a few days its master would rule this world and Wharon would be at his side, favored for its part in the victory. Maybe favored enough to have its very own Ghostbuster as a reward.
Egon watched from his lonely detachment as the demon lowered one long-fingered hand to the disarrayed red hair, stroking it gently, and ground his teeth in frustrated rage. The demon was using his knowledge of the others to hurt them, trying to drive wedges between them and cripple Ray's relationship with the others. Worse yet, it was using Ray's inherent trust in Egon to betray him into the hands of the evil force that was coming. If Egon had been capable of regretting his friendship with Ray, this would have been the time he would have wished they had never met.
The only solace he had was that regardless of what had happened the others would rally around Ray. They'd handled injury and illness together before and, as long as that was what the demon was mimicking in Ray, Peter and Winston would look after him. That was its other miscalculation, its failure to understand what motivated them and how they would react. So long as the demon equated weakness with incompetence and assumed the humans did too, it would be deluding itself into thinking it had convinced the others of Ray's uselessness when all it would really be accomplishing was bringing their protective affection to the fore. If anything, Egon found some hope in these continued attempts to endanger Ray. for nothing in the world would make Peter or Winston so vigilant as a threat to one of their own, and if they were on guard they must sooner or later discover the monster hiding in Egon's body.
But, watching the pain the fiend had caused Ray, he hurt for his friend. He longed to be able to help, to push back the darkness and confusion Ray was lost in and make the world fair and right again. Deprived of the sense of touch while he watched his own hand stroke Ray's hair, he wanted to be back in the world, able to put his arms around the younger man. Instead of hearing any more of the abominable, hate-filled things his own voice was used to say, Egon wanted to hold Ray and let him know he was loved now as he always had been and always would be, as the brother Egon had never had, as adopted but far from secondary family.
But those words would never be heard if the creature using him was successful in sabotaging their equipment.
Janine had advised them there weren't any appointments for the day and Peter had taken the news as an invitation to take it easy. Winston had taken Ecto out to the car show and Egon had isolated himself in his lab. Probably trying to recreate the experiment that had exploded on Ray, Peter thought with a wry grin. Ka-Boom.
Ray, though, was another matter, one that had been weighing on Peter's mind for some time. In all the years he'd known the younger man Ray had been energetic, outgoing, and vibrant. Whatever it was he had caught seemed to have stripped him of all those qualities. Even the last time he'd had the flu this bad, back while defending his master's thesis in parapsychology at Columbia against a board which seemed determined to trash it, he'd still been bouncy and spirited. Sick as a dog, undeniably, but not twitchy, depressed, and defensive.
Peter set the remote aside, having switched off the set in utter boredom after noticing he had passed Regis and Kathie Lee on the dial four times without finding anything he wanted to sit still for. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch, a distracted frown line formed between his brows as his thoughts inevitably circled back to Ray. Nothing seemed to be making Ray any better, not even the Contac. Peter was well aware the medication had an antihistamine which always came with the "Do not drive or use heavy machinery, as drowsiness may occur" warning, but this incessant sleeping was getting to be ridiculous. He was tempted to send Janine to the drugstore to get some flu medication that had a "no drowsiness" formula and see how Ray did on that instead of the regular Contac.
With a shake of his head, Peter picked up the remote again and flipped the television back on, wondering how long it would be until WOR ran their daily Bonanza episode. If he got any more bored, he was going to have to seriously consider looking for something to read. Flipping from channel to channel in the admittedly vain hope something new had com