Egon Spengler straightened slowly from his uncomfortable kneeling position, grinning proudly at the prize in his dirt-covered hands. A maximillis propylis, and a fine specimen at that. This particular strain of mushroom was not only rare but beautiful as well, at least in his eyes. He placed it in the specially designed case brought along for that very purpose and carefully packed dirt around it before snapping the lid shut.
The fungus secured, he climbed stiffly to his feet and tried to coax the muscles in his back into proper alignment. He had spent a great deal of time today on his knees searching out well-concealed fungi and he had a feeling he was going to pay for it tonight with a very stiff back. Still, to him it would be worth every ache and pain. The guys had agreed to his request to take their annual camping trip even farther into the Adironacks this year so he could do some long-awaited mycological research ("Toadstool hunting," Peter had whispered loudly to Ray) and it had turned out even better than he had hoped. He had managed to collect a number of specimens he had been seeking, and the beauty and solitude of the area had induced them all to unwind and relax. After the frenzied pace of the last few weeks and a number of very close calls they had all needed the break badly. Even Peter, that inveterate city boy, had made an uneasy truce with Mother Nature and was learning to appreciate the benefits of a wilderness vacation.
Looking around, Egon frowned in puzzlement, wondering why the sun was so low in the sky. Certainly it couldn't be that late...a glance at his watch made his eyebrows climb. Where had the afternoon gone? And where had those threatening-looking cumulonimbus clouds come from? They were still a long way off, but from the way the wind was beginning to pick up it wouldn't be long until they were close enough to make him very wet. Grimacing at that thought, he picked up his case full of specimens, slipped the strap of his knapsack over his shoulder, and began hiking quickly in the direction of camp. He knew he should never have let himself get so caught up in his work that he ignored what was going on around him--not in the mountains. If they had been in their usual camping area he would have known where to head for shelter if necessary and how long it would take him to get back to camp; he didn't have that easy confidence with their current location. It was with some irritation he admitted he had let himself wander a little too far afield in his quest for fungi and Peter would probably have a good laugh at his expense when he showed up in camp soaking wet.
Egon had been hiking at a brisk pace for a good twenty minutes when he stopped to take his bearings and calculate his chances of reaching camp before the promised storm reached him. It looked to him like it would be close. Hitching his knapsack into a more comfortable position, he set out again, sliding a little in the loose stones that covered the side of the mountain he was working his way around. He hadn't come this way, but he knew he was headed in the right direction and hoped to cut a little time off his journey by taking this route. At least the theory was sound.
He was still cautiously making his way over the tricky terrain, keeping one eye on the approaching thunderhead, when a sound made him freeze in his tracks. Cocking his head, he strained to hear it again. It could have been merely the sound of the rising wind moaning through the rocks but... He straightened, head turning toward his left. There it was again, and it wasn't just a sound, it was a voice. Someone was calling out faintly and it sounded like they were in trouble. The approaching storm forgotten in the face of a call for help, Egon waited a moment, got an approximate fix on the direction of the voice, and immediately adjusted his course to investigate.
Peter took one more turn around the camp's perimeter, paused a moment to study the darkening sky, then returned to where Winston and Ray were conferring in low tones by Winston's tent. The psychologist's brown hair was in wild disarray from the intermittent wind gusts and Winston saw him grimace as he tried to get the teeth of a comb through his tangled locks, then jam the comb back into his pocket in disgust. The expression his face was almost as dark as the approaching storm, but there was concern as well as irritation in his green eyes.
"Where the hell is he anyhow?" Peter demanded of no one in particular for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes.
"You know Egon," Ray spoke up with a small grin. "He probably got all caught up looking for mushrooms and just didn't realize how late it was."
The occultist had tried to sound reassuring, but from the sharp look Venkman threw him he obviously hadn't been successful. The fact was they had all been casting worried glances at the sky during the last hour. Egon was the smartest man Winston had ever met and was well able to take care of himself, but they all knew how easily he could become so caught up in his work he completely lost track of time and space. Back at the firehall the results of that kind of single-mindedness could range from mildly amusing to downright annoying as it did those times when he conveniently forgot whose turn it was to take out the trash or cook dinner. But this wasn't the firehall; this was the wilderness and Egon was a genius but he was no Daniel Boone. If he had gotten lost out there in the unfamiliar mountains he could be in real trouble once darkness fell and the storm hit.
"He's gonna know what time it is when I catch up with him," Peter muttered under his breath, impatiently brushing a lock of wind-tossed hair out of his eyes. Of them all, Venkman was the one displaying the most outward signs of worry; for the last half hour he had been prowling around camp like a caged panther, too edgy to sit still or stay in one place for more than a few minutes at a time. Peter Venkman wasn't often nervous (or at least, Zeddemore amended, he rarely let it show) and seeing him this uptight made Winston uneasy too. He could see Peter's actions had had an effect on the usually optimistic Ray, as well. The younger man's face had lost its expression of forced cheerfulness and he was watching the darkening sky with open anxiety now.
"That's it," Venkman announced abruptly. "I'm going out to look for him." Without waiting for a response he ducked into his tent, reappearing almost immediately with a flashlight and knapsack which he had obviously had prepared and ready to go. "I've got the first aid kit and plenty of water," he continued, hitching the knapsack onto his shoulder, "and some rope, just in case."
"I'm coming with you," Ray said immediately. "Just let me get my stuff, too."
"We're all going," Winston declared firmly, already moving in the direction of his tent.
"Fine," Peter agreed. "We can cover more ground if we split up."
Zeddemore paused before ducking into his tent. "Nobody's splitting up; we go together." When Peter opened his mouth to object, he leveled an index finger at the psychologist. "It's not going to do any of us any good if we've got two lost Ph.D's out there."
That drew the expected reaction from Venkman as he rolled his eyes in a combination of irritation and relief at the attempt at humor. "Right, like you never get lost, Zeddemore."
"Nope," he retorted, throwing the psychologist a wink before disappearing into his tent, "it just seems to be you genius types who can't read maps." As he gathered up the supplies they might need for a possible rescue he could hear Ray laughing and Peter sputtering that just because he got them lost on the way to Philadelphia that one time...
Help me. Help me please.
Although it was still faint, the voice was closer now, and clear enough for Egon to identify it as a man's voice. He made his way carefully over some treacherous rocks, alert for any sign that someone had passed the same way recently. The rumbling of thunder had gotten closer in the last few minutes and he knew before long he would undoubtedly feel the first of the cold raindrops promised by the dark, swollen clouds filling the sky. Already the temperature had dropped considerably and he was beginning to feel the chill even under his jacket.
Help me.
The plea was unexpectedly loud and he stopped, eyes narrowing as he strained to see some sign of life or movement on the rugged mountainside. His gaze swept over one spot three times before he saw it: there was an opening in the side of the mountain. Brush and weeds had overgrown it long ago so that it would be indiscernible except to the most determined examination. Making his way carefully over to the dark hole, he took only a moment to pull away some of the thicker and more stubborn weeds in order to study it more closely. What he'd found was no cave, rather it was a manmade opening. Setting his specimen case aside, he shrugged out of his knapsack and quickly retrieved his flashlight. The beam of light barely penetrated the thick darkness yawning before him, but it was enough to show him the rough-hewn support timbers lining the sides and roof of the tunnel. It must be an old, abandoned mine, he theorized, and from the appearance of those timbers, none too safe.
Cautiously stepping back, he called out, "Hello? Is anyone in there?"
Help me please.
The voice was coming from within the mine, there was no doubt about that. "Are you injured? Are you trapped in there?"
This time no matter how hard he strained to hear there was no response. He moved again into the opening, lips compressed. It was possible whoever was in there was injured and had passed out. If they were bleeding or in shock they would need immediate attention; any delay while he tried to find help could prove fatal. The idea of entering a probably hazardous old mine without proper equipment or backup held no appeal whatsoever, but he could not simply walk away and possibly let someone die if there was any other alternative.
Clutching his flashlight, he stepped into the darkness, shivering at the sudden chill and the heavy, damp air he drew into his lungs. "Hello?" He pitched his voice loud enough to carry in the cavern but hopefully not loud enough to cause any destructive vibrations. The surrounding timbers looked fragile enough to crack at the slightest provocation. "I'm coming in. I'm going to try to help you. If you can hear me, try to make some sort of noise so I can find you." He waited a few moments but when there was no reply, began walking deeper into the darkness, careful to stay away from the walls and supporting beams.
As he continued, stumbling occasionally on the rubble and debris of broken timber, he could feel the path leading him downward. He had done a fair share of spelunking in his life, but always with proper equipment and never alone. Only fools, he reflected grimly, explored unfamiliar caves or abandoned mines without backup. A few seconds after this observation a smart knock on his forehead reminded him to play the beam up as well as down in order to check for low ceilings. Rubbing the sore spot above his left eye, he moved doggedly forward, calling out occasionally in hopes of getting a response from the person he was trying to rescue.
He had just ducked under a particularly low crossbeam when the air turned suddenly and ominously colder. Spengler recognized the 'feel' of the air all too well. The back of his neck started to tingle in warning and he spun around, muttering fiercely, "I am a fool." But before he could make his escape or chastise himself further, something shoved into him from behind, pushing him hard against the rotting timber bracing the walls and ceiling. He heard the beams crack as soon as he hit them and at the same time heard a rumble overhead. Cave-in. His flashlight lost during the assault, Egon struggled in the darkness to disentangle himself from the splintered wood. Still off-balance, he was pushed again, shoved hard against the crumbling wall. Before he could recover from the second attack stones began to pelt him from above as, with a resounding snap, the supporting crossbeam overhead split. The phsyicist felt the crushing weight of the massive beam hit him and drive him to the ground. The instant before his head exploded he heard something cackle in his ear: Help me. Help me please.
"We should have met up with Egon by now." Peter cast one more glance at the rumbling, threatening sky, then turned his attention to Ray who was looking at their rugged surroundings, open worry on his youthful face. "I don't care how caught up he got in looking for mushrooms, it's gotten a whole lot colder and darker with that storm moving in. Egon would have noticed that and he'd be on his way back to camp." Troubled brown eyes met Peter's. "Unless--"
"Unless he got lost," Venkman finished quickly, not giving Ray a chance to finish the thought any other way. "Which is not beyond the realm of possibility. When Egon's got science on his mind he can get lost in the firehall."
"I hear you," Winston chuckled. "I still remember the time we sent him to the store for groceries and he came back empty-handed because he was working out some theory or other in his head. He came back to the firehouse, walked right past us without a word and went up to his lab as if he'd just gone for a walk around the block."
That memory coaxed a tiny grin out of Ray, but it faded almost immediately. "But what if he's not just lost?" he persisted. "What if he's lying out there somewhere unconscious or hurt? How are we going to find him?"
Peter had been trying to keep that particularly unpleasant thought at bay himself and he had to force it aside once more as he dropped a hand on Ray's shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "If Egon's hurt and wants to get our attention, my bet is he'll make a flare out of a piece of flint, a stick, and some bubble gum, and we'll see it a mile off." Giving the occultist's shoulder a final little shake, he said, "We'll find him, Ray. He may be tired, hungry--" he threw a resigned look at the sky--"and wet, but we'll find him."
"Maybe he's holed up somewhere," Winston mused. "If he saw this storm coming he might have figured he couldn't beat it back to camp."
"He doesn't know these mountains well enough to know where to head," Peter countered. "Besides, I think he'd chance getting wet before he'd try to wait out the storm and risk trying to hike back to camp in the dark. Not to mention the fact he knows if he didn't show up we'd all be out looking for him."
The black man nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, you've got a point there."
"I've got another one, too," he said, coming to a stop. The other two likewise came to a halt and looked at him. "We've got to split up. We're not covering enough ground this way." The uneasiness he had been feeling earlier in the evening had long since sharpened into substantial fear with one single focus: Egon. With the way sound bounced around up in the mountains there was no way the physicist couldn't have heard them yelling for him. But if he hadn't heard them and they hadn't met up with him making his way back to camp by now, something was very wrong. There were a hundred different ways to get injured, trapped, or disabled out in the wilderness and if Egon had managed to find even one of them...
"We don't have much choice," Winston agreed, eyes sweeping the rugged terrain, "but we're going to have to pick up the pace. It's going to be completely dark in another hour or so and we're not going to have much chance of finding him then."
"Then we'll just have to find him before then." Peter's retort came out a little sharper than he'd intended and he ran a hand recklessly through his already disheveled hair, muttering, "Sorry, Winston."
The older man clapped him on the shoulder, saying easily, "Don't worry, Pete. We'll find him."
Venkman managed a forced grin. "Yeah, I know we will. Everybody keep in touch with the radios, and hope they carry far enough in these mountains. Okay, Tex," he continued, turning to Ray, "you ready?"
The occultist looked every bit as worried as Peter felt, but nodded and said firmly, "Let's do it."
Peter hadn't gone more than a half mile in his chosen direction when he spotted Egon's knapsack and specimen case laying discarded beside some rocks. His feet slid on the loose stones peppering the mountainside as he hurried over the uncertain terrain, yelling, "Egon! Egon, where are you?" When he reached his friend's belongings he stopped and looked around anxiously. "Egon? Can you hear me?" His eyes fell on the dark entrance cut into the mountainside and he felt his stomach drop. "Spengler, you idiot," he whispered. "Tell me you didn't go in there."
He walked over to the opening, flicked on his flashlight and took one cautious step inside. "Egon?" Suddenly he sneezed. Then he sneezed again. He felt his mouth go dry with fear as he realized he was breathing dust. The only thing he could imagine that could have stirred up so much fresh dust in an old mine was... Cave-in. "EGON!"
Teeth clenched together so tightly his jaw hurt, Peter had to force himself back out of the cave. Quickly, with unsteady hands, he fumbled in his knapsack for a rope. He couldn't do Egon any good if he got himself lost in there and he didn't know how many passageways he'd be forced to explore. Tying one end of the rope securely around the base of a stable-looking bush, he gripped the coil in one hand and snapped the radio from his belt with the other.
"Ray. Winston. I think I've found him." He waited for the other two to respond, then gave hasty directions to the mine. "I'm going in to see if I can find him."
"Pete, you stay out of there until we get there."
"Peter, no! Wait for us!"
"Can't wait, guys. Egon might be hurt. Get here as soon as you can." With that, Peter flicked off the radio, cutting off his friends' protests, and strode into the cave. A few feet inside he stopped and played the strong flashlight beam around, trying to get a feel for the place. He had never been crazy about cramped, dark places, especially places that might harbor such nasties as spiders and bats, but he put that aversion aside at the thought of Egon trapped and possibly hurt.
As he moved ahead cautiously he remembered the time back at Columbia when Egon had managed to get him to accompany some of Spengler's spelunking buddies into a cave they wanted to explore. Peter had lost a bet and that trip was the price he paid, and to be fair, Egon had really thought he might enjoy the experience. He had to admit some of the things they saw turned out to be pretty neat, but not neat enough for him to want to crawl on his stomach through mud and squeeze through openings too small to turn around in. But it was an all-day expedition and it hadn't exactly been something you could just cut out on if you decided you didn't like it. No one was allowed to wander off on their own and if Peter had tried to find his way out himself he guessed he would probably still be down there somewhere wandering around. So he had spent the entire day in the darkness, either on his stomach crawling through mud or banging himself on the head (even with a hard hat it had smarted) when he forgot to watch for low ceilings. At the end of the day he had never been so glad to see sunlight in his life. Right now all he wanted was to see was Egon.
"Egon?" His voice echoed hollowly, and although he stood perfectly still and even held his breath he could hear no reply. Tightening his already convulsive grip on the flashlight, he moved forward again, ears straining for any sound other than his footfalls and the unnaturally loud sound of his pounding heart.
The damp, cool air in the tunnel was beginning to soak through his jacket and he shivered, but he suspected his reaction wasn't just from the cold. He knew Egon was in there, knew it with a certainty that was almost frightening, and with that certainty came a crushing fear for his friend. "You'd better be okay, Egon," he said loudly, ducking just in time to miss a nasty whack to the head. "You hear me, Spengs? You know it's not nice to scare Dr. Venkman like this--" He broke off in a cough as he walked into a thick cloud of dust. Batting it away ineffectively with one hand, he quickly shone the beam ahead and stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach clenching. Up ahead through the lingering dust he could make out a jumble of rocks and broken timber blocking the way.
"Egon?" His voice cracked on the physicist's name as he dropped the rope he had been clutching and broke into a run. The flashlight fell unheeded as he attacked the heavy beams and rocks with his bare hands, yelling Spengler's name at the top of his lungs. If the thick dust hadn't been enough to convince him there had been a recent disaster, the broken beams were. The outside of the timber was dark from age and dampness, but where they were broken he could see the splintered ends were fresh and hadn't had the chance to darken.
He could feel his fingernails break under his assault on the wall of rocks and timber but even as he clawed at them he knew it was useless. Most of the rocks were too heavy for him to move himself and God only knew how far the cave-in extended. It could be several feet thick or more. He couldn't do the job on his own. With that dark realization he stopped, panting for breath in the closed, damp quarters. The air was stale anyway and the thick dust was clogging his airway. His chest heaving, he pressed his ear to the rocks and screamed Egon's name. His voice was already hoarse from the combination of yelling and dust-filled air and he realized there was a good chance his shouts wouldn't penetrate through the barricade. Looking around wildly, he found a small rock, scooped it up and banged against one of the boulders. "Damn it, Egon, if you're in there, answer me!"
He held his breath until he thought he would pass out. Overhead, timbers groaned ominously and some small rocks tumbled down as if the place were rehearsing for another cave-in. He swallowed hard, but refused to budge. Again he struck the boulder, wincing as the rock slid off and his knuckles took most of the hit. Just when he was about to give up in despair, he heard a faint banging sound from the other side of the rock barrier. Hope flooded through him and he struck the rock carefully three times, then waited. The response came immediately: three knocks, stone against stone. They weren't evenly spaced like his had been, but they sounded beautiful to his ears.
He put his face up against the massive wall and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Egon, it's Peter. If you can hear me, make some kind of noise. One for no, two for yes." His eyes slid shut in giddy relief as he heard the sound of stone striking stone two times. His fingers dug painfully into the dirt and rock as he called out his next question, "Are you hurt?" Again he heard the faint retort of stone against stone and let out a whispered, "Shit," when he heard the second rap. Firming his voice he yelled, "Understood. You hang in there, buddy. We're here now and we're gonna--" He broke off as the entire mine shaft suddenly seemed to emit a massive groan. The creaking overhead intensified and he realized numbly the entire ceiling was about to come down on his head--and maybe Egon's as well.
In the space of a heartbeat he realized if he stayed he would in all likelihood be crushed by falling beams and rock, but if he left Egon--"EGON!" He pulled uselessly at the timbers and boulders, ignoring both the pain of his lacerated fingers and the ominous noise of snapping supports. Dust exploded around him as fractured timbers released rock and earth, and he let out a gasp of pain as dirt flew in his eyes, blinding him. As he bent over, rubbing ineffectively at his streaming eyes, he felt strong hands yanking him away from the barricade separating him from Egon. He fought wildly, but another pair of hands joined in, grabbing his other arm.
"Come on, Pete, move!" Winston yelled in his ear. "We've gotta get out of here!"
"Egon," he managed to croak, struggling to break free.
"Peter, no, we can't stay here." Ray had an iron grip on his other arm and together they gave Venkman no choice. He was forcibly dragged away from the barrier.
Blinded from the dirt in his eyes and choking on the thick dust, Peter stumbled often on the uneven floor, but was hauled to his feet every time and half-pulled, half-carried along the mine shaft. Behind him he could hear the roar of timbers and rock falling as the tunnel collapsed behind them. Then suddenly they were out of the choking, dust-filled air of the mine and in the clean, cool air of dusk. He tripped again and this time Ray went with him to the ground and kept him there, holding him down by force as he coughed to rid his lungs of the dust he had breathed.
Something was pressed against his lips. "Drink it," Winston ordered. He gulped the water greedily, nodding when the liquid finally opened his throat. "Egon," he croaked as soon as Zeddemore removed the canteen.
"Easy, Peter." Ray gently tilted his head to the side. "We're going to wash out your eyes. Stay real still now."
Peter impatiently endured their ministrations as Ray carefully lifted each eyelid and Winston washed the dirt from his eyes. When he was finally able to see, if somewhat blurrily, and speak again, he pulled himself up, although Ray didn't remove the steadying arm from around his shoulders. "Egon," he gritted out. "Egon's in there. We have to--"
"Half the mine just caved in, Pete," Winston said, his voice as steady and his expression as carefully set as he could make them. "We can't get to him this way."
"Did you see him, Peter?" Ray demanded anxiously. "Did you talk to him? Was he hurt? Is he--"
"I couldn't see him, but he could answer questions by knocking on the rocks." Venkman rubbed his still stinging eyes, grimaced when he got a look his torn and bleeding nails, then ignored them. "He's hurt, but I don't know how bad." He twisted around to stare at the mine which was still belching remnants of dust. "God, how far back did that cave-in go?" he whispered. "I don't think Egon was too far away, but I couldn't get to him. I tried, but I couldn't--"
Ray's arm tightened abruptly around him. "There's no way you could've gotten to Egon that way, Peter. And you almost got yourself killed in there trying."
Pulling abruptly out of Ray's hold, Peter scrambled to his feet. "We can't just leave him in there!"
"We're not gonna leave him in there," Winston said, standing and gripping Peter's arm as much to steady him as to keep him from charging back into the mine. "We're going to look for another way in."
But what if there isn't another way in? Peter wanted to shout, but didn't. He didn't have to: he saw the same question in the anguished eyes of his friends. "What are we standing around here for?" With Peter leading the way, they began scouring the side of the mountain, looking for some other entrance to the mine.
Cold. God, it was so cold. And dark. The air was damp and heavy, but seemed fresh enough, so he knew there had to be some sort of outside air supply. Egon let his eyes slide shut wearily and tried to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady and shallow. When he had come to his first instinct had been to try to move, and the resulting pain had nearly sent him spiraling back into unconsciousness. The fallen crossbeams had kept him from being crushed to death as heavier rocks came tumbling down, but he was afraid he had suffered some cracked or broken ribs.
Trapped on his back, he was virtually buried from the chest down and only his right arm was free. Earlier he had had to fight down panic as he came to realize he had no feeling in his legs, but he couldn't determine if the numbness was because of the cold or lack of circulation--or some sort of paralysis. Immediately he had pushed that thought aside as unproductive. He was alive and that, for the moment, was what he had to concentrate on. Concentrating, however, was not so easy because of the fierce and unrelenting pain in his skull. One of the falling beams had apparently caught him on the back of the head and he had no idea how long he had been unconscious or how bad his head injury might be. All he knew was that it was practically impossible for him to keep a coherent thought in his head for more than two consecutive seconds. Carefully he forced his eyes open and stared into the inky blackness surrounding him; his glasses had been lost, probably buried under a ton of rocks, and the total darkness gave him an uncomfortable sense of detachment, as if reality had suspended itself. Only the vicious, steady pounding in his head gave him any point of reference at all.
Help me. Help me please. The voice whispered in his ear and Egon gritted his teeth, shivering as a wave of chilling cold washed over him and lingered for an excruciating moment before dissipating. When it had passed he carefully began breathing again and wondered what the entity wanted now that it had him trapped and helpless. Other than its initial attack it had apparently made no move against him. At least not yet.
His right hand curled around a loose stone and his fingers tightened until the sharp edges cut into his palm. The new pain was a welcome diversion from the lancing agony in his head and the total lack of feeling below his waist. It was as quiet as a tomb inside the mine, and bone-chilling cold was seeping into his body from rocks which had never seen sunlight. Again he shivered, this time from more than the cold. The guys would be searching for him. When he hadn't shown up in camp for supper they would have gone out looking for him. That he knew for a certainty. And they would find him. That he also knew for a certainty. But when would they find him? Could he survive even a night in such damp cold with his injuries? What if they didn't find him tonight? How long would he be trapped and what would finish him first--thirst, hypothermia, or his injuries? In his career as a Ghostbuster he had faced and considered death on many occasions, but never had he imagined it like this: trapped, alone, in darkness. Peter, Ray and Winston wouldn't give up until they found him, but would they find him in time?
A particularly sharp pain stabbed his skull and he squeezed his eyes shut, choking back a moan. "Hurry," he whispered to his friends. "Please hurry."
He came awake with a start to discover the sharp pounding in his head had lessened to a dull thudding. The darkness that enveloped him was total, as was the silence, and the combination was frighteningly disorienting. No sight, no sound, no feeling. His fingers convulsed around the sharp rock in his hand and he rapped it weakly against one of the boulders pinning him, a broken sigh escaping his lips as the sound shattered the stillness. He had to keep his senses alert. He couldn't allow himself to sink into this silent, dark abyss. If he did, he knew he would never be able to find his way out.
So he struck the rock again, concentrating on the sound it made. Almost immediately another sound splintered the silence. It came from the other side of the wall of rocks that sealed him from the entrance. It sounded like stone striking stone. Someone was out there. With a surge of hope, he raised the stone a few inches and brought it down again with all his dwindling strength. For several heart-stopping moments he was afraid it hadn't been loud enough to be heard through the barrier, then he heard the response of three careful raps. His return taps weren't quite as loud or steady, but there were three of them.
From the other side of the barrier he heard a muffled whoop and his eyes slid shut in relief when he heard his named called in a familiar tenor. Peter. He tried to answer, but when his voice responded with a feeble rasp, he settled for striking the rock as Peter yelled more questions. Weakened as he was at that point, he could have cried in relief. His friends had found him. He drank in the sound of the psychologist's voice, focused on it, and allowed himself the luxury of hope, pushing away the discomfort of the seeping chill, the reawakened pain in his skull, and fears of paralysis. Peter was just on the other side of the barrier and Egon knew his stubborn friend would find a way to get through to him no matter how impossible the obstacle appeared.
The sudden sound of timbers groaning made his eyes snap open. He knew what that sound meant. "Peter! Get out! Get out now!" His warning shouts, strengthened by panic, were nonetheless lost in the thunderous sounds of wooden supports snapping and rocks crashing on the other side of the barricade. He listened in horror as what was left of the mine shaft apparently collapsed in on itself. It was all over in a remarkably short time. Soon there was nothing left but total, enveloping stillness. "Peter?" Clutching the small rock in his hand, Egon rapped it sharply against a boulder, listening as the sound echoed hollowly in the silence. Gathering his strength he managed to shout his friend's name, then bit back a groan as fresh pain lanced through his head. The rock tumbled from his nerveless fingers and he sagged in despair, his breath coming in harsh rasps as his ribs screamed in fresh protest at the additional weight. Had Peter gotten out in time? Had he even had time? Or had he been buried under tons of rock? Or was he, like Egon, trapped and hurt and helpless?
Spurred on by that thought, Spengler fumbled in the darkness for another stone. Locating one, he began rapping it against the rocks, calling for his friend when he could summon the strength. He kept calling for Peter until a wave of dizziness and fresh pain washed over him and he was pulled soundlessly into oblivion.
"Over here! I've found something!"
At the sound of Ray's shout, Peter spun around and began running back toward the occultist as fast as the tricky terrain underfoot would allow. They had been searching without luck for some other access to the mine, and growing darkness would soon make their job even more difficult. The first of the promised raindrops had already begun to fall and, from the look of the sky, in a very short time they would be dealing with a downpour.
He slid to a halt beside Ray a fraction of a second before Winston did. Together they stared in hope at the apparently man-made hole in the side of the mountain that had been hidden by weeds and overgrowth.
Stantz said, "I think it must have been some sort of ventilation shaft. I flashed my light down there, but I couldn't make out anything; I don't know how deep it is or if we're far enough back to be behind the cave-in."
"Well, there's only one way we're going to find out," Venkman replied, and quickly shrugged out of his jacket. "I'll go down with a rope; that way, if it's a dead end, you two can haul me back out."
Zeddemore looked like he was going to argue for the right to be the one jumping into the unknown, but he measured the diameter of the cavity with his eyes and nodded reluctantly. "It's going to be a tight fit, even for you, Pete." Ray had obviously already come to the same conclusion because he made no argument about who was going to go.
The psychologist nodded. "They don't call me 'Slim' Venkman for nothing," he said lightly, tying one end of the rope around his waist. "I'll just take the flashlight. If I find Egon, you can send down what I'm going to need."
"When you find Egon," Ray corrected, tugging at the knot Peter had just tied to test it. "He's got to be down there and he's got to be all right."
Peter exchanged a glance with Winston before saying, "We know he's down there, Ray, and we're going to find him. We're not going to let a few rocks keep us from hauling Egon out of there, you got that?"
Stantz looked up from his fierce concentration on the knot, his face pale. "I know we'll find him, Peter, but I just want him to be all right."
"So do I, pal," he said softly and gave the younger man an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "Come on, Ray, you're supposed to be the optimist of this group. Let's have a little optimism here."
The small smile Ray produced wasn't quite convincing, but it did serve to lighten some of the despair in his brown eyes. "Just be careful down there. This place has already caved-in twice--"
"I know," he broke in quickly. "I'll be careful. You guys ready?"
"When you are," Winston said. "How do you want to do this?"
Peter gazed at the small, dark shaft in the side of the mountain and wondered if even his slim frame was going to be able to squeeze through. "Definitely feet first," he decided, and sat down on the ground, stuck his feet into the opening, and took a deep breath. It did not look like some place he wanted to go, but if it was their only chance of getting to Egon, then he was going. With Ray and Winston gripping one end of the rope, he gave them a quick thumbs-up for luck, then began to work his way down through the hole. It was harder than he had imagined. At first he thought he wasn't even going to be able to force his hips through, but he finally managed, leaving behind only a small amount of skin. His shoulders were the next hurdle and he had some bad moments as he worked his way laboriously through the small, dark tunnel that was too narrow for him to even draw a breath of air. He nearly panicked at one point as fear of suffocation clawed at him, but suddenly his feet were kicking open space and, spurred on, he made one final effort and wriggled completely through. Once free of his confinement he took a few moments to gulp in some much-needed air, then fumbled for his flashlight and played the beam around to discover he was hanging about ten feet above the floor of a mine shaft.
Shouting instructions to his friends, he got himself lowered to the floor and stood for a moment, letting his eyes complete their adjustment to the darkness. His first reaction was that this tunnel was a lot more cramped and damp than the one he had been in earlier. Wrinkling his nose at the dank smell, he turned and flashed his beam down the shaft which should, if his sense of direction was even half-right, lead toward the entrance and, thus, Egon. Looking up, he found Ray's anxious face blocking the small opening above and shouted, "This should be the one, Ray."
The occultist nodded agreement. "Find him, Peter."
Quickly untying the rope from around his waist, Peter gripped his flashlight tightly and began to move through the tunnel, working his way back toward the scene of the cave-in. Not only was the air in the shaft heavy with moisture, but his boots were squishing in a thin veneer of mud. He shivered in the chill and realized he should have had Ray drop his jacket to him, but he didn't want to turn around and go back for it, not when he could be so close to Egon. Ever since Ray and Winston had dragged him out of the collapsing mine shaft he had been hearing those weak taps of stone against stone in his mind, knowing he had been so close to his friend, yet hadn't been able to get to him. "I'll get to you this time, Egon," he muttered, determination firming his voice. "This time I don't leave without you."
Ahead the tunnel turned sharply and he followed it, stopping abruptly when he made the turn, the flashlight nearly falling from his fingers. The picture he saw burned itself in his mind for eternity in the space of one heartbeat: Egon, buried from the chest down in what looked like a ton of rocks and snapped timbers. He can't be alive. No one could have survived that.
"Egon." Spengler's name escaped his lips in a broken whisper. Forcing his unsteady legs into action, he stumbled over to Egon's side and dropped down in the rubble beside his motionless friend. Directing the flashlight beam onto the physicist's face, his throat closed when the light revealed how deathly white the skin was under the dirt and rivulets of blood. He laid a trembling hand gently against one alabaster cheek, expecting to find Egon's flesh cold and stiff to his touch. Instead he felt warmth under the surface coolness and quickly moved his hand down to just under Spengler's jaw. When he felt the weak, rapid pulse beating determinedly against his fingers it felt like a jolt of electricity had shot through his body. "You're alive," he whispered, relief washing through him with a rapidity that made him dizzy. "Egon, you're alive!" A soft moan escaped Egon's lips as he moved his head fractionally in the direction of Peter's voice. Venkman immediately laid a hand on his friend's forehead to still him. "Shh, it's okay, Egon. Don't move. I'm here. I'm right here, buddy."
The physicist's eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Peter quickly shifted the light away from his face and watched as blue eyes, dull with pain and disorientation, tried to focus on him. "Peter?"
So weak was Spengler's voice that one word was barely audible, but Venkman immediately gripped his friend's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Hi, Spengs."
Even though the lines of pain and exhaustion were engrained deeply in the blond man's face, Peter saw relief ease them as Egon valiantly tried to curl his cold, stiff fingers around Peter's. "You're alive," he breathed, his voice catching. "I thought--I heard--"
"Hey, it's okay, Egon, it's okay. Don't try to talk. I'm fine, thanks to Ray and Winston. Besides," he added lightly, balancing the flashlight on a rock and using his free hand to brush back his friend's damp, drooping forelock, "we're here to talk about you." He let his hand rest on the physicist's forehead, then bent over so his face was only inches from Egon's and asked gently, "How bad are you hurt, Egon?"
The blue eyes disappeared behind lowered lids. "Not sure. My head. Maybe some ribs. My legs...can't feel them."
Peter stiffened but said nothing immediately, buying himself a little time by massaging Spengler's cold-stiffened hand. No feeling in Egon's legs could mean they were numb from lack of circulation, or it could mean a spinal injury. He swallowed hard as he studied the collection of rocks and timbers pinning his friend. "I might be able to move some of these--"
"No." Egon's response was an immediate, if weak, rasp. "Too unstable. Might bring down the rest of the ceiling."
"You mean there's any left?" Peter queried, glancing above.
"Only reason I'm not dead is because the crossbeams fell just right. If you disturb the balance..." He left that thought unfinished and instead concluded, "Have to shore up the walls."
Even that short speech cost Spengler dearly and Peter could hear him wheezing as he tried to keep his breathing shallow and even. "Okay," he said briskly, "we don't disturb the balance. What we do is get some professional help down here. Winston and Ray are waiting topside, so I'm gonna go send them off for help and get some blankets and water down here, and then you and I are going to have a pajama party while we wait for the cavalry to arrive." Egon's eyes opened at that and Peter felt his friend's long fingers tighten briefly around his. Removing his hand from the physicist's forehead, Peter enclosed the cold hand in both his. "I won't be far and I won't be long," he said softly, imagining with no little horror what it must have been like for Egon down here alone, injured and trapped. Egon Spengler was probably the bravest man he knew, but that combination of circumstances would have been terrifying for anyone. He knew if it had been him he would have been scared shitless. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."
Something like a smile lifted one corner of Egon's lips before a spasm of pain flashed across his face and wiped it away. "It will be nice," he managed when the pain had passed, "to have company."
"And such good company I am, too," Venkman retorted virtuously, drawing another weak smile from the older man. Before standing, Peter cast a look at the flashlight, silently debating whether he could make it back to the entrance without it. He hated to deprive Egon of even those few minutes of light.
"Take it," Spengler ordered, his eyes on the psychologist's face. "You need it; I don't."
Peter nodded reluctantly, acknowledging the truth of that statement. "Be back in a few minutes." Giving the limp hand in his another squeeze, he grabbed the flashlight, shot to his feet and ran all the way back to where Ray and Winston were waiting.
The long-awaited storm had finally hit. When Peter skidded to a halt under the ventilation shaft, water was pouring in, creating a puddle under the unprotected hole. When he called for his friends, Stantz' anxious face appeared immediately, his hair wet and plastered to his head. "Egon--"
"He's alive, Ray, but he's trapped under a ton of rocks." Peter spoke with rapid-fire urgency, his thoughts on Egon lying alone and hurt in the cold darkness. "No way I can get him out myself, and he says the place has to be shored up before anybody tries. I need everything we brought because he and I are going to have to sit tight here while you guys go for help." He stepped back out of the way as the knapsacks they had all carried were dropped down the hole one by one. "We're gonna need paramedics and a rescue unit--someone who knows about mine rescues and has the right equipment."
The last of the knapsacks landed at his feet with a splash and Ray's face appeared once again. "How bad is he hurt, Peter?" Venkman hesitated a moment before answering, and that moment was too long. "Peter," Ray repeated, his voice tight, "how bad?"
"Possible head injury, maybe some cracked or broken ribs," Venkman replied, debating with himself just how much he could omit telling Ray.
Stantz didn't give him the option. "What else?"
Venkman bent over to gather up the wet, muddy knapsacks, and when he stood, looked up at the occultist. In the steadiest, firmest voice he could muster, he said, "He can't feel his legs, Ray. Could be because they're numb or it could be...something else. But we don't have time to worry about that right now because right now we have to worry about keeping him alive until help gets here, right?"
Ray stared at him, and even with only the light of his flashlight to illuminate the area Peter could see the horror in the younger man's eyes. But Stantz nodded and in a voice that carried the same forced steadiness as Peter's, asserted, "We'll get the help here. You tell Egon to hang on."
"Will do." Hugging the wet knapsacks to his chest, Peter added, "But hurry."
One last nod by Ray, a quick thumbs-up from Winston, and they were gone. Turning, Peter quickly jogged back to where he had left Egon, noticing how his feet were now splashing through water. Where the hell is it all coming from anyway? he wondered distractedly. It ran like a miniature stream through the mine shaft, but he didn't think the only source could be the rain coming in through the ventilation hole. Perhaps it's being fed by some underground steam. He put his musings aside as he reached Egon and dropped the knapsacks to the ground.
When the physicist didn't respond to his arrival, Peter lowered himself beside his friend and hesitantly laid a hand on the cool, moist forehead, brushing the dirty, blood-stiffened hair out of Egon's eyes. "Egon?" he asked anxiously, searching the pale face for signs of life. "Egon, can you hear me?" His voice quivered momentarily and he quickly steadied it. "Come on, you know how I hate to be ignored."
Spengler stirred slightly under his touch and his eyelids fluttered, then opened to reveal pain-glazed eyes. "Peter?" he asked uncertainly.
"You were expecting someone else?"
Affection softened the harsh lines of pain on the angled face. "No," Egon replied, in a voice almost too soft for Peter to hear. "No one else."
"Good. I'd hate to think you gave a party and didn't invite me." Peter smoothed back the blond hair under his hand, only to have the forelock spring once again to life and droop over the physicist's forehead. Giving up for the moment, he quickly propped two flashlights at different angles to give them some decent light, then began tearing through the knapsacks to find the first aid kit. "How you holding up?" he asked, pulling out the plastic box with the red cross symbol.
"The situation has not changed appreciably," the older man replied, a touch of dryness nearly covering the strain in his voice.
Venkman set out the supplies he needed on the rocks, flashing Spengler a grin. He wasn't about to let Egon see he was scared to death. "You're falling down on the job then. You were supposed to have supper ready by now." Fishing out one of the canteens, he slid a hand carefully under the blond head and gently raised it a few inches. "Water, Egon. Slow and easy now."
Spengler obediently took a few, careful sips, obviously restraining himself from gulping as fast as he wanted to satisfy his raging thirst.
Peter monitored his intake carefully, praying he didn't choke; he didn't want to think what coughing might do to those broken ribs. When Egon finally pulled back, Peter lowered the canteen and set it aside. Ever since he had left Egon to go get the supplies, he had been thinking furiously about what he could do to make his friend more comfortable and keep him warm and alive until help arrived, which could be hours. He had come up with precious little. The fact Egon was buried from the chest down prevented Peter from doing much of anything, but he had to do something or hypothermia would kill the phsyicist before help had a chance to arrive. Venkman didn't even want to think about the possibilities of internal bleeding and shock.
"Okay," he said with forced cheerfulness, "the first thing I'm going to do is try to get you warmed up a little."
"Peter, you can't," Spengler said wearily. "The rocks--"
Venkman eyed him sternly. "You do remember who you're talking to, don't you? And you do know that telling me I can't do something is a direct challenge? That bump on the head didn't cause amnesia, did it?"
Frustration warred with pain on Spengler's face as he tried to move his free hand to make a point and only twitching fingers resulted. "You can't move the rocks."
Venkman stilled the restless fingers by placing his hand over Egon's and holding it captive. "I know about the rocks, Egon, and I'll be careful. But I can move some of these smaller ones from your chest and tuck a blanket or two around you. We've got to keep you from losing any more body heat." He glanced up at a particularly large boulder balanced on some smaller ones that undoubtedly hid the fallen crossbeams. "I think that's the one I have to avoid," he surmised, and a weak nod from Egon confirmed that, "so I'll just work on the little ones here. I might even be able to get your left arm out." Sitting back, he gave the physicist's hand a quick pat before releasing it. "You've got the easy part; all you have to do is sit there and let me do all the work."
For a moment amusement sparked in Egon's eyes as his gaze settled on the psychologist. "What a pleasant change," he murmured.
"Yeah, I thought you'd like that." Peter threw the prostrate man a grin as he carefully began removing stones and rocks from his chest. "Well, enjoy it, Spengler, because that's the last straight line I'm going to feed you." He sensed rather than saw Egon relax a little under the influence of his banter; actually it was as much to keep himself from thinking about their situation as it was to keep Egon distracted. "There we go," he murmured, lifting off enough rocks to expose the physicist's left arm. Before moving it, he ran his fingers down the long, thin arm, asking, "Any pain here?"
"I think--" Spengler broke off with a grunt as Peter probed a spot near his elbow. "I think it's just bruised."
"Want me to try to move it?" The blond head nodded slightly, so Venkman gently maneuvered the arm until it was laying across Egon's chest. "Okay?" he asked, watching his friend's face for signs of new pain.
The blond lashes lowered in relief. "Better."
"All right, now we're getting somewhere."
"Better not try to move any more."
Egon's voice was still weak, and Peter noted uneasily his words were becoming slurred, too. Quickly, he retrieved the blankets from the knapsacks and began tucking them carefully around his friend's exposed chest to trap as much body warmth as possible, hoping fervently it wasn't a case of too little too late. When the covers were firmly in place he slipped his hands underneath, located Spengler's cold-stiffened hands and encased them in his own. "This ought'a help some, big guy."
At that, Egon's eyes opened and Peter could see him try to focus his gaze. After a moment of searching, Spengler's eyes found his, and while there was pain in their blue depths, mingled with that was sadness, a hint of fear, and a stronger, deeper emotion that made Venkman tighten his grip in a reflexive, protective gesture. "Thank you, Peter," the older man whispered, the tone of his voice and the look he gave the psychologist conveying more than Peter was prepared to handle at the moment.
"You're going to be all right, Egon," he said firmly, desperation making his voice quiver like a rubber band stretched to the point of breaking. "You know that, don't you? We're going to get you out of this and you're going to be fine." Under the blankets he could feel Egon weakly gripping his fingers.
Very carefully, Spengler said, "If I'm not--"
"I don't want to hear that crap," he interrupted sharply. "You're going to be fine and that's the end of it." Abruptly letting go of the slender fingers, Peter tucked the blankets under the older man's chin, then opened the first aid kit, announcing tightly, "I'm going to clean those cuts." But his hands were shaking so badly the pack of gauze slipped from his grasp and dropped into the muddy water by his knees. So intent had he been on Egon he hadn't even noticed he was kneeling in a growing puddle of water. "Shit!" The whole pack was ruined. If there wasn't another in the kit-- A hand came out of the darkness to grip his and he looked up to find Egon gazing at him, the pain in his eyes almost completely overshadowed by a deepening sadness.
"Peter." Spengler's bass voice was soft, almost a caress. "It's all right."
Peter returned the grip with crushing strength. "No, it's not all right," he shot back fiercely, anger and fear suddenly clashing with the force of a head-on collision. "If anything happens to you nothing will ever be all right again, so you just make sure nothing does happen, got it?"
The older man looked at him a long moment and then, his eyes still locked with Peter's, nodded. "Got it."
Peter withstood that knowing gaze as long as he could, then blew out a sigh of pure exasperation. "Egon, you make me crazy sometimes, you know that?"
"I know," Spengler intoned solemnly. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," the psychologist said, completely sure of that while at the same time harboring no ill feelings because of it. "You do it on purpose."
One corner of Egon's mouth lifted and something like a weak chuckle escaped his lips. "Paybacks are hell, Venkman."
"So they are," he agreed and tucked his friend's hand back where it belonged under the blankets. "You just remember that." More searching produced another pad of gauze and he used that with the alcohol to clean the many, luckily superficial, cuts on Egon's face and scalp. A few minutes later he sat back and studied his friend's long face. With the dirt and blood washed away and his head pillowed on Peter's jacket instead of rocks Egon didn't look quite as ghastly, but his skin was still far too pale and Peter noticed it was getting clammy as well. Shock? Internal bleeding? What the hell good are a couple of blankets going to do if he's bleeding to death?
In the silence of the mine he could easily hear Egon's shallow, painful breaths and the occasional moans which slipped out despite his obvious efforts to suppress them. Spengler's breath caught sharply and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away as he struggled against the pain. "Hey, hey, hey," Venkman said softly, and leaned down to gently turn the pain-ravaged face back toward him. "This is Peter, remember? I know it hurts, Egon. You don't have to hide anything from me and you don't have to pretend, okay? I thought we got past all that a long time ago."
The gentle rebuke forced Spengler's eyes open and Peter saw his taut face soften somewhat with the memories that reminder triggered. "We did," Egon whispered, every word an effort now.
"Okay, then, just remember that." Shifting closer to the prostrate man, and not daring to put any pressure on his injured ribs, Peter settled for placing his hands on Egon's shoulders and beginning a very gentle massage. "How'd you get yourself into this mess anyhow?" he asked conversationally. "It's not like you to walk into something like this by yourself--at least not without an awfully good reason." He paused in his ministrations to give the physicist a severe look, "And if you tell me there was a mushroom in here you just had to have..."
Egon's brows furrowed in puzzlement as if he were trying to remember something. "I don't think I--" Suddenly he stiffened under Peter's touch and blinked rapidly, as if clearing his confusion. "A ghost. There was a ghost."
"A ghost?" Venkman looked quickly over his shoulder, his eyes darting around the dark interior. "A ghost did this to you?"
"It was a voice." Peter had to strain to hear Egon's fading words. "He was calling for help." Spengler paused to catch his breath. "Class Five...I think."
"Yeah, well, he's gonna be a Class Zero when I get through with him," the psychologist growled, anger building inside him like the flames of a freshly stoked fire. Ever since this nightmare began he had been itching to find a focus for his anger and at last he'd found it. "When we get you out of here the first thing I'm gonna do is come back here with a thrower." Raising his voice he yelled, "You hear that, slimeball? You messed with the wrong humans this time. You're toast! And that's a promise from Dr. Venkman!"
The air in the mine shaft suddenly became noticeably colder. It wasn't the damp, enveloping chill already slowly seeping into their bones; it was the kind of supernatural cold Peter had felt often enough to recognize instantly. Help me. Help me please. The whisper in his ear made him jump to his feet and whirl around, fists clenched as he took a defensive stance over Egon. In front of him several feet away, floating just above eye-level, was a full torso apparition. It didn't look particularly menacing except for the way it was staring at Egon; a shiver ran down Venkman's spine as he realized it had the look of a hungry vulture eying a potential meal. Scooping up a broken-off piece of timber, Peter swung it in front of him like a sword, wishing fervently for a thrower. "Get the hell out of here! You hear me, you sonofabitch? Get out!" He didn't know what he planned to do with a piece of wood if the ghost decided to attack, but he did know that thing wasn't going to get to Egon while he was alive to say anything about it. But instead of attacking, the apparition just hung there in the dark, a blue-white shimmering object with definite, if indistinct, human features. Then, without warning, it was gone and Peter was left blinking at the sudden blackness where the quivering light had been.
With an explosion of pent-up breath, he muttered an obscenity under his breath and turned back to Egon. "Well, I have to hand it to you. Only you could find a ghost when we're supposed to be on vac--" He broke off when he saw Egon's eyes were closed and his pale features too lax for the pain he was in. "Egon?" Fighting down the panic that was never very far beneath the surface, he dropped down beside the physicist, immediately reaching out to check for a pulse. It was there, but weaker than before. Any weaker and it won't even be there. Hysteria threatened to bubble up inside him but he viciously stomped on it. Not now, not now. Later, when it's all over and Egon's safe, you can fall apart if you want to. But not now.
Placing his hands on either side of Egon's face, he slapped one cheek briskly. "Egon. Egon, wake up," he ordered sharply. "Egon Spengler, you wake up and talk to me this minute."
The blond head stirred under his touch. "There's...no need to...shout, Peter."
The effort it was taking Egon to talk was absolutely palpable. Spengler's eyes weren't open yet, but he was conscious and talking, and Peter jumped on that as a good sign. "There seems to be every reason," he retorted archly. "You were ignoring me."
At that the blue eyes did flutter open. "You're not that easy...to ignore."
"Yeah, and don't you forget it." Grinning, Peter brushed back the damp, sagging forelock and let his hand rest on the cool forehead, his grin fading immediately as he felt the shivers traveling through Spengler's body. It was getting colder, and damper. Glancing down, he found there was more water on the floor than there had been the last time he had checked. A lot more. Even his jacket, which was cushioning Egon's head, was wet around the edges as the water crept in. From where? Egon was already chilled to the bone; if he got wet on top of that yet...
"So c-cold."
Venkman's attention was wrenched back to Egon. The physicist was almost completely buried by rocks which had never tasted the heat of the sun. They'd had years to store up the bone-chilling cold which was now soaking into Egon. A couple of blankets couldn't undo the damage those cold stones had done and were continuing to do. "I know, pal," he whispered, leaning over to lay his hands on either side of the blond man's face. "I'm sorry." His hands were nearly as cold as Egon's by now and Spengler's eyes jumped to his face as their skin made contact.
"You're cold," the older man accused, a frown pulling at his eyebrows. "And wet."
"It is a little nippy in here," Peter agreed, ignoring Egon's comment about his wet clothes. He hadn't been able to avoid getting soaked as he knelt beside the downed man and the water continued to pool around them. He felt a shiver run through his own body and fought down another one as he began rubbing his friend's blanket-covered arms in an effort to generate a little warmth. It wasn't just the cold making him quiver, although that was certainly bad enough; it was the dampness, the incredible darkness that even the flashlight beams couldn't fully penetrate, the knowledge they were trapped beneath the earth, and the awesome, all-encompassing silence. Peter had never heard such deep silence. It magnified every noise, making his breathing sound rapid and harsh next to Egon's faint, shallow respirations.
"Why're you wet?"
Without pausing in his ministrations, Peter replied casually, "We've had a little water come in, probably from the storm. It's raining like crazy topside."
Spengler's breath caught with the effort as he laboriously turned his head toward Peter. His eyes searched the floor for a moment, then returned to Venkman's face. "That's not...a little water, Peter." The psychologist glanced down at the widening pool he was kneeling in and silently agreed. "This could be...very bad."
"Egon, you know I hate it when you talk like that."
"Peter." From underneath the blanket Egon somehow managed to clumsily snag one of Peter's hands. "This shaft..." Pain flickered across the older man's face and his eyes slid shut momentarily before he gathered enough strength to finish. "...could flood."
Gently disentangling his hand from Egon's weak grip, Peter gave the lump in the blanket that was the physicist's hand a reassuring pat. "It's not gonna flood."
"It could flood," Spengler repeated, irritation sharpening his tone. "If an underground stream--"
"We'll be out of here long before any underground stream gets high enough to bother us."
"How did you get in?"
The apparent non sequitur made Peter hesitate a moment before answering. "Ray found an opening that must have been a ventilation shaft or something. They lowered me in by rope."
"Can you get...back out?"
Venkman considered the question for the first time. Ray and Winston had left the rope, but as difficult as it had been for him to squeeze through that opening to get down, he wasn't sure he could get back up the same way, at least not by himself. He shook his head. "Don't think so. But, Egon, we can't get you out that way--"
"'Nother way?" Spengler's voice, although still weak, was becoming agitated, his urgency telegraphed in the tenseness of the tightly-corded muscles Peter could feel under his hands. "Is there...another way?"
"I don't know. I didn't have time to check it out--"
"Find one."
The psychologist frowned at the insistence in Spengler's voice. "Ray and Winston are going to bring back people who know this area, Egon. They'll know if there's another way in."
The blond man shook his head, clearly disturbed. "Too late," he rasped. "You have to find it now."
Both perplexed and concerned at the physicist's sudden distress, Peter tried to calm him. "Easy. I'm not going to--"
"Peter." With a completely unexpected show of strength, Egon fought off the blankets and grabbed one of Peter's hands, his long fingers squeezing tightly in a bid for attention. "You have to find a way out." His breath gave out and it took him several moments to regain the strength to continue. "You have to find a way out," he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper now. "If this shaft floods...flash flood...we may not have any warning...you have to get out while you can."
"So that's what this is all about," Peter said softly. "Egon, you idiot." Firmly prying the physicist's fingers loose, he encased the cold hand in his and met Spengler's worried gaze squarely. "I'm not leaving," he said in a completely level voice. "I'm here for the duration."
Anger flared in Egon's pain-dulled eyes, then gave way to fear. "Peter, you have to get out."
Venkman shook his head. "Nope. Don't have to, not gonna."
Spengler's hand suddenly tightened into a ball under Peter's. His deep voice ruined with the combination of pain and anguish, he whispered, "I don't want to die knowing you could have been saved."
Peter looked into Egon's tormented face for a long moment, then placed one hand over the cold, stiff hand of his friend. "There's a very simple solution for that, Dr. Spengler," he said gently. "Don't die."
At those words, the blond man's eyes slid shut. "If the water keeps rising," Egon murmured, his voice losing strength again, "at its present rate...there won't be anything you can do."
"Oh, and who says that?" Cocking his head, Peter released Egon's hand and tapped the older man's cheek until Spengler forced his eyes open again. "Egon, if you think I'm going to sit here and watch you drown, then that brain of yours really is addled." Leaning over so he was directly above the physicist's face, he added in a deadly serious voice, "I'm not going to let that happen. Believe that."
Pain-dulled blue eyes studied his face in the pale light of the flashlight beam for several moments before wearily sliding shut. "I do believe it," Egon whispered. There was virtually no strength left in Spengler's voice, but he took every last ounce of energy he had and injected it into one last, vital plea: "Don't die in here, Peter. Not for me. Please."
Peter promised softly, "I won't if you won't. Deal?" It was probably the wobble in his voice rather than the words themselves that forced his friend's eyes open again.
"Don't know if I can...hold up my end of the bargain."
"You've never given up on anything in your life," Peter reminded him sternly. "This would be one helluva time to start now." The terrible weariness in the older man's eyes made Peter's stomach clench in renewed fear: Egon was dying. He knew it and Egon knew it. Whether from the cold, his injuries, or the water that was rapidly rising and would eventually overtake them, it mattered little. The pain and cold had seeped into his soul, robbing him of the strength he needed to fight to stay alive. Venkman's vision blurred as hot tears filled his eyes. "Besides," he whispered, his voice cracking, "you wouldn't do that to your friends. Stay with me, Egon," he whispered hoarsely, squeezing the cold hand. "Stay with me. Please. I know it hurts, and I know you're tired, and I know how hard it is, but don't let go. Don't let go of me."
The stiff fingers of the physicist's free hand tightened in the wet material of Peter's shirt as Egon's eyes, faded from their normal cerulean blue so they were nearly colorless, locked with his. "No matter what happens," Egon said, his words slow but excruciatingly clear, "thank you for being here. You are a...gifted man, Dr. Venkman. But I think your greatest gift... is being a friend."
Peter's throat closed and he tightened his fingers reflexively around Egon's as if that gesture would somehow bind his friend to him. No the hell way, Spengler, he thought fiercely. I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. You don't say something like that and then just shuffle off this mortal coil--not while Peter Venkman is around to say anything about it. Absently finger-combing Egon's damp, blood-stiffened hair into place, he observed matter-of-factly, "As a friend, I wasn't worth spit before I met you. So, in that area, ol' buddy, whatever I've become is due to you." But even as he schooled his voice to calmness, he knew all the pretense in the world wouldn't change what was happening. All the good thoughts, all the desperate promises to whatever deity he chose to call on, all his pleas to Egon, would not and could not change their situation or the terrible knowledge that his best friend was dying in front of his eyes. "You know I love you, don't you?" he blurted. "You know I--" His voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut as they burned with new tears. A weak tug on his shirt brought him down and he pressed the side of his face against Egon's, sliding his arms carefully under his friend's shoulders. Even as he did his mind cataloged the fact Spengler's shirt was wet underneath as the rising water relentlessly tried to claim its victim. A sob caught in his throat, then broke loose as another immediately took its place.
"Peter." It was barely a breathless whisper, but it was enough to stir the damp, brown hair where it rested against the older man's cheek. There was sorrow in that one word, but also such deep affection and caring it made Peter abruptly tighten his arms around the nearly unconscious man.
"I'm here, Egon, I'm here. We're going to get you out of this, buddy. You hear me? Ray and Winston are gonna be back any time now with help and you're going to be fine." Pressing the side of his face against the fine, damp hair, he whispered, "And that's a promise from Dr. Venkman."
Help me.
"Shit!" The wispy voice was directly in his ear and Peter's head shot up as he looked around wildly. The shimmering entity was floating right above their heads and it was gazing hungrily at Egon. Is it my imagination, or is the damned thing brighter than it was the last time, as if it were gaining energy? But that wouldn't make sense... Venkman's eyes flew back to Egon as a very ugly possibility took root in his nearly numb mind. Gently sliding his arms out from under the physicist, he leaned protectively over the supine man and glared at the ghost. "What the hell do you want?" he demanded hotly.
"Me."
The weak whisper from Spengler snapped Peter's attention back to him. "What?"
"I think it wants...me."
"Well it can't have you." Turning a furious face back to the ghost, the psychologist snarled, "You hear that, slimebag? You can't have him!" Raising his fist, he shouted, "So get the hell out of here before I--"
"Peter."
He looked down to find Egon looking at him, one eyebrow arched slightly as the physicist reminded him, "It's a ghost."
Venkman stared at his upraised fist for a moment, then blew out a breath and scowled. "Oh. Yeah."
Egon's eyes slid shut and he took a careful, deeper breath as if shoring up his strength. "I think...no, I know he lured me in here. Perhaps he was a miner...trapped in here...and the only way he can be...released..."
"...is if someone takes his place," Peter finished, casting a grim look around; the entity had disappeared once again. It made sense in a sick sort of way and it certainly wouldn't have been the strangest thing they'd come across during their careers as Ghostbusters. "Well, it's not gonna be you. In fact, it's not going to be anybody, because the first thing I'm going to do after we get you to the hospital is come back with a thrower and toast it." Brushing back his damp hair, he reclaimed the physicist's hand, then froze when he saw the water creeping up to meet Egon's chest. It has to be an underground spring and the run-off from the storm is forcing it into the mine. And there's no way to stop it.
"Peter."
Venkman looked down to find Egon gazing at him, his face a white mask of weariness and pain. "The water."
"I know. It won't be much longer before we'll be in real trouble."
That statement caused a faint spark of amusement to flash briefly in Spengler's eyes. "You mean...up to this point...we haven't been?"
"Nah, not really." Peter shifted on his knees to bend over the older man. Abandoning his light tone and forcing his voice to remain rock-steady, he said, "Egon, do you trust me?"
There was no hesitation from the other man as he whispered, "With my life." Tightening his fingers briefly around Peter's, he added, "And my soul."
Venkman nodded, "Okay, then, trust me when I tell you I'm not going to let you drown. We're the best team in the world, Egon, and we can beat this thing." A faint smile touched his worried features. "And again, all you have to do is lie there and let me do all the work. I'll make sure you've got air; you just pretend you're scuba diving in the warm waters off the coast of Fiji or something."
Understanding flickered in the tired, blue eyes. "Buddy breathing."
"Yep, just without the scuba gear. It'll be a piece of cake. I'll have to be real careful with your ribs, but we can do it."
"If Ray and Winston...don't get back...in time..."
"They will."
"...if the water rises...too much..."
"It won't."
Spengler gave his hand a weak, frustrated tug. "Promise me you'll get to safety," he insisted, forcing strength into his voice.
Peter gazed at him a moment before saying levelly, "I promise you we'll both get to safety." Changing his tone, he added briskly, "Now then, what were you planning to get Janine for her birthday? You do remember it's her birthday next week, don't you?" Falling into the pattern of affectionate teasing that came so easily to them, he shook his head in mock disapproval, "Spengs, Spengs, Spengs. She's gonna come after you with a thrower if you forget her birthday again like you did last year. And after all those hints she threw around, too."
Peter talked as if he would never run out of words. He talked to keep Egon focused and awake, he talked to divert his friend's mind away from the pain, he talked so he wouldn't have to listen to the unearthly silence around them, and he talked to keep his teeth from chattering. But most of all he talked to distract them both from the steadily rising water that was creeping up Egon's chest and would soon reach his face. Peter was soaked and freezing cold himself and he had begun feeling the early effects of mild hypothermia some time ago. He had Egon's hands wrapped in his and it was hard to tell which of them was shaking harder. His throat was raw and sore, but still he continued to talk. He reminded the physicist of the time at Columbia Egon and Ray dragged him to a supposedly haunted house on the northern edge of the city and it had turned out to be kids playing a joke on the owner; he told him about the summer he had spent working at a carny with his dad; he made him recite the atomic weight of various elements (actually, Peter didn't know if the answers were correct or not, but it forced the physicist to concentrate and that's what he was after); and told him what he wanted for Christmas this year. Anything to keep talking, anything to break the crushing silence, anything to keep their minds off what was happening to them.
The water covered Egon's chest and Spengler flinched when it touched his chin. Peter immediately tightened his grip on the slender fingers. "Easy, Egon," he soothed. "Remember, I'm here. You're going to be fine. We've got a plan and it's going to work. Just don't panic and you'll be fine." His calming tone had some effect and he could feel Egon's muscles relax a little as the physicist tried to regulate his breathing in preparation for what was coming. "That's it, that's it, big guy. You've got it." The water was creeping up Spengler's face, slowly covering his cheeks and chin. Soon he would be completely submerged. Egon's eyes never wavered from Peter's, and although his long face was a pale, impassive mask, Peter could feel the tension fairly radiating from him. "Just close your eyes and relax, Egon," he said softly, "and remember I'm here." Unable to speak because the water was already over his mouth, the blond man gave Peter's hands a weak squeeze, took a careful deep breath, then closed his eyes. Seconds later water completely covered the still face and Egon's grip tightened convulsively. "Steady, Egon, steady," Venkman reminded him, fighting down the urge to panic himself. "When you need air I'll give it to you. It's just like swimming..."
The string of bubbles that came from Egon's mouth several seconds later was his cue. Using one hand to pinch Egon's nose shut, but never letting go of the physicist's hand with his other, Peter bent over and fitted his mouth over Egon's, releasing a puff of air into his lungs. Pulling back, he watched anxiously for signs it had worked and was rewarded when Egon's fingers tightened briefly around his, not in any indication of panic, but reassurance.
Deep inside Peter felt a spark of hope ignite: it was going to work. As Egon might have said, the theory was sound, but he hadn't been sure, not really, not until the moment it was proven. "Hang in there, Egon," he said loudly. "We're going to make it."
Then there was no more time for talk. Forced to take shallow breaths in deference to his injured ribs, Egon required air more frequently than he would have if he had been breathing normally. Peter kept his eyes on his friend, bending over each time bubbles stirred the water to replace the air Egon was expelling. His world revolved around the appearance of bubbles in the water; those bubbles meant Egon was breathing. The water quit rising so rapidly,and may have even stopped gaining depth. But, as he had often heard, a person could drown in a mud puddle and, with his head completely submerged, Egon would drown in minutes without air.
Peter didn't know how long they kept it up or how much air he had replaced in his friend's lungs before he started feeling lightheaded. Impatiently he shook his head, thinking he could shake it off, but it only became worse. That's when the roaring in his ears began. It was as if someone were holding conch shells against both his ears. He shook his head again, but that seemed to make the noise worse. His wet clothes were so heavy it was an effort for him to even move; his hand, clutching Egon's, was so numb with cold he could barely feel Egon's fingers. Bubbles appeared in the water and again he bent over to replace the air in his friend's lungs.
But when he pulled back up he felt himself begin to tilt as his equilibrium suddenly wavered. Just when he was beginning to panic--I couldn't pass out, not now! Not when Egon needs air to stay alive!--someone grabbed him, supporting him, shouting in his ears, hugging him. His first instinct was to fight off the hands that seemed to be trying to pull him away from Egon. Though his vision had turned a little blurry, he could see the bubbles in the water again and he struggled to get free. "He needs air!"
"Peter! Peter, listen to me, it's Ray." It was Ray's voice, he realized dazedly, just as those were Ray's strong hands holding onto him as if he would never let go. "He is getting air--look!"
As Venkman blinked his vision clear, he saw they weren't alone. There were men swarming all over the place, hooking up lights, carrying equipment, moving as if they knew exactly what they were doing. Someone had fitted something like a scuba mask over Egon's face and someone else was setting up an oxygen tank beside him. The man who had nudged his way in beside him and was bending over Egon looked around with a nod of satisfaction. "He's breathin'. You did good work, buddy. This'll hold him until we can get him out."
Peter just stared at the desperately pale face of his friend, his own breath caught in his throat; there were no bubbles, he thought wildly, no bubbles to indicate... A sudden, firm pressure on his hand made him go limp with relief. "All right, Egon," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I told you we'd make it..." Then the noise in his ears crescendoed into a thunderous roar and everything around him dissolved into blackness.
He woke up wrapped in a cocoon. The first thing his fuzzy mind realized was that he was dry and warm, a situation he found quite surprising for some reason. He was also, he realized, in the back of a stationary ambulance and wrapped in so many blankets he couldn't move. When those facts sank in, the memories flooded back: "EGON!"
Somehow he managed to fight his way to a sitting position before someone wrapped determined arms around him from behind. "Peter, Peter, listen to me, it's Ray. It's okay. Egon's alive--"
"Needs air!" he gasped, still struggling, but with little effect. Ray had an iron hold on him from behind and wasn't giving an inch.
"He's getting air, Peter. Now come on, settle down."
He did settle down, but not because he wanted to; his strength gave out abruptly and he sagged back against the sturdy frame of his friend, too feeble to put up any further resistance. Immediately a hand snaked around to lay on his forehead, pressing his head gently back until it was resting against a warm chest.
"That's better," Ray murmured in his ear. "Peter, Egon's being taken care of by professionals. Winston's with him and the medic outside is in touch by radio. He said they've nearly got him free."
"I want to be there," Venkman insisted stubbornly, again testing Ray's hold, which didn't give.
"You're not going anywhere," Stantz told him firmly and tightened his grip as if to emphasize his point. "We'd just be in the way, and besides the paramedics said you were hypothermic yourself. You've got to stay here in the warm and stay quiet."
Peter had nothing to say about that for the moment. The truth was he felt awful, weak as a newborn kitten, still chilled despite the warmth of the blankets, and lightheaded and nauseated. He couldn't be functioning on all cylinders, he realized fuzzily, if he couldn't even talk Ray into letting him back in that mine. He should have been able to do at least that much on his worst day ever. Raising one hand, he dropped it weakly on the arm encircling his chest. "Egon?" he whispered. He thought Ray had said Egon was fine, but...
"He's alive, Peter."
"His legs?"
There was a brief pause before Stantz said, "They don't know how badly he's hurt, but he's alive and he'll soon be in a hospital where they'll be able to take care of him."
Egon was alive. They didn't know about his legs yet, but... It didn't matter. If Egon had lost the use of his legs, they'd adapt, and they'd help him to adapt. It wouldn't change what he was or who he was or their love for him. Only one thing really mattered: Egon was alive.
Ray's arm tightened in a gentle squeeze. "You kept him alive, Peter."
"Alive." The word escaped from his mouth in a sigh as his eyes slid shut in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "He's 'live, Ray."
The occultist shifted, wrapping both arms around him to offer as much body warmth as possible, then rested his cheek on top of Peter's damp hair. "You're both alive," he said softly.
A sympathetic smile touched Peter's features at the open relief he heard in his friend's tone; for the first time he realized how hard it must have been on both Ray and Winston to leave the other two behind and go for help. Help was needed, and there wasn't anything either of them could have done if they had stayed behind, but that knowledge wouldn't have made it any easier on them.
"We sure are, Tex," he murmured, and gave the younger man's arm a squeeze. "Thanks to you and Winston." Ray was saying something in his ear, but Peter heard none of it; he was already asleep.
Egon came awake sluggishly and in stages. He could tell without opening his eyes he was in a hospital; he had spent enough time in them both as patient and as visitor worrying about the condition of one of his friends to recognize the smell and the intrinsic, muted sounds. As he neared the final level of consciousness his initially blank mind began to slowly fill with memories: the mine, the ghost, the cave-in. A shiver raced through his body as he recalled the despair and fear he felt as he lay trapped, alone and hurt in the frigid darkness. But that memory was almost immediately replaced by another, that of the arrival of a friend, a friend who had chosen to share that dangerous prison with him and had placed himself by his side, refusing to leave. He lingered on that recollection, focusing on the deep contentment it brought and allowed himself to drift along wrapped in its warmth. Then suddenly another memory ambushed him from out of the darkness. His breath caught in his throat as he again felt the cold, dark water relentlessly rising higher over his face. He couldn't breathe, he was going to drown--
"Egon? Egon, it's okay. I'm here. It's Peter. I'm right here. Can you hear me?"
The familiar voice cut through that final, paralyzing memory and his eyes snapped open to find a blurry image of Peter Venkman sitting forward anxiously in a chair by the bed, one hand gripping his. Egon felt himself relaxing as the last of the fear slowly receded and was replaced by the comfort of reality. His eyes slid shut in relief. "Peter."
"In person. Hang on a second, buddy." Egon's hand was replaced carefully on the blankets, then a moment later he felt the familiar weight of his glasses being settled gently on his nose. "This should help. Lucky you always travel with a spare pair."
When Spengler opened his eyes again, Peter's face was sharply in focus. He spent some time studying the well known features, then observed, "You look terrible," his voice coming out in a weak rasp. Not only did Peter look utterly exhausted, but his normally light tenor voice had deepened with hoarseness from what Egon suspected was the beginning of a nasty chest cold.
That earned him a tired grin. "Yeah, well, you should take a look in the mirror, Spengler. You wouldn't earn any prizes yourself. I thought mud baths were supposed to be good for you." Peter poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table, then slipped one hand carefully under Egon's head and raised him a few inches off the pillow so he could drink. It was sheer bliss as the cool water slid down his dry throat. After a few moments he nodded and Peter replaced his head gently on the pillow, set aside the glass and dropped back into his chair. The psychologist's eyes were alive with concern as he leaned forward and said carefully, "You're okay, Egon. Do you understand? It's all over. You've got a concussion, some cracked ribs, and more bruises than you ever thought possible, but you're going to be fine. Your hypothermia was the worst of it--and believe me, you gave us some bad moments during the last couple of days--but the doctor said you're going to be just fine."
Spengler swallowed hard as he absorbed that welcome information. But his eyes slid away from Peter's to stare at the ceiling. Then, his jaw set, he tensed the muscles in his legs. A broken sigh of relief escaped his lips as he felt first one leg, then the other move under the sheets. "My legs..." For a moment he luxuriated in the sensation of wriggling his toes under the cool, cotton sheets. Then, looking up, he found Peter watching him, warm understanding in his green eyes. "I was afraid," he began hesitantly, "that my legs..."
Venkman nodded. "I know. So were we. But the doctors said you had a pinched nerve in your back, and along with all that weight cutting off your circulation...well, that's why you lost feeling in them in the mine."
That had been one of the possibilities that had occurred to him, of course, but at the time he had been afraid to allow himself to hope it was only that. "Ray and Winston?"
"Sacked out at a motel. We all camped out in the waiting room until the doctor said you were finally out of danger, then decided to take shifts." Venkman rubbed his eyes and barely managed to stifle a yawn. "That was some time last night. I think." Seeing Spengler's questioning look Peter produced a strained smile. "Someday when this is all just a bad memory I'll tell you about the last couple of days. But later, okay? It's not something I really care to relive right now."
The physicist nodded slowly. "All right. 'Couple of days?'" he repeated hesitantly. "That would make this...?"
Peter glanced at his watch, "Let's see," he muttered, obviously not quite oriented himself, "they got you out of the mine Thursday night..." He blinked at the face of his watch, mild surprise flickering across his features. "Looks like it just turned Sunday morning about an hour ago."
"You must have had some hypothermia yourself." Egon frowned, remembering how long Peter had spent in the cold, wet mine shaft with him.
The psychologist shrugged, retorting casually, "I did, but I'm all better now."
"Except you haven't slept at all, have you?" Venkman's eyes, heavy-lidded with lack of sleep, were a dead giveaway, but Egon didn't need that evidence to tell him Peter had gotten precious little sleep in the last couple days. Also, knowing Peter as he did, he was certain his friend had probably compensated for that lack of sleep by downing cup after cup of caffeine-laden coffee to keep himself going. He only hoped Ray and Winston were keeping a careful eye on him because he knew from experience when Peter finally crashed, it would be spectacular.
The brown-haired man ducked his head under Spengler's knowing look. "Yeah, well, like I said, you gave us a couple of bad nights." When he looked up again, Venkman flashed a real grin. "But I think I'll be sleeping a whole lot better now." As if to emphasize that statement, he sagged back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, the seeming picture of repose. Egon, however, didn't buy it for a moment. There was still an almost visible air of wire-taut tension around the younger man.
"What about...the ghost?" he asked, his eyes on Peter's face.
"Oh, yeah, the ghost." Venkman closed his eyes for a moment, then gave his head a shake. "Soon as we knew you were gonna be okay, I was ready to go back there and bust that s.o.b. But..." His shoulders rose and fell in a self-conscious shrug.
"But you didn't," Egon finished for him, surprised. "Why didn't you?"
The psychologist's mouth twisted wryly. "Ray," he answered succinctly.
Spengler felt a little smile turn his own lips. "He wants you to talk to it, doesn't he?"
"He's got some crazy notion we can help it deresolve peacefully." Although Peter said it with a careless wave of his hand, Egon knew most of his attitude was affected. One of the most satisfying aspects of their job was being able to aid troubled or 'lost' spirits pass on peacefully, and none of the Ghostbusters were better at that than their resident psychologist.
"I see," was all Egon said. Venkman threw him a sharp look from under his heavy lids, but made no comment.
They sat in silence for a few moments, Egon keeping a careful eye on the younger man when the silence stretched too long. Then like a rubber band pulled too tight, something inside Peter seemed to snap. Abruptly sitting forward, he grasped Egon's hand, gripped it tightly, and drew a shaky breath. "God, I was so scared," he whispered, the words fairly exploding from him. "All I could do was just sit there and watch you suffer like that. I couldn't do anything--"
"Peter," Egon interrupted gently, "you saved my life." When the psychologist shook his head and tried to speak, Spengler stopped him with a look. "And I don't mean once the water rose. You saved my life before that. I don't think I could have found the strength to hold on that long if it hadn't been for you." He could see from the expression on Venkman's face and the vulnerable look in his eyes the psychologist was nearing the inevitable 'crash' that had to come. The stress of their ordeal in the mine had only been compounded by his hospital vigil of the last couple days and Peter was probably overdue for an emotional release. Egon didn't want to push him before he was ready, but neither did he want to let the opportunity pass to say some things that needed to be said. They passed over such opportunities all too often in their everyday lives; he didn't want to do that now. "I meant what I said in that mine," he continued steadily, his eyes on Peter's face. "You are a gifted man, Dr. Venkman, but I think your greatest gift is being a friend. And I am very grateful you are mine."
Peter's head dropped, and Egon saw him gnawing furiously at his lower lip. It took only a gentle tug on the younger man's hand to bring him down to his level. As Egon wrapped his arms around the psychologist, Venkman slid both hands under his shoulders and hugged him as hard as he dared. Shifting his hand, Egon tangled his fingers in the long hair at the nape of Peter's neck and whispered, "You know I love you, don't you?" echoing both the words and the emotion his friend had professed in that silent, dark tomb. From the younger man's reaction, it moved him no less than it had moved Egon when Peter had been the one to speak those words.
Venkman's breath caught sharply as he pressed his head against Egon's. "I'm so glad you're okay."
Egon smiled sadly at the quiver in his friend's voice, tightening his fingers in the brown hair. "And I am no less glad you are," he responded softly, remembering again how Peter had chosen to place himself at his side, had chosen not to leave, had chosen to share whatever fate befell him. Peter had not only risked his life by placing himself in that mine shaft, he had risked a lifetime of guilt and torment if his efforts had been unsuccessful and he had been forced to sit by helplessly and watch his best friend drown. Recalling that now, there was more than a touch of angry frustration in his tone when Egon reprimanded, "You took an unconscionable risk with your life, Peter. You could have died in that mine shaft right along with me. Suppose Ray and Winston hadn't been able to bring back help in time? You could have died of hypothermia or drowned when the shaft flooded or--" He broke off as the mental images poured in faster than he could deal with them. He would have started up again, but a gentle squeeze from Peter stopped him.
Loosening his hold, the psychologist pulled away and sat back. His lashes were wet and there were telltale streaks down his cheeks, but there was a serenity in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "It wasn't a risk," he said simply. "It wasn't even a decision. It was my right to be there with you, no matter what the outcome."
It was Egon's turn to feel his eyes dampen as he studied the face of his oldest and closest friend and saw the truth of that statement in his eyes. Peter was completely at peace with his decision, had always been at peace with it, and would do it all over again without a second thought. In a way it was a little frightening to know he meant so much to anyone, and to realize that person would offer himself as a sacrifice or choose to share his fate rather than leave him to die alone. But in the next heartbeat Egon knew what he had always known about himself: if the situation had been reversed, he would have done exactly the same thing without a moment's hesitation. "And I claim that same right," he said quietly, his voice firm with unshakable conviction.
A smile lifted the exhaustion from Peter's face and Egon felt the same sort of serenity settle in his soul Peter must have felt. Everything that needed to be said between them had been said, both in words and deeds, and Egon didn't think they had ever known each other so well as they did at that moment. He wondered if the psychologist wasn't thinking the same thing because Peter's smile softened and he reached out and gave Spengler's hand a squeeze. "You need to rest," he ordered.
"We both need to rest," Egon corrected, yawning widely.
"Fine by me," Peter agreed, settling back in his chair and relaxing, for real this time. As Egon watched, the younger man sighed in contentment as his eyes drifted shut. Just when his own eyes had closed of their own volition he heard the psychologist stir. "Egon?"
Without opening his eyes, he murmured, "Yes, Peter?"
"The next time you feel a craving for mushrooms..."
Sighing, Egon forced his eyes open and asked with exaggerated patience, "Yes, Peter?"
Peter's eyes were still closed and he had the look of a man on the brink of deep sleep. "Order pizza," he said drowsily. "Mushrooms and pepperoni are fine; but no anchovies and no ghosts. Deal?"
Chuckling softly, Egon closed his eyes. "Deal, Peter."
Both men fell asleep with smiles on their faces.