Ray Stantz hated to fly in small planes with a passion and a sincerity that
denied all doubt, and no one who had ever caught sight of his drawn, green-
tinged face could have possibly failed to understand the reason behind that
feeling. He sat huddled miserably in his aisle seat while two of his fellow
Ghostbusters hovered solicitously over him from either side.
"How about trying another Dramamine, Ray?" the taller of his two fellows suggested, leaning as close to Stantz as his seatbelt would allow. He proffered a small packet, promptly dropping it when the nearly-empty twenty- seater plunged sharply downwards before re-righting itself at a decided angle. He retrieved the packet and offered it again. "If you can just keep one down long enough for it to dissolve...."
"That's his problem. Egon," the brown-haired man on Stantz' other side protested. "If he could keep anything down, he wouldn't be in the shape he's in now."
"I've already tried twice," Ray groaned, clutching his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. "Oh, gosh, I hate small planes."
Peter Venkman's green eyes shone mischievously at his friend's screwed up face. "Couldn't have anything to do with all that calamari you put down at lunch, could it?" he suggested, turning to peer out the double-glassed window. "Squishy things make me sick sometimes, too."
"Peter!" Spengler scolded.
"But we were celebrating busting that Class 8," Ray began, only to groan again. "And I didn't know what calamari was and-." He dropped his head into his hand. "And thanks for reminding me, Peter. I'll remember you in my will, which I may need before this trip is out."
"It was something worth celebrating," Egon pointed out fairly. "We successfully trapped a Class 8, semi-corporeal, source specific nether- lord, who survived in our universe by eating human flesh."
Ray nodded then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Naggaoth, the one the Indians used to call the Lord of Decay. He smelled like it, too."
"He killed several people after finding that access point to our world," the blond physicist went on. "If we hadn't trapped him and closed the dimensional nexus, there's no telling how many people would have died. Well worth celebrating his capture," he repeated.
'I've been celebrating a case without Slimer being around," Venkman returned shortly. He left off his scrutiny of the unchanging clouds to shoot Stantz an apologetic look. "Sorry, pal. I guess you're not up to it right now." The sky outside the window lit up briefly, the laserlight accompanied by a sharp clap of thunder seconds later. "Oh, terrific. Now we've got a full-fledged storm to worry about, too."
"Nasty one, at that." The statement preceded the speaker by a fraction of a second as Winston Zeddemore made his way back through the cabin from the pilot's compartment, closely followed by Ann McDonnell, the pretty stewardess assigned to the flight. "I was in talking to Captain Rosenberg when the latest weather report came through. Looks like we're in for some pretty rough weather before we make it across these mountains."
"Swell," Ray muttered, closing his eyes. "Now I've got something to look forward to."
"Getting down?" Winston asked kindly.
Stantz shook his head. "No, dying, because I know I'm not going to survive this."
Winston laughed. "You don't mean that, homebrew, but I understand." He patted Stantz on the shoulder in rough sympathy, then looked around when a small hand tapped his own arm.
"I'm going to have to ask you to take your seat, Mr. Zeddemore," the stewardess stated firmly. "With this much turbulence, it's dangerous to remain unstrapped."
"Would you like to check my seatbelt for... safety purposes?" Peter asked, arching a brow.
Ann rolled her eyes heavenward, but her smile was genuinely friendly. "I think I can trust you to look after your own 'safety purposes,' Dr. Venkman," she retorted. "I... OH!" The plane chose that moment to perform three-quarters of a loop-the-loop, tossing her neatly into the lap of a surprised if not displeased Egon Spengler. "Excuse me. Dr. Spengler."
Egon smiled charmingly as he helped her to regain her feet, then balanced her with a hand placed firmly in the small of her back. "Not at all, Ann." His smile widened into a full fledged grin. "I assume this means we're on for dinner?"
Ann giggled, and it was Peter's turn to roll his eyes. "And I thought I was the smooth one," he grumbled, crossing his arms.
Winston, determinedly ignoring the byplay, took a seat behind Ray's, then buckled his seatbelt and adjusted it firmly across his hips. "Do you think the pilot's going to try to fly above the storm," he wondered, "or are we as high as the plane can go?"
Ann puckered her perfect brow. "I'm not really sure about that. Let me ask the pilot for you." She rubbed her own stomach ruefully. "Frankly, I hope he can do something. Even the crew isn't immune to airsickness in conditions like this." Flashing Egon another smile, she turned and disappeared back through the heavy curtains which unevenly divided the plane in two.
Thunder blared again and the little plane was shaken to its core by the vibration of the near-blast. When it had at last righted itself, the color of Ray's face had shifted subtly from green to chalk. "Ex-excuse me," he gasped, unhooking his belt and letting it retract with a little snap. "I-I think.."
Spengler caught his arm as he rose. "Raymond, perhaps you should remain in your seat. The turbulence..."
Ray shook himself free, clapped a hand to his mouth and fled for the restroom in the rear, from which the sound of someone being violently ill was soon heard.
"Kid's really sick," Winston said, grabbing for his armrest when the plane shivered again. "We're going to have to either send him on the big flights or drug him unconscious from now on." He was about to say more when the heavens roared once more, and the cabin lights flickered and died, "What the...?"
The restroom door swung open just as the emergency lighting switched on, bathing the compartment in red. "Egon?" Ray asked, a note of fear in his voice. "What.?"
That Was when the world went mad. The cabin shuddered again, then dropped sharply as the light plane was caught in a seething downdraft of monumental proportions. The power gone, it dipped and spun, as helpless as a toy in the hands of a colossal child. Conversely, the scream of over-stressed metal rose, louder even than the lightning without or the human voices raised in terror within.
Ray yelped once as the floor assumed an angle perpendicular to the ground, pitching him past Peter's automatic snatch and forward the length of the cabin where he smashed hard, shoulder-first into the heavy bulkhead wall. This coincided with the wrenching shriek of tortured aluminum as the nose pitched upward, bounced once and then skewed a simple cartwheel before sliding to a halt.
All was silent for some minutes until Peter's peevish tenor shattered the ozone charged air. "Talk about an 'E' ticket," he muttered, straightening from the defensive ball he'd curled into the minute the plane had started to fall. "You guys okay?"
There was no answer at first, and he raised his head worriedly to glance around. "Egon?" he called, reaching across the aisle to poke the tall blond in the arm. "Egon, are you with me, buddy?"
Spengler's groan was eloquent by its very brevity. "Wonderful," he snapped, sitting up and cradling his left hand in his right "I enjoy plane crashes; this is how I get my kicks."
"Janine's gonna be surprised to hear that!" Peter quipped, ignoring Egon's sour glare and unsnapping his seatbelt "How's the hand?"
Egon grimaced. "My wrist impacted with the armrest rather violently when we crashed." He made to turn it over, winced and laid it back in his lap. "I think it's broken."
Peter regarded him seriously for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll take a look at it for you in a minute. Winston? Ray? You two okay?"
"Don't yell, man," Zeddemore begged, a snap proclaiming the release of his own lap belt. "I got me a headache that I wouldn't wish on Walter Peck."
Peter grimaced. "He's the only one I.." His words trailed off as every trace of color leached from his face in a rush. "Ray wasn't strapped in," he breathed, lurching to his feet "Ray?!"
"We lost the cabin door," Egon added, pointing at the gaping hole where fully one half of the port fuselage had been torn away by the force of the crash. Using his right hand, he freed himself from his belt and pulled himself determinedly up. "Winston, check the cockpit; Peter, help me find-- "
"Ray," Peter finished, dropping to his knees beside the unmoving heap of tan uniform and auburn hair sprawled gracelessly in one corner of the cabin. Very hesitantly, he reached out to touch the man's shoulder, then froze at the first sight of the blood which covered Ray's entire abdomen and was even now staining the knee of Peter's pants crimson. He recoiled, horror written in his green eyes. "Egon!"
"I see him. Peter." Spengler's expression was grim as he took his place at Ray's other side and pressed two fingers against the occultist's white throat "He's still alive," he reported after a moment
Peter gulped loudly, only then remembering to breathe at all. "Ray, can you hear me?" There was no reply and he tried again, louder "Come on, buddy, answer me," There was no response to this heartfelt plea, either. Peter unzipped Ray's sand colored jumpsuit, then carefully eased up the black t- shirt, until he could give himself a full view of the wound. A piece of metal just barely identifiable as a component of the floor strip lighting had entered Ray's lower right side at an angle, snapping off nearly two inches beyond the wide circle of purple and swollen skin, three inches to the right of and one inch below the navel.
Peter grimaced and ran his fingers around the base of the metal strip, his jaw clenched tight with determination. "Hold him still, Egon," he commanded flatly. "I'm going to give this spike a pull--"
"No!" Spengler stopped the incipient action by clamping a large hand around Peter's wrist. "Leave it where it is." He hesitated at the fire which lit the other's face, but maintained his hold, nonetheless. "If you pull that spike out of his side," he explained reasonably, "Ray's going to bleed that much worse. As long as the metal remains where it is, it'll act as a kind of cork, which should help control the bleeding... as much as anything will," he added with innate if unwilling honesty.
A muscle jumped in Peter's jaw, then he nodded reluctantly and Egon released his hand. "Ray," the psychologist called, patting the unconscious man's cheeks. "Wake up, kid. Please?"
Winston reappeared from the cockpit at that moment, his face set, his fists clenched. "The pilot and copilot are dead," he reported, bracing himself against Peter's shoulder. "Looks like we hit nose-first; it's all crumpled in on itself -- and them."
Egon looked up at that, reading his answer in Winston's dark eyes even before asking, "And Ann?"
Zeddemore shook his head. "She's over here," he said quietly, gesturing at the single shoe visible from behind the curtain. "Broken neck. At least it was... quick. How's Ray?"
Egon turned away, resettling his gaze on the slack features of his youngest friend. "He's still alive," Peter supplied when it became apparent that Egon would not. "He's bleeding and without medical assistance...."
Ray's lashes fluttered, then opened, revealing only disorientation and bewilderment. "P--Peter," he whispered, gazing blankly upwards. "Peter...?"
"Right here, Ray." Venkman dropped the rest of the way to the floor, heedless of the blood which continued to soak his trousers. "Don't try to talk; you're going to be fine." Wide brown eyes followed the sound until they centered in the general direction of Venkman's worried face. The psychologist bent closer, forcing a smile. "Hey, kid," he said easily. "You had us worried for a minute there. How're you feeling?"
Ray blinked up at him, uncomprehending at first. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes as the first waves of pain struck. "P-Peter," he gasped, "Peter... hurts."
Venkman's smile vanished. He clasped Ray's hand between both his own and turned a panicked look at Spengler. "Do something!" he ordered, finding his voice again. "Help him!"
"Let me in there, Pete." Winston slid into the comer, nudging Egon out of the way with his elbow, then knelt to examine the wound for himself. "See if you can find a medical kit," he told the blond tersely, probing at the surrounding tissue. His touch was gentle but even that much forced a pained moan from between Ray's lips.
Peter glared. "Can't you be more careful?" he snapped, freeing his right hand to cup Ray's cheek. Ray leaned into the touch, staring at Peter as though the psychologist were the only thing in existence.
Winston spared him a single glance and shook his head. "It's going to get worse," he muttered softly. Then he gritted his teeth and shifted into Ray's line of sight. "Listen to me, Ray," he said. "Ray?
"Peter," Ray whispered again, paying him no heed.
"No, Ray, listen to me." Winston took Ray's face in his hands, forcing him to look to the left. Peter growled deep in his throat but held his peace for once. "No, don't look away," Winston commanded firmly. "Look at me."
Ray ceased his weak struggle to regain contact with Peter and focused his gaze on Zeddemore's worried features. "You've been hurt, Ray," the black Ghostbuster said quietly, "and we're going to have to try and get that bleeding stopped." He paused, staring directly into the man's wide brown eyes, willing him to understand. "It's going to hurt - a lot. Think you can handle it?"
Ray returned the stare a long moment, then twisted his head until he could see Peter's face again. He licked his lips and nodded. Peter smiled. "That's my boy," he declared, squeezing Ray's hand. "Hang on to me, okay?"
Ray nodded again and Winston squared his shoulders. "You hang on to him, Pete." he admonished, then he brought his left palm down full onto a point just beyond the wound, pressing firmly. Ray*s body arched, nearly tearing out of Peter's restraining hold. He uttered a low scream then went limp.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Peter yelled, only his grip on Ray preventing him from lunging for the black man's throat "If you're trying to kill him...."
"Pressure on the wound," Zeddemore returned, the tremor in his voice betraying his own agitation. "He's going die if we can't stop the bleeding."
Egon made his way from the rear of the plane, waving a small tin box with the universally recognized red cross emblazoned across its lid. One of the proton packs hung on his right shoulder, dangling by its leather strap. "Not much in the first aid kit," he said, allowing the pack to drop to the ground and passing across the tin. "Gauze and tape is about all."
"Disinfectant?" Winston asked, rummaging inside with his free hand.
"For all the good it's going to do." That was Peter, still shaken but rapidly regaining his balance. "The strip is inside the wound; no way we're gonna be able to disinfect that." Ray moaned softly and Peter patted his shoulder. "You're doing fine, kid," he said encouragingly. "Just hang on."
Zeddemore slid a wad of thick gauze between his hand and the wound, immediately clamping down again. Ray whimpered but said nothing. Egon watched impassively some moments, then wearily forced himself to his feet, leaving the pack where it lay. "I'd better check the radio," he said, carefully easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position across his chest. "Ray's only chance is for us to radio help."
"Save it." Winston raised his dark eyes, reluctantly meeting Egon's blue. "Radio was the first thing I checked out after the crew; it's deader than they are."
Egon sighed. "More bad news," he added grimly. "I peeked into the baggage compartment while I was looking for the first aid kit"
"The proton packs?" Peter asked, sparing the one at Egon's feet a worried glance.
Spengler shook his head. "The ghost trap. Either the lightning or the shock of impact breached the unit. The Class 8 escaped."
Peter's shoulders slumped. "Great. So, not only are we stranded in the middle of a storm," he gestured with his right hand to the damaged access door from which wafted a fine chill mist from the dying storm without, "we've got a wounded buddy and a nasty Class 8 after us." He glared in the physicist's direction, though there was more depression than anger in his look. "Got anything else you want to break to us, O Bearer of Glad Tidings?"
Egon shrugged. "That isn't enough?"
"Oh, it's enough," the other shot back, "I just don't believe it's going to be all."
"It issssss not."
All four men started at the half-heard / half-sensed voice which rumbled unpleasantly in the close confines of the cabin. Peter released Ray's hand and made a wild dive for the accelerator pack, snagging the barrel with one hand and snapping the power on with the other. "You might as well give it up, Naggaoth," he said harshly, attempting to cover all points of the cabin at once. "You don't have any better chance now than you did the first time we trashed you."
Egon moved fast, lunging for the rear compartment of the plane where the other three packs were stored. He was halfway down the aisle when a slimy, scaled hand reached up through the fuselage and snagged his ankle. A single yank and Egon was down, crying out when his arm smacked the floor. His glasses went flying from his nose to disappear under a seat.
"Not so fasssst, fleshhead, the voice commanded with distinctly mocking note. "Do you think meee so foolish asss to let you reach your weaponssss?"
"Frankly, slimehead, yes!" Peter loosed a stream of energy, playing it carefully across the arm attached to the restraining hand.
Naggaoth snarled, more annoyed than hurt by Peter's low-power attack. "You'll paaaaay for that!" the thought/voice swore as the self-proclaimed Lord of Decay tightened its hold. The physicist howled as the pressure increased, the bones in his ankle crackling ominously. "I will maaake you pay...."
Peter fired again, closer to the scaled fingers, and Naggaoth growled loudly and withdrew his hand. Egon groaned and sat up. He reached for his slime-coated ankle, then stopped, instead forcing himself to his feet and stumbling his way towards the luggage compartment. Peter ceased fire and returned to crouch in a protective stance at Ray's side. "No way we're gonna be able to retrap Naggaoth with only one pack," he whispered to Winston as an aside. "And if he traps Egon in the back...."
"G-go help him out Pete." Ray grabbed for Peter's knee, worry banishing some of the pain from his voice. "Egon's hurt. He needs you." He tried again, seeing the automatic refusal in the other's eyes. "If Egon doesn't make it back with those packs, Naggaoth will kill all of us."
Venkman hesitated. obviously torn between the desire to go and the equally strong one to stay. Finally, Ray's logic won out and he rose. "I'll be back," he promised, starting off. He jumped across a tumbled seat, then dodged around the small serving table the stewardess would no longer need. He dove through the connecting door an instant after hearing the choked yell only barely identifiable as Egon's bass.
Winston started up at that same yell, then forcibly settled himself back down, his palm still firmly pressed against the wound in Ray's side. Stantz waited until Peter had disappeared before tapping his black partner on the arm. "Go after him, Winston," he said, his expression as firm as his voice. "I'm fine."
Zeddemore shook his head. "No way, Ray. I'm not letting you lose any more of this red stuff than you can help." He smiled at Ray's concerned expression and used his free hand to pat the younger man's shoulder. "Don't worry, there's not much that those two can't handle between them. You just relax."
"But...."
"I claim your livesss as wellll." Once more the words proceeded the entity known as Naggaoth by mere seconds. A great form rose from the deck, as covered with scales and slime as was the hand which had nearly broken Egon's foot. Starting at over six feet in height, it swelled and faded in rough rhythm until it blocked the entire aisle.
"Oh, no," Winston breathed, releasing his grip on Ray to position himself between the creature and his friend. "Peter?" The name emerged as a squeak at first. Winston cleared his throat and roared, "PEEEETER!"
Naggaoth cocked his head, staring down at the wounded Ray with interest. Ray, no longer held down by Winston, retreated back against the wall, his own hand pressed to his side, "Blood," Naggaoth smiled, saliva dripping from his revealed six-inch fangs. "It wasss you who usse human trap. Naggaoth will enjoy feasting on your blood." He took a step closer, and Winston attacked, throwing himself bodily at the nether-lord and striking out at the leathery face.
"Not a chance. Jack," the ex-soldier bellowed, slamming his balled fist into Naggaoth's reptile-like snout. "Only thing you're feasting on is my knuckles!"
Taken off-guard by 190 pounds of outraged Ghostbuster, Naggaoth stumbled back, but the Lord of Decay recovered instantly and swept Winston aside as though he were no more than an irritating insect. "Naggaoth takes you firsssst," he snarled, snagging Winston by the lapel and giving him a shake. "Your fn'en'sss blood will tassste twice asss sweet as a desssssert."
"Uh-unh, bunky," came Peter's hard voice from behind. "Not today!" He opened up, Egon's fire joining his as an almost single stream of blazing light. Naggaoth dropped Winston, who slid down the wall and crawled to the side, out of range of the impressive display of power which was increased as soon as he was clear.
"More power!" Egon yelled, pouring it on. "We need-." Naggaoth roared once and then vanished.
"Blast!" Peter depowered instantly but did not restow his thrower. "He got away!"
"This time," Egon agreed grimly. "But we can rest assured that he'll be back." He dropped down onto all fours and began a methodical search of the still-intact seats, emerging from beneath the farthest one with his glasses. "Thank goodness," he muttered, perching them back onto his nose, "I would've been in real trouble if these had broken."
"Don*t know what you call what we're in now," Peter retorted, carefully looking around. "Where's that PKE meter you're supposedly never without?"
Egon patted his pockets, finally locating it by its distinctive bulk. "Right here. Good thing I stowed it before the crash." He withdrew the instrument from its protective pouch and turned it on, pointing it to the four compass points and studying the results.
"No sign of Naggaoth," he reported at last, a frown etching a furrow between his blond brows, "but I am picking up a very strange reading originating... about a hundred feet in... that direction." He jerked his thumb toward the rear starboard side of the plane, never taking his eye off of the meter. "No information on it and I've never seen readings like these before."
"What.. class?" Ray asked from his own corner.
Peter knelt again by his side and placed a tight hand on the younger man's arm. "How you holding up?" he asked, studying Ray's chalk white face carefully.
Ray shrugged. "I'm fine. Really," he added at Peter's sharp look.
Peter smiled. "Sure you are. Winston, get yourself a pack and get back here. We're going to have to be ready if Naggaoth decides on a return engagement"
The black man nodded and vanished, returning within minutes, strapping the heavy pack around his waist. "I think I'm going to have to go for help," he decided, patting the web belt "That storm has died down for now but it could start up again any minute -- not to mention the fact that it's getting pretty cold. No one's even going to miss us for another four hours."
"And Naggaoth is certain to make another run on us by then," Peter sighed. "See? I was right -- it could only get worse."
"The day ain't over yet, Pete," Winston said, starting for the door.
***
"How about trying another Dramamine, Ray?" the taller of his two fellows suggested, leaning as close to Stantz as his seatbelt would allow. He proffered a small packet, promptly dropping it when the nearly-empty twenty- seater plunged sharply downwards before re-righting itself at a decided angle. He retrieved the packet and offered it again. "If you can just keep one down long enough for it to dissolve...."
"That's his problem. Egon," the brown-haired man on Stantz' other side protested. "If he could keep anything down, he wouldn't be in the shape he's in now."
"I've already tried twice," Ray groaned, clutching his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. "Oh, gosh, I hate small planes."
Peter Venkman's green eyes shone mischievously at his friend's screwed up face. "Couldn't have anything to do with all that calamari you put down at lunch, could it?" he suggested, turning to peer out the double-glassed window. "Squishy things make me sick sometimes, too."
"Peter!" Spengler scolded.
"But we were celebrating busting that Class 8," Ray began, only to groan again. "And I didn't know what calamari was and-." He dropped his head into his hand. "And thanks for reminding me, Peter. I'll remember you in my will, which I may need before this trip is out."
"It was something worth celebrating," Egon pointed out fairly. "We successfully trapped a Class 8, semi-corporeal, source specific nether- lord, who survived in our universe by eating human flesh."
Ray nodded then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Naggaoth, the one the Indians used to call the Lord of Decay. He smelled like it, too."
"He killed several people after finding that access point to our world," the blond physicist went on. "If we hadn't trapped him and closed the dimensional nexus, there's no telling how many people would have died. Well worth celebrating his capture," he repeated.
'I've been celebrating a case without Slimer being around," Venkman returned shortly. He left off his scrutiny of the unchanging clouds to shoot Stantz an apologetic look. "Sorry, pal. I guess you're not up to it right now." The sky outside the window lit up briefly, the laserlight accompanied by a sharp clap of thunder seconds later. "Oh, terrific. Now we've got a full-fledged storm to worry about, too."
"Nasty one, at that." The statement preceded the speaker by a fraction of a second as Winston Zeddemore made his way back through the cabin from the pilot's compartment, closely followed by Ann McDonnell, the pretty stewardess assigned to the flight. "I was in talking to Captain Rosenberg when the latest weather report came through. Looks like we're in for some pretty rough weather before we make it across these mountains."
"Swell," Ray muttered, closing his eyes. "Now I've got something to look forward to."
"Getting down?" Winston asked kindly.
Stantz shook his head. "No, dying, because I know I'm not going to survive this."
Winston laughed. "You don't mean that, homebrew, but I understand." He patted Stantz on the shoulder in rough sympathy, then looked around when a small hand tapped his own arm.
"I'm going to have to ask you to take your seat, Mr. Zeddemore," the stewardess stated firmly. "With this much turbulence, it's dangerous to remain unstrapped."
"Would you like to check my seatbelt for... safety purposes?" Peter asked, arching a brow.
Ann rolled her eyes heavenward, but her smile was genuinely friendly. "I think I can trust you to look after your own 'safety purposes,' Dr. Venkman," she retorted. "I... OH!" The plane chose that moment to perform three-quarters of a loop-the-loop, tossing her neatly into the lap of a surprised if not displeased Egon Spengler. "Excuse me. Dr. Spengler."
Egon smiled charmingly as he helped her to regain her feet, then balanced her with a hand placed firmly in the small of her back. "Not at all, Ann." His smile widened into a full fledged grin. "I assume this means we're on for dinner?"
Ann giggled, and it was Peter's turn to roll his eyes. "And I thought I was the smooth one," he grumbled, crossing his arms.
Winston, determinedly ignoring the byplay, took a seat behind Ray's, then buckled his seatbelt and adjusted it firmly across his hips. "Do you think the pilot's going to try to fly above the storm," he wondered, "or are we as high as the plane can go?"
Ann puckered her perfect brow. "I'm not really sure about that. Let me ask the pilot for you." She rubbed her own stomach ruefully. "Frankly, I hope he can do something. Even the crew isn't immune to airsickness in conditions like this." Flashing Egon another smile, she turned and disappeared back through the heavy curtains which unevenly divided the plane in two.
Thunder blared again and the little plane was shaken to its core by the vibration of the near-blast. When it had at last righted itself, the color of Ray's face had shifted subtly from green to chalk. "Ex-excuse me," he gasped, unhooking his belt and letting it retract with a little snap. "I-I think.."
Spengler caught his arm as he rose. "Raymond, perhaps you should remain in your seat. The turbulence..."
Ray shook himself free, clapped a hand to his mouth and fled for the restroom in the rear, from which the sound of someone being violently ill was soon heard.
"Kid's really sick," Winston said, grabbing for his armrest when the plane shivered again. "We're going to have to either send him on the big flights or drug him unconscious from now on." He was about to say more when the heavens roared once more, and the cabin lights flickered and died, "What the...?"
The restroom door swung open just as the emergency lighting switched on, bathing the compartment in red. "Egon?" Ray asked, a note of fear in his voice. "What.?"
That Was when the world went mad. The cabin shuddered again, then dropped sharply as the light plane was caught in a seething downdraft of monumental proportions. The power gone, it dipped and spun, as helpless as a toy in the hands of a colossal child. Conversely, the scream of over-stressed metal rose, louder even than the lightning without or the human voices raised in terror within.
Ray yelped once as the floor assumed an angle perpendicular to the ground, pitching him past Peter's automatic snatch and forward the length of the cabin where he smashed hard, shoulder-first into the heavy bulkhead wall. This coincided with the wrenching shriek of tortured aluminum as the nose pitched upward, bounced once and then skewed a simple cartwheel before sliding to a halt.
All was silent for some minutes until Peter's peevish tenor shattered the ozone charged air. "Talk about an 'E' ticket," he muttered, straightening from the defensive ball he'd curled into the minute the plane had started to fall. "You guys okay?"
There was no answer at first, and he raised his head worriedly to glance around. "Egon?" he called, reaching across the aisle to poke the tall blond in the arm. "Egon, are you with me, buddy?"
Spengler's groan was eloquent by its very brevity. "Wonderful," he snapped, sitting up and cradling his left hand in his right "I enjoy plane crashes; this is how I get my kicks."
"Janine's gonna be surprised to hear that!" Peter quipped, ignoring Egon's sour glare and unsnapping his seatbelt "How's the hand?"
Egon grimaced. "My wrist impacted with the armrest rather violently when we crashed." He made to turn it over, winced and laid it back in his lap. "I think it's broken."
Peter regarded him seriously for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll take a look at it for you in a minute. Winston? Ray? You two okay?"
"Don't yell, man," Zeddemore begged, a snap proclaiming the release of his own lap belt. "I got me a headache that I wouldn't wish on Walter Peck."
Peter grimaced. "He's the only one I.." His words trailed off as every trace of color leached from his face in a rush. "Ray wasn't strapped in," he breathed, lurching to his feet "Ray?!"
"We lost the cabin door," Egon added, pointing at the gaping hole where fully one half of the port fuselage had been torn away by the force of the crash. Using his right hand, he freed himself from his belt and pulled himself determinedly up. "Winston, check the cockpit; Peter, help me find-- "
"Ray," Peter finished, dropping to his knees beside the unmoving heap of tan uniform and auburn hair sprawled gracelessly in one corner of the cabin. Very hesitantly, he reached out to touch the man's shoulder, then froze at the first sight of the blood which covered Ray's entire abdomen and was even now staining the knee of Peter's pants crimson. He recoiled, horror written in his green eyes. "Egon!"
"I see him. Peter." Spengler's expression was grim as he took his place at Ray's other side and pressed two fingers against the occultist's white throat "He's still alive," he reported after a moment
Peter gulped loudly, only then remembering to breathe at all. "Ray, can you hear me?" There was no reply and he tried again, louder "Come on, buddy, answer me," There was no response to this heartfelt plea, either. Peter unzipped Ray's sand colored jumpsuit, then carefully eased up the black t- shirt, until he could give himself a full view of the wound. A piece of metal just barely identifiable as a component of the floor strip lighting had entered Ray's lower right side at an angle, snapping off nearly two inches beyond the wide circle of purple and swollen skin, three inches to the right of and one inch below the navel.
Peter grimaced and ran his fingers around the base of the metal strip, his jaw clenched tight with determination. "Hold him still, Egon," he commanded flatly. "I'm going to give this spike a pull--"
"No!" Spengler stopped the incipient action by clamping a large hand around Peter's wrist. "Leave it where it is." He hesitated at the fire which lit the other's face, but maintained his hold, nonetheless. "If you pull that spike out of his side," he explained reasonably, "Ray's going to bleed that much worse. As long as the metal remains where it is, it'll act as a kind of cork, which should help control the bleeding... as much as anything will," he added with innate if unwilling honesty.
A muscle jumped in Peter's jaw, then he nodded reluctantly and Egon released his hand. "Ray," the psychologist called, patting the unconscious man's cheeks. "Wake up, kid. Please?"
Winston reappeared from the cockpit at that moment, his face set, his fists clenched. "The pilot and copilot are dead," he reported, bracing himself against Peter's shoulder. "Looks like we hit nose-first; it's all crumpled in on itself -- and them."
Egon looked up at that, reading his answer in Winston's dark eyes even before asking, "And Ann?"
Zeddemore shook his head. "She's over here," he said quietly, gesturing at the single shoe visible from behind the curtain. "Broken neck. At least it was... quick. How's Ray?"
Egon turned away, resettling his gaze on the slack features of his youngest friend. "He's still alive," Peter supplied when it became apparent that Egon would not. "He's bleeding and without medical assistance...."
Ray's lashes fluttered, then opened, revealing only disorientation and bewilderment. "P--Peter," he whispered, gazing blankly upwards. "Peter...?"
"Right here, Ray." Venkman dropped the rest of the way to the floor, heedless of the blood which continued to soak his trousers. "Don't try to talk; you're going to be fine." Wide brown eyes followed the sound until they centered in the general direction of Venkman's worried face. The psychologist bent closer, forcing a smile. "Hey, kid," he said easily. "You had us worried for a minute there. How're you feeling?"
Ray blinked up at him, uncomprehending at first. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes as the first waves of pain struck. "P-Peter," he gasped, "Peter... hurts."
Venkman's smile vanished. He clasped Ray's hand between both his own and turned a panicked look at Spengler. "Do something!" he ordered, finding his voice again. "Help him!"
"Let me in there, Pete." Winston slid into the comer, nudging Egon out of the way with his elbow, then knelt to examine the wound for himself. "See if you can find a medical kit," he told the blond tersely, probing at the surrounding tissue. His touch was gentle but even that much forced a pained moan from between Ray's lips.
Peter glared. "Can't you be more careful?" he snapped, freeing his right hand to cup Ray's cheek. Ray leaned into the touch, staring at Peter as though the psychologist were the only thing in existence.
Winston spared him a single glance and shook his head. "It's going to get worse," he muttered softly. Then he gritted his teeth and shifted into Ray's line of sight. "Listen to me, Ray," he said. "Ray?
"Peter," Ray whispered again, paying him no heed.
"No, Ray, listen to me." Winston took Ray's face in his hands, forcing him to look to the left. Peter growled deep in his throat but held his peace for once. "No, don't look away," Winston commanded firmly. "Look at me."
Ray ceased his weak struggle to regain contact with Peter and focused his gaze on Zeddemore's worried features. "You've been hurt, Ray," the black Ghostbuster said quietly, "and we're going to have to try and get that bleeding stopped." He paused, staring directly into the man's wide brown eyes, willing him to understand. "It's going to hurt - a lot. Think you can handle it?"
Ray returned the stare a long moment, then twisted his head until he could see Peter's face again. He licked his lips and nodded. Peter smiled. "That's my boy," he declared, squeezing Ray's hand. "Hang on to me, okay?"
Ray nodded again and Winston squared his shoulders. "You hang on to him, Pete." he admonished, then he brought his left palm down full onto a point just beyond the wound, pressing firmly. Ray*s body arched, nearly tearing out of Peter's restraining hold. He uttered a low scream then went limp.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Peter yelled, only his grip on Ray preventing him from lunging for the black man's throat "If you're trying to kill him...."
"Pressure on the wound," Zeddemore returned, the tremor in his voice betraying his own agitation. "He's going die if we can't stop the bleeding."
Egon made his way from the rear of the plane, waving a small tin box with the universally recognized red cross emblazoned across its lid. One of the proton packs hung on his right shoulder, dangling by its leather strap. "Not much in the first aid kit," he said, allowing the pack to drop to the ground and passing across the tin. "Gauze and tape is about all."
"Disinfectant?" Winston asked, rummaging inside with his free hand.
"For all the good it's going to do." That was Peter, still shaken but rapidly regaining his balance. "The strip is inside the wound; no way we're gonna be able to disinfect that." Ray moaned softly and Peter patted his shoulder. "You're doing fine, kid," he said encouragingly. "Just hang on."
Zeddemore slid a wad of thick gauze between his hand and the wound, immediately clamping down again. Ray whimpered but said nothing. Egon watched impassively some moments, then wearily forced himself to his feet, leaving the pack where it lay. "I'd better check the radio," he said, carefully easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position across his chest. "Ray's only chance is for us to radio help."
"Save it." Winston raised his dark eyes, reluctantly meeting Egon's blue. "Radio was the first thing I checked out after the crew; it's deader than they are."
Egon sighed. "More bad news," he added grimly. "I peeked into the baggage compartment while I was looking for the first aid kit"
"The proton packs?" Peter asked, sparing the one at Egon's feet a worried glance.
Spengler shook his head. "The ghost trap. Either the lightning or the shock of impact breached the unit. The Class 8 escaped."
Peter's shoulders slumped. "Great. So, not only are we stranded in the middle of a storm," he gestured with his right hand to the damaged access door from which wafted a fine chill mist from the dying storm without, "we've got a wounded buddy and a nasty Class 8 after us." He glared in the physicist's direction, though there was more depression than anger in his look. "Got anything else you want to break to us, O Bearer of Glad Tidings?"
Egon shrugged. "That isn't enough?"
"Oh, it's enough," the other shot back, "I just don't believe it's going to be all."
"It issssss not."
All four men started at the half-heard / half-sensed voice which rumbled unpleasantly in the close confines of the cabin. Peter released Ray's hand and made a wild dive for the accelerator pack, snagging the barrel with one hand and snapping the power on with the other. "You might as well give it up, Naggaoth," he said harshly, attempting to cover all points of the cabin at once. "You don't have any better chance now than you did the first time we trashed you."
Egon moved fast, lunging for the rear compartment of the plane where the other three packs were stored. He was halfway down the aisle when a slimy, scaled hand reached up through the fuselage and snagged his ankle. A single yank and Egon was down, crying out when his arm smacked the floor. His glasses went flying from his nose to disappear under a seat.
"Not so fasssst, fleshhead, the voice commanded with distinctly mocking note. "Do you think meee so foolish asss to let you reach your weaponssss?"
"Frankly, slimehead, yes!" Peter loosed a stream of energy, playing it carefully across the arm attached to the restraining hand.
Naggaoth snarled, more annoyed than hurt by Peter's low-power attack. "You'll paaaaay for that!" the thought/voice swore as the self-proclaimed Lord of Decay tightened its hold. The physicist howled as the pressure increased, the bones in his ankle crackling ominously. "I will maaake you pay...."
Peter fired again, closer to the scaled fingers, and Naggaoth growled loudly and withdrew his hand. Egon groaned and sat up. He reached for his slime-coated ankle, then stopped, instead forcing himself to his feet and stumbling his way towards the luggage compartment. Peter ceased fire and returned to crouch in a protective stance at Ray's side. "No way we're gonna be able to retrap Naggaoth with only one pack," he whispered to Winston as an aside. "And if he traps Egon in the back...."
"G-go help him out Pete." Ray grabbed for Peter's knee, worry banishing some of the pain from his voice. "Egon's hurt. He needs you." He tried again, seeing the automatic refusal in the other's eyes. "If Egon doesn't make it back with those packs, Naggaoth will kill all of us."
Venkman hesitated. obviously torn between the desire to go and the equally strong one to stay. Finally, Ray's logic won out and he rose. "I'll be back," he promised, starting off. He jumped across a tumbled seat, then dodged around the small serving table the stewardess would no longer need. He dove through the connecting door an instant after hearing the choked yell only barely identifiable as Egon's bass.
Winston started up at that same yell, then forcibly settled himself back down, his palm still firmly pressed against the wound in Ray's side. Stantz waited until Peter had disappeared before tapping his black partner on the arm. "Go after him, Winston," he said, his expression as firm as his voice. "I'm fine."
Zeddemore shook his head. "No way, Ray. I'm not letting you lose any more of this red stuff than you can help." He smiled at Ray's concerned expression and used his free hand to pat the younger man's shoulder. "Don't worry, there's not much that those two can't handle between them. You just relax."
"But...."
"I claim your livesss as wellll." Once more the words proceeded the entity known as Naggaoth by mere seconds. A great form rose from the deck, as covered with scales and slime as was the hand which had nearly broken Egon's foot. Starting at over six feet in height, it swelled and faded in rough rhythm until it blocked the entire aisle.
"Oh, no," Winston breathed, releasing his grip on Ray to position himself between the creature and his friend. "Peter?" The name emerged as a squeak at first. Winston cleared his throat and roared, "PEEEETER!"
Naggaoth cocked his head, staring down at the wounded Ray with interest. Ray, no longer held down by Winston, retreated back against the wall, his own hand pressed to his side, "Blood," Naggaoth smiled, saliva dripping from his revealed six-inch fangs. "It wasss you who usse human trap. Naggaoth will enjoy feasting on your blood." He took a step closer, and Winston attacked, throwing himself bodily at the nether-lord and striking out at the leathery face.
"Not a chance. Jack," the ex-soldier bellowed, slamming his balled fist into Naggaoth's reptile-like snout. "Only thing you're feasting on is my knuckles!"
Taken off-guard by 190 pounds of outraged Ghostbuster, Naggaoth stumbled back, but the Lord of Decay recovered instantly and swept Winston aside as though he were no more than an irritating insect. "Naggaoth takes you firsssst," he snarled, snagging Winston by the lapel and giving him a shake. "Your fn'en'sss blood will tassste twice asss sweet as a desssssert."
"Uh-unh, bunky," came Peter's hard voice from behind. "Not today!" He opened up, Egon's fire joining his as an almost single stream of blazing light. Naggaoth dropped Winston, who slid down the wall and crawled to the side, out of range of the impressive display of power which was increased as soon as he was clear.
"More power!" Egon yelled, pouring it on. "We need-." Naggaoth roared once and then vanished.
"Blast!" Peter depowered instantly but did not restow his thrower. "He got away!"
"This time," Egon agreed grimly. "But we can rest assured that he'll be back." He dropped down onto all fours and began a methodical search of the still-intact seats, emerging from beneath the farthest one with his glasses. "Thank goodness," he muttered, perching them back onto his nose, "I would've been in real trouble if these had broken."
"Don*t know what you call what we're in now," Peter retorted, carefully looking around. "Where's that PKE meter you're supposedly never without?"
Egon patted his pockets, finally locating it by its distinctive bulk. "Right here. Good thing I stowed it before the crash." He withdrew the instrument from its protective pouch and turned it on, pointing it to the four compass points and studying the results.
"No sign of Naggaoth," he reported at last, a frown etching a furrow between his blond brows, "but I am picking up a very strange reading originating... about a hundred feet in... that direction." He jerked his thumb toward the rear starboard side of the plane, never taking his eye off of the meter. "No information on it and I've never seen readings like these before."
"What.. class?" Ray asked from his own corner.
Peter knelt again by his side and placed a tight hand on the younger man's arm. "How you holding up?" he asked, studying Ray's chalk white face carefully.
Ray shrugged. "I'm fine. Really," he added at Peter's sharp look.
Peter smiled. "Sure you are. Winston, get yourself a pack and get back here. We're going to have to be ready if Naggaoth decides on a return engagement"
The black man nodded and vanished, returning within minutes, strapping the heavy pack around his waist. "I think I'm going to have to go for help," he decided, patting the web belt "That storm has died down for now but it could start up again any minute -- not to mention the fact that it's getting pretty cold. No one's even going to miss us for another four hours."
"And Naggaoth is certain to make another run on us by then," Peter sighed. "See? I was right -- it could only get worse."
"The day ain't over yet, Pete," Winston said, starting for the door.
***