"... all because she guessed how many snouts go into a Wienie Tot!" Peter
finished dreamily, pausing at a juncture of three tunnels. "That shows
she's as smart as she is.... Which way, Egon?" He waited, tapping his
foot impatiently, then glanced over his shoulder when there was no
immediate reply. It wasn't until then he realized he was quite alone. He
turned in a circle, shining his lantern in all directions. "Egon? Ray?
Winston?" Still nothing. "Slimer?" Peter scratched his head, thinking
furiously. "Let's see, we were together when Ray fell into that sink hole
... then Winston got that leech in his shorts...." He scratched his head
again, dislodging a multi-legged wriggler. Shuddering, he brushed it off
his shoulder and took a step to the right, more interested in his current
whereabouts than the insect. "Darn. That'll teach me to daydream on
company time. I wonder when I lost them."
He cocked his head, listening intently. This far under the streets, there was very little to be heard by way of civilization. A low rumble heralded the passage of a train to his left, then it too was gone. Furtive movements from the floor and walls notified him that he was not completely alone much though he would have preferred it to the company of insects and rodents. Listen as he might, however, he could make out no sound from his friends. With a curse, Peter moved to the exact center of the tunnel intersection and flashed his miners lantern down each branch. Miles of waste-filled pipeline stretched to each compass point, dark, aromatic and depressing.
"Which way did I come from?" he asked himself, more than a bit turned around. "These things all look alike." Something squished unpleasantly under Peter's left boot; with a grimace he pulled it free and shook it off. "I hate sewers," he griped through gritted teeth. "I hate cockroaches and I HATE THIS JOB!" This last was given considerable volume; unfortunately, there was no one in the immediate vicinity to hear. All thoughts of Sandra fading rapidly into obscurity, Peter pulled out his pocket transceiver and thumbed it on. "Ray? This is Peter." Instead of Stantz' cheerful tones, the radio produced only rough static. Peter whacked it with his palm and tried again. "Ray, answer me." Still nothing. Peter sighed and rehooked the instrument to his belt. "The walls must be muffling the transmission," he told himself unnecessarily, feeling something damp on his pantsleg. He glanced down to where the rising water was beginning to soak the tops of his boots. "I must have dropped a level without noticing. Better start looking for a way out."
He examined the three tunnels one by one, paying particular attention to a muffled squeaking from the northern-most one. "I should have never let Egon lead off; I knew he was out to get me after I told Janine about his date with Wynona." He clenched his fists, scowling ferociously at a braver- than-normal rat that was staring at him from a tiny crack in the ceiling; the rat took the hint and vanished. "If this is Egon's idea of a joke," he finished, choosing a direction more or less at random and starting off, "I'll have his butt for a blue plate special ... and I might anyway. This is all his fault."
Cheered by the prospect of revenge for his woes, Peter tromped on, the blackness unrelenting except for the light from his helmet. "First ladder I see, I'm out'a of here," he promised himself, wandering curiously towards an unrecognizable mass covering one wall. The mass squirmed wetly in response to his approach and Peter made a hasty detour along the tunnel's far side. "Ulp! Sooner the better, too. Hope I don't run into that ..." He trailed off, a new thought erasing his scowl and replacing it with a nervous frown. "... vampire?"
Reminded, he turned again, shining his light back the way he'd come. "If I run into that thing while I'm by myself...." He didn't finish the thought aloud but his mind perversely filled in the blanks in graphic detail. Facing a Class 7 was bad enough with the team; without them it was sure suicide. One proton pack would not easily hold even a Class 5; it would do little more than annoy a Class 7.
Something rustled softly behind him and Peter gulped. "Maybe I'd better hurry," he breathed, starting off again at an increased pace. "I don't ... uh ... want to be late for my date with Sandra tonight."
He splashed on for some minutes, the water increasing steadily until it was past his knees. It was then that he began to hear another sound, a low groaning wheeze, this time coming from straight ahead. "Oh, boy. Game time."
Peter unclipped his particle thrower with a steady hand, flicking one switch with his thumb and bringing the power levels up to full. The accelerator on his back whined reassuringly in the dank stillness of the sewer. Peter glanced once down to the glowing indicator on the thrower attachment, then strode forward to meet his foe. "Easy way or hard," he called firmly. "It's up to Doctor Venkman to save the day"
Without warning a dark shape detached itself from the surrounding shadows, uttering loud yells, talon-like fingers reaching clumsily for Peter's throat. The Ghostbuster braced himself and fired, a feral grin twisting his lips. "Hard way!"
A stream of energized particles snaked from Peter's weapon, catching the advancing figure a grazing blow. It flew backwards under the impact of 200,000 gigahertz of pure nucleonic power. Peter crouched to realign his shot then immediately switched off before the full stream could strike. Illuminated by the harsh radiance, the figure had resolved into the recognizable shape of an old man clothed in rags, light glaring off a perfectly hairless pate.
"Oh, my...." Peter breathed, dropping his thrower and starting for the man. He caught the wizened figure just as it slid down the wall, easing it to the side of the tunnel where the filthy waters ran shallowest.
Limbs flapped weakly, the man's nervous system shorted out by the hyper- ionization. He gasped for air, staring at Peter through eyes which blazed with emotion. "Thank ... you," he managed, the frail body jerking convulsively. "Release ... at last."
"I'm-I'm sorry!" Peter supported the wrinkled head in his palm, green eyes wide with shock, mind swirling with horror. "Hang on, Pop, I'll get help...."
"No!" The old man grabbed Peter's arm with surprising force. "Let ... me die. I'm free...." Further effort on Peter's part would have been useless in any respect; the jaw dropped and the rheumy eyes became fixed. Seconds later even the spasmodic twitching ceased.
Peter shook the body once. "Don't die," he begged, his voice hoarse. "Please, don't die."
"Don't worry about the old one," came from the dead man's gaping mouth. "Worry about yourself."
Peter released the body and drew back, rising to his feet and retrieving his thrower all in one smooth motion. Tears trickled down his face, but Peter, long adept at the skills of self-preservation, reacted without hesitation to that mocking voice. "Who are you?" he demanded, backing away several yards. The hairs on his neck stirred, the feeling of the macabre overwhelming even by Peter's seasoned standards. "What are you?"
A pale nimbus of blue light emerged from the old man's chest, separating into three distinct orbs. They rose slowly, pulsing to some irregular beat. "We are the Q'utah."
The words were unspoken yet clear in Peter's thoughts. Unfazed thanks to long experience, Peter sneered. "We are the Ghostbusters," he snapped. "And you are history." He snapped off a bolt of energized protons while throwing himself to the side of the tunnel until his back was protected by the grimy walls. His first shot went wild, smacking into the ceiling and splattering into a million shards of light. The orbs bobbed closer, dodging Peter's second shot with deceptive ease. The brown-haired psychologist ducked instinctively as they dove for him, angling for a clear shot. His ankle twisted on him and he went down, but was up almost immediately, spitting his mouth clear of the foul water and scrambling to gain his feet before his foes reached him.
He didn't make it.
"We are the Q'utah, the orbs repeated, reuniting into a single mass. "And we are now you!" With that triumphant if silent cry, the extra-dimensional intelligence descended on the downed Peter Venkman; he raised his arms in defense but to no avail -- unimpeded by either flesh or brown uniform, the Q'utah sped to and into Peter's chest ... and vanished.
Sensations flooded him, a cacophony of thoughts and emotions twisted, alien -- malevolent. Personalities rose in trio, unbelievably ancient, skittering like spiders through his brain. Peter's own personality recoiled as evil swelled in his breast, and hatred, and enjoyment of others' pain. Most of all, however, overriding all other feelings and thoughts was an all-consuming terror which filled Peter Venkman to the very core of his being, fanning the spark of encroaching madness to a full flame.
Peter whimpered, fists batting at his own chest and head, but there was no retreat from the inhabitants of his mind. "We are the Q'utah," they said using Peter's mouth, "and we wish to feed."
Peter shook his head wildly, wresting back command of his own faculties only with a surge of effort. "N-no," he gasped. "I-I am Peter ... Venk-- Venkman.... I am...."
"You are ours," the Q'utah replied scornfully, this time as thoughts rather than words. "As Robeck was ours."
"You ... yours to do ... what?" Peter managed, lips resisting the words. His arms and legs twitched as the Q'utah fought him for the single body; Peter fought back, exerting that iron will that had ever been a part of him.
"Listen to us, human," they ordered, turning their efforts to generating a flood of the purest agony Peter had ever experienced. "Obey!
"No," he moaned, clutching his head. "No.... Get out!" Panicked, he threw himself against the tunnel wall, beating his head against the living rock once and then falling to his knees. "Get out! He wrapped trembling arms around his chest and began to rock, whimpering pitiably under his breath, and repeating over and over, "Get out, get out...."
How long this went on Peter was never to know -- for him it could have been an eternity. Finally, the pain abated and Peter raised his head. "We are the Q'utah," he said. "and we wish to feed."
"No!" Peter shook his head wildly, recapturing control of his vocal centers only with a visible effort. "N-no," he gasped. "I-I am Peter ... Venk-- Venkman.... I am...."
"You are ours," his own lips replied scornfully. "As Robeck was ours, so shall you be until the end of your mortal time."
"Why?" Peter managed. Emotions chased themselves across his features, anger and delight, confidence and despair as each mind tested its individual 'muscle' against Peter's firm grip. At long last, however, it was Peter Venkman who peered out of the green eyes, the psychologist having come off victorious ... for the moment. With a grunt he forced his legs to stiffen and staggered forward a few steps. The Q'utah abruptly ceased their own efforts, and Peter slipped and fell in the sudden release. "I...."
He broke off, doubling over at a new, wrenching pain, the feeling that every muscle and nerve was being twisted out of shape. He opened his mouth to scream, a searing agony in his face nearly making him black out. To his astonishment, two small objects fell out, an instinctive grab nabbing one of them before it could be lost in the sluggishly running water. "I lost a cap?" he managed, clasping his face against another wave. He probed his gumline with his tongue; to his horror, two new, pointed teeth had emerged and were slowly growing. "Oh, my--!" There were other things happening to his body as well, without outward manifestation but discernible from the pain which continued to wrack his gut. Muscles ached, his heart beat faster, respiration increasing under a heightened need for oxygen. "No!" Like a wild animal he started to run, streaking wildly toward somewhere -- anywhere! -- seeking freedom from the ravages of his own mind.
Much later, exhausted and panting, he slowed his headlong rush and leaned against a slime-covered wall, trembling like a leaf. "Listen to us, human," the voices ordered, speaking for the first time since Peter had begun to run. Peter froze. "You are strong. You will serve us well. How do you feel?"
Peter shuddered, a new sensation assailing his senses, as painful in its way as were the others. He licked his lips. "I feel ... hungry."
***
He cocked his head, listening intently. This far under the streets, there was very little to be heard by way of civilization. A low rumble heralded the passage of a train to his left, then it too was gone. Furtive movements from the floor and walls notified him that he was not completely alone much though he would have preferred it to the company of insects and rodents. Listen as he might, however, he could make out no sound from his friends. With a curse, Peter moved to the exact center of the tunnel intersection and flashed his miners lantern down each branch. Miles of waste-filled pipeline stretched to each compass point, dark, aromatic and depressing.
"Which way did I come from?" he asked himself, more than a bit turned around. "These things all look alike." Something squished unpleasantly under Peter's left boot; with a grimace he pulled it free and shook it off. "I hate sewers," he griped through gritted teeth. "I hate cockroaches and I HATE THIS JOB!" This last was given considerable volume; unfortunately, there was no one in the immediate vicinity to hear. All thoughts of Sandra fading rapidly into obscurity, Peter pulled out his pocket transceiver and thumbed it on. "Ray? This is Peter." Instead of Stantz' cheerful tones, the radio produced only rough static. Peter whacked it with his palm and tried again. "Ray, answer me." Still nothing. Peter sighed and rehooked the instrument to his belt. "The walls must be muffling the transmission," he told himself unnecessarily, feeling something damp on his pantsleg. He glanced down to where the rising water was beginning to soak the tops of his boots. "I must have dropped a level without noticing. Better start looking for a way out."
He examined the three tunnels one by one, paying particular attention to a muffled squeaking from the northern-most one. "I should have never let Egon lead off; I knew he was out to get me after I told Janine about his date with Wynona." He clenched his fists, scowling ferociously at a braver- than-normal rat that was staring at him from a tiny crack in the ceiling; the rat took the hint and vanished. "If this is Egon's idea of a joke," he finished, choosing a direction more or less at random and starting off, "I'll have his butt for a blue plate special ... and I might anyway. This is all his fault."
Cheered by the prospect of revenge for his woes, Peter tromped on, the blackness unrelenting except for the light from his helmet. "First ladder I see, I'm out'a of here," he promised himself, wandering curiously towards an unrecognizable mass covering one wall. The mass squirmed wetly in response to his approach and Peter made a hasty detour along the tunnel's far side. "Ulp! Sooner the better, too. Hope I don't run into that ..." He trailed off, a new thought erasing his scowl and replacing it with a nervous frown. "... vampire?"
Reminded, he turned again, shining his light back the way he'd come. "If I run into that thing while I'm by myself...." He didn't finish the thought aloud but his mind perversely filled in the blanks in graphic detail. Facing a Class 7 was bad enough with the team; without them it was sure suicide. One proton pack would not easily hold even a Class 5; it would do little more than annoy a Class 7.
Something rustled softly behind him and Peter gulped. "Maybe I'd better hurry," he breathed, starting off again at an increased pace. "I don't ... uh ... want to be late for my date with Sandra tonight."
He splashed on for some minutes, the water increasing steadily until it was past his knees. It was then that he began to hear another sound, a low groaning wheeze, this time coming from straight ahead. "Oh, boy. Game time."
Peter unclipped his particle thrower with a steady hand, flicking one switch with his thumb and bringing the power levels up to full. The accelerator on his back whined reassuringly in the dank stillness of the sewer. Peter glanced once down to the glowing indicator on the thrower attachment, then strode forward to meet his foe. "Easy way or hard," he called firmly. "It's up to Doctor Venkman to save the day"
Without warning a dark shape detached itself from the surrounding shadows, uttering loud yells, talon-like fingers reaching clumsily for Peter's throat. The Ghostbuster braced himself and fired, a feral grin twisting his lips. "Hard way!"
A stream of energized particles snaked from Peter's weapon, catching the advancing figure a grazing blow. It flew backwards under the impact of 200,000 gigahertz of pure nucleonic power. Peter crouched to realign his shot then immediately switched off before the full stream could strike. Illuminated by the harsh radiance, the figure had resolved into the recognizable shape of an old man clothed in rags, light glaring off a perfectly hairless pate.
"Oh, my...." Peter breathed, dropping his thrower and starting for the man. He caught the wizened figure just as it slid down the wall, easing it to the side of the tunnel where the filthy waters ran shallowest.
Limbs flapped weakly, the man's nervous system shorted out by the hyper- ionization. He gasped for air, staring at Peter through eyes which blazed with emotion. "Thank ... you," he managed, the frail body jerking convulsively. "Release ... at last."
"I'm-I'm sorry!" Peter supported the wrinkled head in his palm, green eyes wide with shock, mind swirling with horror. "Hang on, Pop, I'll get help...."
"No!" The old man grabbed Peter's arm with surprising force. "Let ... me die. I'm free...." Further effort on Peter's part would have been useless in any respect; the jaw dropped and the rheumy eyes became fixed. Seconds later even the spasmodic twitching ceased.
Peter shook the body once. "Don't die," he begged, his voice hoarse. "Please, don't die."
"Don't worry about the old one," came from the dead man's gaping mouth. "Worry about yourself."
Peter released the body and drew back, rising to his feet and retrieving his thrower all in one smooth motion. Tears trickled down his face, but Peter, long adept at the skills of self-preservation, reacted without hesitation to that mocking voice. "Who are you?" he demanded, backing away several yards. The hairs on his neck stirred, the feeling of the macabre overwhelming even by Peter's seasoned standards. "What are you?"
A pale nimbus of blue light emerged from the old man's chest, separating into three distinct orbs. They rose slowly, pulsing to some irregular beat. "We are the Q'utah."
The words were unspoken yet clear in Peter's thoughts. Unfazed thanks to long experience, Peter sneered. "We are the Ghostbusters," he snapped. "And you are history." He snapped off a bolt of energized protons while throwing himself to the side of the tunnel until his back was protected by the grimy walls. His first shot went wild, smacking into the ceiling and splattering into a million shards of light. The orbs bobbed closer, dodging Peter's second shot with deceptive ease. The brown-haired psychologist ducked instinctively as they dove for him, angling for a clear shot. His ankle twisted on him and he went down, but was up almost immediately, spitting his mouth clear of the foul water and scrambling to gain his feet before his foes reached him.
He didn't make it.
"We are the Q'utah, the orbs repeated, reuniting into a single mass. "And we are now you!" With that triumphant if silent cry, the extra-dimensional intelligence descended on the downed Peter Venkman; he raised his arms in defense but to no avail -- unimpeded by either flesh or brown uniform, the Q'utah sped to and into Peter's chest ... and vanished.
Sensations flooded him, a cacophony of thoughts and emotions twisted, alien -- malevolent. Personalities rose in trio, unbelievably ancient, skittering like spiders through his brain. Peter's own personality recoiled as evil swelled in his breast, and hatred, and enjoyment of others' pain. Most of all, however, overriding all other feelings and thoughts was an all-consuming terror which filled Peter Venkman to the very core of his being, fanning the spark of encroaching madness to a full flame.
Peter whimpered, fists batting at his own chest and head, but there was no retreat from the inhabitants of his mind. "We are the Q'utah," they said using Peter's mouth, "and we wish to feed."
Peter shook his head wildly, wresting back command of his own faculties only with a surge of effort. "N-no," he gasped. "I-I am Peter ... Venk-- Venkman.... I am...."
"You are ours," the Q'utah replied scornfully, this time as thoughts rather than words. "As Robeck was ours."
"You ... yours to do ... what?" Peter managed, lips resisting the words. His arms and legs twitched as the Q'utah fought him for the single body; Peter fought back, exerting that iron will that had ever been a part of him.
"Listen to us, human," they ordered, turning their efforts to generating a flood of the purest agony Peter had ever experienced. "Obey!
"No," he moaned, clutching his head. "No.... Get out!" Panicked, he threw himself against the tunnel wall, beating his head against the living rock once and then falling to his knees. "Get out! He wrapped trembling arms around his chest and began to rock, whimpering pitiably under his breath, and repeating over and over, "Get out, get out...."
How long this went on Peter was never to know -- for him it could have been an eternity. Finally, the pain abated and Peter raised his head. "We are the Q'utah," he said. "and we wish to feed."
"No!" Peter shook his head wildly, recapturing control of his vocal centers only with a visible effort. "N-no," he gasped. "I-I am Peter ... Venk-- Venkman.... I am...."
"You are ours," his own lips replied scornfully. "As Robeck was ours, so shall you be until the end of your mortal time."
"Why?" Peter managed. Emotions chased themselves across his features, anger and delight, confidence and despair as each mind tested its individual 'muscle' against Peter's firm grip. At long last, however, it was Peter Venkman who peered out of the green eyes, the psychologist having come off victorious ... for the moment. With a grunt he forced his legs to stiffen and staggered forward a few steps. The Q'utah abruptly ceased their own efforts, and Peter slipped and fell in the sudden release. "I...."
He broke off, doubling over at a new, wrenching pain, the feeling that every muscle and nerve was being twisted out of shape. He opened his mouth to scream, a searing agony in his face nearly making him black out. To his astonishment, two small objects fell out, an instinctive grab nabbing one of them before it could be lost in the sluggishly running water. "I lost a cap?" he managed, clasping his face against another wave. He probed his gumline with his tongue; to his horror, two new, pointed teeth had emerged and were slowly growing. "Oh, my--!" There were other things happening to his body as well, without outward manifestation but discernible from the pain which continued to wrack his gut. Muscles ached, his heart beat faster, respiration increasing under a heightened need for oxygen. "No!" Like a wild animal he started to run, streaking wildly toward somewhere -- anywhere! -- seeking freedom from the ravages of his own mind.
Much later, exhausted and panting, he slowed his headlong rush and leaned against a slime-covered wall, trembling like a leaf. "Listen to us, human," the voices ordered, speaking for the first time since Peter had begun to run. Peter froze. "You are strong. You will serve us well. How do you feel?"
Peter shuddered, a new sensation assailing his senses, as painful in its way as were the others. He licked his lips. "I feel ... hungry."
***