Three pairs of eyes stared at the door for a long time after it had closed
behind Winston's broad back, Al even passing through the wall to watch
until he'd vanished past the tree line. It was Egon who finally broke the
ensuing silence. "I'm going to heat up the coffee," he announced, getting
to his feet. "Peter?"
"Hmmm?"
Egon raised the metal pot to eye level before placing it onto one of the gas jets. "Coffee?"
Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the drooping locks out of his face. "Yeah. Sure, We may be here a while yet" He looked down at Ray, who lay eyes closed and quiescent under Peter's hand, then he shifted to Sam, still tied securely to his chair. The green eyes started with the old fishing cap, perched precariously atop the man's head, trailing languidly downward until even Sam's beat up boots had been examined and filed.
Sam shifted uncomfortably under that impersonal and analytical gaze, but allowed the scrutiny without comment. Not so his friend.
"I've seen that look before," Al fumed, stomping from one end of the room to the other. "DOCTOR Verbena Beeks has that same look. You ever notice that look, Sam? These shrinks give you that fish-eye look, like you're a piece of meat and they can't decide whether you're prime rib or dog food."
Sam smiled, the merest twitch of his lips, but Peter noticed and pounced immediately. "Something funny?" he asked hard voiced.
"You mean besides you?" Al asked nastily.
Sam shook his head. "It's not hard to guess what you're thinking," he began carefully. "You were sizing me up, weren't you, to decide whether or not you can trust me."
The latter was not a question but Peter chose to treat it as such. "I don't trust you," he returned honestly. "I think you're a drug dealer and a low life who's playing mind games with us to try and work out an escape."
"Then why the size-up?" Al grumbled impatiently.
"Then you've already made up your mind about me, even without those visor things Winston went after," Sam said, dismayed.
There was a clatter from the stove and then Egon was at Peter's side, shoving a steaming mug into his hand. "Take a break. Peter," he offered kindly. "I'll take care of Ray for a few minutes."
Peter's fingers closed automatically around the cup. "I'm all right." He took a sip, then wrinkled his nose. "Or at least I was. What'd you put in this, gym socks?"
"We're probably fortunate if that's all that Mr. Bauer puts in his coffee," Spengler responded, returning to the stove. He took a hefty gulp from his own cup, setting it on the stove and returning to the bed. "Take a break," he repeated more firmly than before. "You need it." Peter hesitated, then nodded, staring a long time at Ray before finally gaining his feet. The occultist's condition had visibly deteriorated over the past thirty minutes; his breath now came in short, panting gasps and his skin had taken on the cool, clammy feel of deep shock. He didn't react when Peter released the firm pressure he'd maintained constantly on the wound, nor did he do more than sigh when Egon settled next to him and placed his own palm where Peter's had been.
The two older Ghostbusters exchanged a worried look at this lack of response. "Not much time left," Venkman said, gesturing vaguely at a small alarm clock on the table. He grimaced and raised his hand higher, red crusted both skin and nails, some of it still the bright crimson of fresh blood, the rest the color of old rust, dried and cracking. He stared at it intently as though he'd never seen it before, wiggling his fingers in uneasy rhythm. "So much blood," he murmured, exhaustion dragging at his voice. "Too much."
"Then do something!" Al urged, waving both hands before the psychologist's face. "Let Sam go!"
But Peter, unconscious of Al's frustrated admonishment, merely allowed his hand to drop back to his side. "I'm going to wash up," he finished, repairing cup and all to the bathroom and shutting the door.
Al used the opportunity to return to his friend and poke him with one insubstantial forefinger. "This Spengler seems like an intelligent sort, Sam. See if you can make him listen to reason."
"Nothing to lose," Sam sighed.
Egon looked up at that and Sam tried on another smile. Egon frowned. "You really shouldn't do that," he advised with a marked lack of interest.
"Do what?"
"Smile. It makes you look like a piranha."
Calavicci squinted his eyes. "He's right, Sam, you do look like a piranha. You know, those little fish with the big teeth...." "I know what a piranha is!" Sam snapped irritably.
Unaware of the other half of the conversation, Egon shrugged. "I never said that you didn't"
"Uh... yeah, right" Casting Al a reproachful look, Sam tried another tack. "You and your friends seem to be very close. Have you been together long?"
Spengler shifted in his seat, resting his splinted arm more comfortably in his lap, "A dozen years," he said quietly, "Long enough to watch Peter and Ray grow up." He smiled slightly and added, "More or less."
"They didn't go to M.I.T.?" Sam asked, wrinkling his brow in thought. "I don't remember them."
"With that swiss-cheese memory of yours," Al interjected, perching on the edge of something invisible, "you're lucky to remember that you went to M.I.T. But Spengler's the only one you could have known, anyway; the other two were too young to have been in any of your classes, and Zeddemore never matriculated."
Egon confirmed this with a swift shake of the head. "They went to Columbia; Peter and I met when we were sharing a lab for awhile, and Ray was in one of my math classes. I've... managed to keep an eye on them ever since."
"Losing Ray now would be a terrible thing," Sam said gently. "Friends can become as close to you as your own flesh and blood. I know." He exchanged a warm smile with Al, who nodded amiably in confirmation. "My brother Tom used to watch out for me, too, when I was growing up. After he died, Al took over the job -- whether I needed watching out for or not."
"What you need is a keeper," Calavicci muttered, swinging his foot. He followed Sam's line of sight, studying Spongier, who was sitting shoulders hunched and head bowed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ashen face of his injured comrade. "I know what you're thinking, Sam, and I agree -- losing that boy is going to kill this one, too." He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom, from which the sound of running water could be faintly heard. "And Venkman. Sam, we gotta find some way to get these lunkheads to see reason!"
"Some way," Sam whispered, his eyes full of compassion. "I know how I'd feel if it was you laying there."
"Funny," Egon went on, unhearing, "but when you mentioned Dr. Beckett..." His glasses slid down his long nose and he barely aborted the automatic move to adjust them. With one hand wrapped in bandages and splint, and the other holding in Ray Stantz' lifeblood, he found himself short one appendage. He tossed his blond head, managing to shift them slightly higher, they hovered a moment, then slid back down. Egon sighed and gave up. "When you mentioned Dr. Beckett," he repeated, starting again, "It made me think about how much Ray always reminded me of him. Both of them are shy, brilliant young men; didn't have the faintest clue about how to handle the 'real' world outside of the college walls when I first met them."
"I wasn't that bad," Sam protested, giving his ropes another tug.
"You're still that bad," Al told him with a broad grin. He cocked his head in a listening attitude, then slid to his feet. "Be right back, Sam; Gooshie's paging me." The imaging door opened then closed, and he was gone.
But Sam's statement had brought Egon's head up, forcing a return to awareness of just who it was he was addressing. "Dr. Beckett published a theory on time travel some five years ago. Do you recall it?"
Sam nodded. "My string theory." He glanced briefly at his surroundings -- the rough planked walls, the old clothes he wore -- and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, I recall it." He again fixed on Egon, who was regarding him with skepticism... and hope. "A man's life can be likened to a string," he said, his tones shifting to a lecture mode. "If you can somehow crumple that string into a ball so that all the points touch...."
"I read that article," Egon interrupted brusquely. "It discussed the pure mathematics of the theorem, without including a practical application analysis. The scientific community long deduced that that oversight was due to Government intercession."
"It was." Sam's eyes darkened. "Military intervention, to be precise." He shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. "No matter. The Quantum Accelerator was completed and tested." He leaned forward excitedly. "We were actually able to produce an entropy field completely separate from the universal norm, and then to manipulate the reality interface forward and backward along a linear path. The result was a functional time machine!"
"The string theory allowed for a man to replace himself in the time stream," Spengler pointed out, stretching one long, blue-clad leg straight out before him. "You're telling me that you were able to replace another man?"
That brought a pucker to Sam's brow. I've been thinking about that - for obvious reasons. I seem to have neglected to include the element of psychic variables affecting the reality envelope itself. I'm being drawn to points in various people's lives, which are critical enough to generate actual eddies in the time stream -- eddies powerful enough to override the impulse to travel along my own lifeline, A para-psionic connection between the original inhabitant and his own timeline broadcasts an illusion of that person's physical aura, that illusion forcing the receptor to fill in such details as voice and general appearance, even extending to the tactile senses."
"Everyone sees-hears-feels precisely what they expect to." Spengler studied the other physicist again, even more intensely than before. The hope evident in the sky blue eyes had grown steadily as Sam had talked, replacing the skepticism at the improbability of the story. "Dr. Beckett's theorem was accepted only with caution on a general scale due to the fact that it relied heavily on Pythagorian mathematics to support the most primary concepts."
"Did it?" Sam asked with interest just as Al reappeared through the imaging chamber door. "I have a lot of trouble remembering the details."
"Don't tell him that, Sam!" Al wailed, clapping a hand to his forehead. "You've almost got him convinced!"
Too late - the hope faded from Egon's face as though it had never been. "But then, that was only a published theory," he intoned, turning back to Ray. "Something anyone could have read."
"Shoot," Beckett muttered.
Al wandered the room again, his head sunk on his breast. "Try something else, Sam, and do it quick. Time's running out."
Ray tossed his head, beginning to grow agitated, and Egon bent over him, alarmed. "Do you know much about medicine. Dr. Spengler?" Sam asked quickly.
Egon didn't reply right away; rather several minutes passed during which he did no more than stare down at Ray, full lips pursed. Finally, he looked up, meeting Sam's eyes directly. "Enough to know that Peter's right - there isn't much time left. We're going to have to...."
Peter chose that moment to emerge from the washroom, his face and hands fresh scrubbed, and dabbing at the smeared spot on his knee which marked an unsuccessful laundry attempt. He crossed immediately to Ray, who was muttering fretfully to himself. "Take it easy," he soothed, laying his hand on Ray's hair. "That's right - everything is fine." Stantz gradually calmed under that comforting touch, turning his face toward Peter hand and falling quiet once more.
Peter shifted slightly until he could again face Sam, his brows drawn together, flat analysis becoming open speculation. "I made up my mind not to trust you the minute I saw you," he stated, returning to the earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted. "My only problem is deciding whether or not you're really a surgeon and how much you value your own life."
"What's he mean by that?" Calavicci demanded, frowning in turn.
A full half minute passed during which the only sound was the bubble of the coffee on the stove and the labored breathing of the injured man. Finally, Sam nodded. "I understand. You want to work a deal."
"If you're what you say you are," Peter acknowledged, giving Ray's cheek a final pat. "Ray lives, you go free before the cops get here. If he dies..." He grinned coldly, "...then so do you."
"Big deal," Al retorted, scuffing one silver sneaker on the wooden floor. "If the boy dies so does everybody. Better than you got now, though."
"Agreed," Sam said, nodding once. "Would you like to let me up? I won't be able to do much of anything until the circulation returns to my hands."
"Just a moment." That was Egon, his powerful bass a shocking contrast to the deadly quiet tones of both Peter and Sam. "Winston isn't back with the ecto-visors yet. We agreed...."
"You agreed," Peter interrupted rudely. "I decided." Egon opened his mouth and Peter's eyes glowed emerald. "I'm not going to let Ray die," he stated, his tones flashing the same challenge as his eyes.
Egon closed his mouth with a snap, then nodded. "I... resist the thought of trusting this man with Ray," he returned, flicking a blue gaze in Sam's direction, "but I am willing to trust your instincts in this."
Peter's returning smile lit his face, smoothing away the lines etching themselves into his smooth skin. He fished into one pocket, pulling out a jackknife and expertly flicking it open. It was the work of seconds to free Sam's hands, then Peter straightened, adapting an easy stance in front of Beckett, his weight on his toes. "Remember," he said, fingering the knife meaningfully, "if he dies, so do you."
Sam continued to sit where he was, massaging his wrists. "Did you see anything more useful than that for me to operate with?" he asked, jerking his head at the jackknife.
Peter hesitated, then snapped it closed. "There are a couple of scalpels in the lab. They look sharp."
Sam nodded and made his way to the cot. "Find some alcohol and put them in to soak," he directed, tapping Egon's shoulder. The blond rose and Sam took his place by the bed and lifted away the mound of blankets which covered Ray from head to toe. Ray said something softly and Sam patted his leg. "Everything's going to be all right," he said. "Don't worry. Al?" he added in a whisper.
"Right behind you, Sam."
Beckett pressed his fingers against Ray's throat, purposely keeping his face turned away from Egon and Peter. "Give me pulse and blood pressure," he murmured, counting to himself.
Al consulted his comlink and shook his head. "Not good; pulse is 96, blood pressure 90/50. Respiration is 25 and shallow."
Sam released Ray's throat and carefully examined the wound itself, the skin was discolored and hot to the touch and there was a decided swelling to the abdominal area. Sam drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his teeth. "Definitely still bleeding inside," he said quietly. He made to rise, then stopped and dropped back to his seat. "Can Ziggy give me an X- ray?" he asked curiously. "Then you can display the results as a holographic image."
Al punched in a few figures on his comlink, smiling widely at the results. "X-ray's impossible," he said, tapping the instrument with his forefinger, "but I can take thermal and magnetic scans, then Ziggy can cross-reference them with the autopsy report to give you a computer simulation to work off of!"
True to his word a shimmering image appeared above Ray's chest, that of a man's abdomen, the skin translucent. It seemed to peel away layer by layer until a metal spike could be seen embedded in the tissue. No X-ray ever gave a view so clear as this detailed representation of the injury sight. Sam studied it intently several minutes, then nodded and the hologram vanished.
"I've got a preliminary analysis for you," he began formally. "The metal entered the lower right quadrant between the abdominal and peritoneal walls. I don't think the intestine has been punctured, which is fortunate."
"Yeah, Ray's real lucky," Peter said, pausing at the threshold to the lab. "Anything else?"
Sam scanned the room quickly, then began to assemble the make-shift equipment he would be needing. "Sterilize this too," he said, pouncing on a miniature 'bachelor's' sewing kit. "Needles... threads. I'm also going to need a stable place to work."
"The lab table?" Egon suggested, easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position in its sling. "It's sturdy wood."
Sam nodded. "Fine. In and out surgery...."
"Meatball surgery," Peter called, popping his head back through the door. He met Sam's blank stare with a wry twist of his lips. "You know, M.A.S.H.? Hawkeye Pierce?" Sam shook his head."
"You were still nerding when M.A.S.H. came on," Al stated from behind. "Though it escapes me how you could have missed it for eleven straight years."
Knowing better than to get involved in this type of discussion, Sam merely shrugged and finished his preparations, meager though they were. In short order he gestured Pete over. "We have to move him into the lab," he instructed, indicating the poles of the airline stretcher which railed over either side of the bed. "As carefully as possible - we don't want to jar that spike into doing more damage. "
Peter nodded and instantly assumed his place at the head of the cot Now that his decision to use Sam was made the psychologist was all cooperation and watchful assistance. Working together the two carried Stantz into the lab and deposited him on the hardwood table. Ray cried out once when he was lifted and again when the stretcher settled, calling Peter's name both times. Venkman clenched his jaw at this necessity of causing his friend more pain, dropping the stretcher poles the instant Ray was on the table and circling to the younger man's side.
"Easy does it," he soothed, petting Ray's hair in gentle strokes. "Everything is all right; I'm here." He continued to talk softly to the hurting man until Ray again lay quiet. Sam brushed Peter brusquely aside to check Ray's pupils and pulse, then he stepped back, allowing the psychologist access to the bed again. "Get rid of the stretcher," he directed, heading for the door."Then get his clothes off. You can cover him with a sheet while I wash up." Sam didn't wait for the double acknowledgement before the lavatory door was shutting behind him, "Al?" he called, turning on the water tap.
"Good news, Sam." Calavicci appeared through the far wall, picking a strand of long blonde hair from his lapel. "According to Ziggy, the kid... uh, Ray's chances of surviving just went up 10 per cent."
Sam, busy lathering with dish detergent, looked up, dismayed. "Only 10 per cent? That means they're still only...."
"Thirty-two per cent."
"Right" Beckett scrubbed furiously at his nails, sloshing soap suds onto the floor. "Does he know why the numbers are still so low?"
Al again consulted his comlink. He entered several figures, waited, then entered one more. His brow wrinkled. "Time factor involved here on two levels," he reported, giving the instrument a sound whack on his thigh. "If you finish operating inside of the next twenty minutes, the kid's chances go up to 91.81 per cent; they drop fast at 22 minutes, evidently from the shock. After 27 minutes his chances of surviving the next day are under 9 per cent." He looked up, his expression grim. "Ziggy also thinks that monster we saw earlier is still around. Even if Dr. Stantz survives the operation, he might not make it out of the cabin alive."
"And the world?" Sam asked unhappily.
That elicited a whole new scenario to be run through the computer. Al read the results, stared, then re-ran the program, his jaw dropping.
Alarmed, Sam left off scrubbing his left forearm to stare at the older man in turn. "What is it, Al? What's wrong?"
Al raised his head, turning the comlink around so that Sam could read the results for himself. "Not wrong, Sam, better! Look at this!"
"Plus-71 per cent" Sam frowned. "The world's survival rate increased by twelve times! Then the operation is going to be a success?"
Al shook his head. "Not necessarily, but the team -- or at least the surviving members stay together even if you fail."
"They don't disband if Ray dies?"
"Some do, some don't" Al settled himself on an invisible chair and crossed his legs. "Ziggy re-accessed some old newspaper articles; it seems that both Venkman and Spengler do leave for awhile but the business continues under Zeddemore's leadership. He puts a new team together and handles routine cases for awhile with somebody named Kobart. Then about six months later Venkman comes back on a part time basis. Looks like they're still in business. And the scenario holds true even if only two of them walk out of here tonight."
"Then the world doesn't depend on Ray's survival anymore?" Sam asked, using his elbows to shut off the tap.
Al shrugged. "70 per cent isn't bad odds," he pointed out, "but if the boy makes it the odds go up another nineteen points. If I was a gambling man..."
"Which you are," Sam interjected, with a smile.
"...which l am, I'd rather bet my bankroll on 89 per cent than 70, wouldn't you?" He gave Beckett a direct look. "Do your best, Sam, or you may not have a world to come back to when you're finished leaping."
Sam gave the lavatory door a sound kick, slamming it back against the wall. "As a doctor, I plan on doing that anyway."
"Sure you do," Al agreed, following him out
The operation began precisely five minutes later with Sam dabbing some of the ether formerly used in the production of illegal substances onto a wad of cotton and holding it across Ray's nose and mouth. "No, don't fight it," he instructed, but Ray instinctively raised both hands, struggling weakly against Sam's own. "Dr. Venkman, a little assistance here, please?"
Peter was at his side in a flash, grabbing Ray's wrists and pinning them to the bed. "It's okay, pal," he soothed, easily restraining the injured man. "Don't be afraid, it's Peter."
"Breathe deeply," Sam said. "That's right.. in... exhale... in...."
Ray's struggles slowed quickly; within seconds he was unconscious, a fact confirmed by a hovering Al Calavicci. "He's under," the ex-astronaut remarked, keeping his comlink turned in Stantz' direction. "Pulse, respiration and blood pressure are within acceptable norms."
"Good." Sam nodded, satisfied, then jerked his head toward the door. "You two better wait outside; the fewer people in here the fewer sources of infection I have to worry about." Peter didn't move, rather he regarded Sam sharply for a long moment Sam turned on him, impatient and harried. "You made up your mind to let me do my job," he stated flatly. "Now either do as I say or call it off, but decide now; there's no time left" Peter stiffened at that but he only nodded shortly and stalked out.
Bereft of purpose due to his own broken wrist, Egon left as well, calling over his shoulder, "We'll borrow some of your clothes for him when you're finished," before shutting the door.
Left alone, Sam began his work, using Al's sophisticated sensors to monitor Ray's vital signs, while outside two worried Ghostbusters spent their time pacing the floor and cursing -- Egon in several languages, two of which had not been spoken on this planet for millennia. This state of affairs continued for nearly a quarter of an hour without incident until... Egon's PKE meter turned itself on.
"Blast!" the physicist swore, swooping the instrument off his belt. "Positive readings and they're Naggaoth's."
"Direction?" Peter asked, calmly helping the older man on with his pack.
Egon shook his head. "No, only contact, but he's close."
Peter snapped the trailing straps around Egon's waist then reached for his own pack, slipping it easily across his broad shoulders. Then he tapped, quite politely, on the closed lab door. "Got a bit of a brouhaha brewing," he quipped, visibly paling at the blood which seemed to be everywhere. He gulped and added, "It-it's Naggaoth."
Sam nodded, his mind still on the task at hand. "I need approximately ten minutes to finish tying off these blood vessels," he muttered, dropping a sponge carelessly to the floor. "No margins."
Peter nodded and withdrew his head. "Egon, old buddy," he told the tense blond who was staring intently at the front door, "we need ten minutes or Ray's bought it, and I need a direction on Naggaoth."
Spengler gestured with his meter, then clipped it to his belt and drew his particle thrower. "Straight ahead. Dr. Venkman," he replied, powering up. "Naggaoth's coming straight at us."
"Just the way I like it," Peter grunted. He threw open the door and stepped out into the world of white. He cleared his throat before shouting, "HEY, Naggaoth! WE'RE WAITIN' ON YA, BABE! "
He cocked his head, listening carefully and was rewarded by the crunch of heavy feet in the new fallen snow. "Naggaoth comessss," the being hissed, becoming visible -- and substantial. "Naggaoth feeedsss."
"Egon!" Peter yelled, opening fire.
Struck squarely by the proton beam, the Lord of Decay began to melt, liquefying like an old corpse and oozing into the white coated earth. A gangrenous residue marked the spot where the creature vanished.
"Keep alert. Peter," Spengler advised, spinning in a slow circle. "A Class 8 isn't going to be stopped by one proton beam."
"Naggaoth isss here."
The voice originated a dozen feet to Egon's fore. The physicist spun, snapping off a shot at the head which emerged from a mud hole, Peter's fire striking at roughly the same instant. Once more the creature melted back into the ground. "He's playing with us," Spengler said, casting a glance at the PKE meter.
"Just like he did in Bangor." Peter edged nearer the cabin, eyes darting in all directions. "He played cat and mouse with his early victims, too. I understand that he got as much enjoyment from the chase as he did-"
"Consuming them," Egon finished grimly.
"Yeah." A sprint of ten yards took Peter back to the cabin. He moved aside to let Egon in, then resumed his position blocking the entrance with his body. "Bauer needs another ten minutes minimum," he said as an aside. "We have to keep Naggaoth outside until then or Ray won't have a chance."
"Until then?" Spengler asked incredulously, peeking into the lab and then quickly closing the door again. "What are we supposed to do after that? We can barely restrain a Class 8 with two throwers, and then not for long. And without traps, he'll rip us apart."
"Then we'll have to think of something else, won't we?" Peter snarled, snatching the PKE meter from Egon's belt. "I'm not letting that thing get to Ray no matter what the cost."
"I do concur," Egon said mildly. "I was only wondering how we plan to accomplish that."
"I...." Venkman broke off abruptly to offer his older colleague an apologetic smile. "I don*t know how," he said more quietly. "I only know we have no choice." He turned back to the doorway, holding the PKE meter straight out like a sword. "This thing is pretty useless," he complained, giving it a shake. "I can't pinpoint Naggaoth at all."
Egon nodded, causing his blond wave to bob. "He's giving off too much wide- spectrum PKE. No way to tell where he'll concentrate it for a manifest"
"I just love it when you talk like that," Peter sighed with characteristic sarcasm. "Doesn't help a bit but it sounds great"
He trailed off, watching in fascination as the rough planks making up the kitchen floor began to dance, several nails tearing free with the sound of a gunshot. He pressed a hand against the door frame but it remained stubbornly stable, only the floorboards showing any motion. "The game is afoot," he quipped, taking aim.
"More like a floor," the blond returned, clutching his own thrower against his side to steady it. He too aimed carefully... ...and the shaking stopped.
"I feel like a maze rat," Egon complained, not lowering his weapon. "Being taunted into action."
"Sssweet flesh foood. A scaly hand oozed through the floorboards, dripping slime and decayed leaves. It made a snatch for Egon's ankle, the talons actually causing a whistling sound as they closed on empty air for Egon was already in motion. A wild leap carried him beyond the range of that grasping hand and an agile twist of his body brought his thrower to target. He fired, spraying the hand and now extended arm with a stream of energized protons. Naggaoth screamed, emerging fully head and shoulders when Peter joined his power to Egon's, both packs turned to tractor mode.
"Full power!" Peter yelled, turning a knob.
Egon's weapon jumped suddenly, nearly freeing itself from his one-handed grip. "I... I can*t hold it!" he screamed. "My arm...."
Tight lipped. Peter moved closer to the physicist, eyes fixed firmly on the struggling swamp thing. "No good," he called over the crackle of energy. "I can't get any closer to you without cutting my power."
"It's feedback from Naggaoth." Moving slowly and carefully, Egon freed his broken hand from the sling, grunting when the crude splint caught in the material. He clenched his teeth and pulled it loose, then positioned his fingers across the top of his barrel. "I've got... full power!" he said, turning the knob. His energy stream brightened perceptibly, twining itself over and around Peter's at the target "We got him!"
"Yeah," Peter returned, bracing himself feet apart "And now that we got him, what are we gonna do with him?"
"Feeed me .flesh thing." The nether-lord rose higher through the floor, swelling until he filled the eight-foot space between floor and ceiling. Then he began to shrink and opaque, solidifying before the humans' stunned eyes. "Feeed Naggaoth" he hissed, snapping his alligator jaws together in Peter's direction.
"This is like... bad, isn't it?" Peter asked with more than his share of understatement.
Egon nodded. "I'd say so." And then he was backing hurriedly out of the way of another angry swipe of those razor-claws, dropping to his knees to continue his own attack. "We*re not going to be able to hold him much longer," he said with alarming calm. "And once we fall...."
"Ray won't have a chance," Peter finished grimly. "And where is Winston?"
***
"Hmmm?"
Egon raised the metal pot to eye level before placing it onto one of the gas jets. "Coffee?"
Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the drooping locks out of his face. "Yeah. Sure, We may be here a while yet" He looked down at Ray, who lay eyes closed and quiescent under Peter's hand, then he shifted to Sam, still tied securely to his chair. The green eyes started with the old fishing cap, perched precariously atop the man's head, trailing languidly downward until even Sam's beat up boots had been examined and filed.
Sam shifted uncomfortably under that impersonal and analytical gaze, but allowed the scrutiny without comment. Not so his friend.
"I've seen that look before," Al fumed, stomping from one end of the room to the other. "DOCTOR Verbena Beeks has that same look. You ever notice that look, Sam? These shrinks give you that fish-eye look, like you're a piece of meat and they can't decide whether you're prime rib or dog food."
Sam smiled, the merest twitch of his lips, but Peter noticed and pounced immediately. "Something funny?" he asked hard voiced.
"You mean besides you?" Al asked nastily.
Sam shook his head. "It's not hard to guess what you're thinking," he began carefully. "You were sizing me up, weren't you, to decide whether or not you can trust me."
The latter was not a question but Peter chose to treat it as such. "I don't trust you," he returned honestly. "I think you're a drug dealer and a low life who's playing mind games with us to try and work out an escape."
"Then why the size-up?" Al grumbled impatiently.
"Then you've already made up your mind about me, even without those visor things Winston went after," Sam said, dismayed.
There was a clatter from the stove and then Egon was at Peter's side, shoving a steaming mug into his hand. "Take a break. Peter," he offered kindly. "I'll take care of Ray for a few minutes."
Peter's fingers closed automatically around the cup. "I'm all right." He took a sip, then wrinkled his nose. "Or at least I was. What'd you put in this, gym socks?"
"We're probably fortunate if that's all that Mr. Bauer puts in his coffee," Spengler responded, returning to the stove. He took a hefty gulp from his own cup, setting it on the stove and returning to the bed. "Take a break," he repeated more firmly than before. "You need it." Peter hesitated, then nodded, staring a long time at Ray before finally gaining his feet. The occultist's condition had visibly deteriorated over the past thirty minutes; his breath now came in short, panting gasps and his skin had taken on the cool, clammy feel of deep shock. He didn't react when Peter released the firm pressure he'd maintained constantly on the wound, nor did he do more than sigh when Egon settled next to him and placed his own palm where Peter's had been.
The two older Ghostbusters exchanged a worried look at this lack of response. "Not much time left," Venkman said, gesturing vaguely at a small alarm clock on the table. He grimaced and raised his hand higher, red crusted both skin and nails, some of it still the bright crimson of fresh blood, the rest the color of old rust, dried and cracking. He stared at it intently as though he'd never seen it before, wiggling his fingers in uneasy rhythm. "So much blood," he murmured, exhaustion dragging at his voice. "Too much."
"Then do something!" Al urged, waving both hands before the psychologist's face. "Let Sam go!"
But Peter, unconscious of Al's frustrated admonishment, merely allowed his hand to drop back to his side. "I'm going to wash up," he finished, repairing cup and all to the bathroom and shutting the door.
Al used the opportunity to return to his friend and poke him with one insubstantial forefinger. "This Spengler seems like an intelligent sort, Sam. See if you can make him listen to reason."
"Nothing to lose," Sam sighed.
Egon looked up at that and Sam tried on another smile. Egon frowned. "You really shouldn't do that," he advised with a marked lack of interest.
"Do what?"
"Smile. It makes you look like a piranha."
Calavicci squinted his eyes. "He's right, Sam, you do look like a piranha. You know, those little fish with the big teeth...." "I know what a piranha is!" Sam snapped irritably.
Unaware of the other half of the conversation, Egon shrugged. "I never said that you didn't"
"Uh... yeah, right" Casting Al a reproachful look, Sam tried another tack. "You and your friends seem to be very close. Have you been together long?"
Spengler shifted in his seat, resting his splinted arm more comfortably in his lap, "A dozen years," he said quietly, "Long enough to watch Peter and Ray grow up." He smiled slightly and added, "More or less."
"They didn't go to M.I.T.?" Sam asked, wrinkling his brow in thought. "I don't remember them."
"With that swiss-cheese memory of yours," Al interjected, perching on the edge of something invisible, "you're lucky to remember that you went to M.I.T. But Spengler's the only one you could have known, anyway; the other two were too young to have been in any of your classes, and Zeddemore never matriculated."
Egon confirmed this with a swift shake of the head. "They went to Columbia; Peter and I met when we were sharing a lab for awhile, and Ray was in one of my math classes. I've... managed to keep an eye on them ever since."
"Losing Ray now would be a terrible thing," Sam said gently. "Friends can become as close to you as your own flesh and blood. I know." He exchanged a warm smile with Al, who nodded amiably in confirmation. "My brother Tom used to watch out for me, too, when I was growing up. After he died, Al took over the job -- whether I needed watching out for or not."
"What you need is a keeper," Calavicci muttered, swinging his foot. He followed Sam's line of sight, studying Spongier, who was sitting shoulders hunched and head bowed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ashen face of his injured comrade. "I know what you're thinking, Sam, and I agree -- losing that boy is going to kill this one, too." He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom, from which the sound of running water could be faintly heard. "And Venkman. Sam, we gotta find some way to get these lunkheads to see reason!"
"Some way," Sam whispered, his eyes full of compassion. "I know how I'd feel if it was you laying there."
"Funny," Egon went on, unhearing, "but when you mentioned Dr. Beckett..." His glasses slid down his long nose and he barely aborted the automatic move to adjust them. With one hand wrapped in bandages and splint, and the other holding in Ray Stantz' lifeblood, he found himself short one appendage. He tossed his blond head, managing to shift them slightly higher, they hovered a moment, then slid back down. Egon sighed and gave up. "When you mentioned Dr. Beckett," he repeated, starting again, "It made me think about how much Ray always reminded me of him. Both of them are shy, brilliant young men; didn't have the faintest clue about how to handle the 'real' world outside of the college walls when I first met them."
"I wasn't that bad," Sam protested, giving his ropes another tug.
"You're still that bad," Al told him with a broad grin. He cocked his head in a listening attitude, then slid to his feet. "Be right back, Sam; Gooshie's paging me." The imaging door opened then closed, and he was gone.
But Sam's statement had brought Egon's head up, forcing a return to awareness of just who it was he was addressing. "Dr. Beckett published a theory on time travel some five years ago. Do you recall it?"
Sam nodded. "My string theory." He glanced briefly at his surroundings -- the rough planked walls, the old clothes he wore -- and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, I recall it." He again fixed on Egon, who was regarding him with skepticism... and hope. "A man's life can be likened to a string," he said, his tones shifting to a lecture mode. "If you can somehow crumple that string into a ball so that all the points touch...."
"I read that article," Egon interrupted brusquely. "It discussed the pure mathematics of the theorem, without including a practical application analysis. The scientific community long deduced that that oversight was due to Government intercession."
"It was." Sam's eyes darkened. "Military intervention, to be precise." He shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. "No matter. The Quantum Accelerator was completed and tested." He leaned forward excitedly. "We were actually able to produce an entropy field completely separate from the universal norm, and then to manipulate the reality interface forward and backward along a linear path. The result was a functional time machine!"
"The string theory allowed for a man to replace himself in the time stream," Spengler pointed out, stretching one long, blue-clad leg straight out before him. "You're telling me that you were able to replace another man?"
That brought a pucker to Sam's brow. I've been thinking about that - for obvious reasons. I seem to have neglected to include the element of psychic variables affecting the reality envelope itself. I'm being drawn to points in various people's lives, which are critical enough to generate actual eddies in the time stream -- eddies powerful enough to override the impulse to travel along my own lifeline, A para-psionic connection between the original inhabitant and his own timeline broadcasts an illusion of that person's physical aura, that illusion forcing the receptor to fill in such details as voice and general appearance, even extending to the tactile senses."
"Everyone sees-hears-feels precisely what they expect to." Spengler studied the other physicist again, even more intensely than before. The hope evident in the sky blue eyes had grown steadily as Sam had talked, replacing the skepticism at the improbability of the story. "Dr. Beckett's theorem was accepted only with caution on a general scale due to the fact that it relied heavily on Pythagorian mathematics to support the most primary concepts."
"Did it?" Sam asked with interest just as Al reappeared through the imaging chamber door. "I have a lot of trouble remembering the details."
"Don't tell him that, Sam!" Al wailed, clapping a hand to his forehead. "You've almost got him convinced!"
Too late - the hope faded from Egon's face as though it had never been. "But then, that was only a published theory," he intoned, turning back to Ray. "Something anyone could have read."
"Shoot," Beckett muttered.
Al wandered the room again, his head sunk on his breast. "Try something else, Sam, and do it quick. Time's running out."
Ray tossed his head, beginning to grow agitated, and Egon bent over him, alarmed. "Do you know much about medicine. Dr. Spengler?" Sam asked quickly.
Egon didn't reply right away; rather several minutes passed during which he did no more than stare down at Ray, full lips pursed. Finally, he looked up, meeting Sam's eyes directly. "Enough to know that Peter's right - there isn't much time left. We're going to have to...."
Peter chose that moment to emerge from the washroom, his face and hands fresh scrubbed, and dabbing at the smeared spot on his knee which marked an unsuccessful laundry attempt. He crossed immediately to Ray, who was muttering fretfully to himself. "Take it easy," he soothed, laying his hand on Ray's hair. "That's right - everything is fine." Stantz gradually calmed under that comforting touch, turning his face toward Peter hand and falling quiet once more.
Peter shifted slightly until he could again face Sam, his brows drawn together, flat analysis becoming open speculation. "I made up my mind not to trust you the minute I saw you," he stated, returning to the earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted. "My only problem is deciding whether or not you're really a surgeon and how much you value your own life."
"What's he mean by that?" Calavicci demanded, frowning in turn.
A full half minute passed during which the only sound was the bubble of the coffee on the stove and the labored breathing of the injured man. Finally, Sam nodded. "I understand. You want to work a deal."
"If you're what you say you are," Peter acknowledged, giving Ray's cheek a final pat. "Ray lives, you go free before the cops get here. If he dies..." He grinned coldly, "...then so do you."
"Big deal," Al retorted, scuffing one silver sneaker on the wooden floor. "If the boy dies so does everybody. Better than you got now, though."
"Agreed," Sam said, nodding once. "Would you like to let me up? I won't be able to do much of anything until the circulation returns to my hands."
"Just a moment." That was Egon, his powerful bass a shocking contrast to the deadly quiet tones of both Peter and Sam. "Winston isn't back with the ecto-visors yet. We agreed...."
"You agreed," Peter interrupted rudely. "I decided." Egon opened his mouth and Peter's eyes glowed emerald. "I'm not going to let Ray die," he stated, his tones flashing the same challenge as his eyes.
Egon closed his mouth with a snap, then nodded. "I... resist the thought of trusting this man with Ray," he returned, flicking a blue gaze in Sam's direction, "but I am willing to trust your instincts in this."
Peter's returning smile lit his face, smoothing away the lines etching themselves into his smooth skin. He fished into one pocket, pulling out a jackknife and expertly flicking it open. It was the work of seconds to free Sam's hands, then Peter straightened, adapting an easy stance in front of Beckett, his weight on his toes. "Remember," he said, fingering the knife meaningfully, "if he dies, so do you."
Sam continued to sit where he was, massaging his wrists. "Did you see anything more useful than that for me to operate with?" he asked, jerking his head at the jackknife.
Peter hesitated, then snapped it closed. "There are a couple of scalpels in the lab. They look sharp."
Sam nodded and made his way to the cot. "Find some alcohol and put them in to soak," he directed, tapping Egon's shoulder. The blond rose and Sam took his place by the bed and lifted away the mound of blankets which covered Ray from head to toe. Ray said something softly and Sam patted his leg. "Everything's going to be all right," he said. "Don't worry. Al?" he added in a whisper.
"Right behind you, Sam."
Beckett pressed his fingers against Ray's throat, purposely keeping his face turned away from Egon and Peter. "Give me pulse and blood pressure," he murmured, counting to himself.
Al consulted his comlink and shook his head. "Not good; pulse is 96, blood pressure 90/50. Respiration is 25 and shallow."
Sam released Ray's throat and carefully examined the wound itself, the skin was discolored and hot to the touch and there was a decided swelling to the abdominal area. Sam drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his teeth. "Definitely still bleeding inside," he said quietly. He made to rise, then stopped and dropped back to his seat. "Can Ziggy give me an X- ray?" he asked curiously. "Then you can display the results as a holographic image."
Al punched in a few figures on his comlink, smiling widely at the results. "X-ray's impossible," he said, tapping the instrument with his forefinger, "but I can take thermal and magnetic scans, then Ziggy can cross-reference them with the autopsy report to give you a computer simulation to work off of!"
True to his word a shimmering image appeared above Ray's chest, that of a man's abdomen, the skin translucent. It seemed to peel away layer by layer until a metal spike could be seen embedded in the tissue. No X-ray ever gave a view so clear as this detailed representation of the injury sight. Sam studied it intently several minutes, then nodded and the hologram vanished.
"I've got a preliminary analysis for you," he began formally. "The metal entered the lower right quadrant between the abdominal and peritoneal walls. I don't think the intestine has been punctured, which is fortunate."
"Yeah, Ray's real lucky," Peter said, pausing at the threshold to the lab. "Anything else?"
Sam scanned the room quickly, then began to assemble the make-shift equipment he would be needing. "Sterilize this too," he said, pouncing on a miniature 'bachelor's' sewing kit. "Needles... threads. I'm also going to need a stable place to work."
"The lab table?" Egon suggested, easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position in its sling. "It's sturdy wood."
Sam nodded. "Fine. In and out surgery...."
"Meatball surgery," Peter called, popping his head back through the door. He met Sam's blank stare with a wry twist of his lips. "You know, M.A.S.H.? Hawkeye Pierce?" Sam shook his head."
"You were still nerding when M.A.S.H. came on," Al stated from behind. "Though it escapes me how you could have missed it for eleven straight years."
Knowing better than to get involved in this type of discussion, Sam merely shrugged and finished his preparations, meager though they were. In short order he gestured Pete over. "We have to move him into the lab," he instructed, indicating the poles of the airline stretcher which railed over either side of the bed. "As carefully as possible - we don't want to jar that spike into doing more damage. "
Peter nodded and instantly assumed his place at the head of the cot Now that his decision to use Sam was made the psychologist was all cooperation and watchful assistance. Working together the two carried Stantz into the lab and deposited him on the hardwood table. Ray cried out once when he was lifted and again when the stretcher settled, calling Peter's name both times. Venkman clenched his jaw at this necessity of causing his friend more pain, dropping the stretcher poles the instant Ray was on the table and circling to the younger man's side.
"Easy does it," he soothed, petting Ray's hair in gentle strokes. "Everything is all right; I'm here." He continued to talk softly to the hurting man until Ray again lay quiet. Sam brushed Peter brusquely aside to check Ray's pupils and pulse, then he stepped back, allowing the psychologist access to the bed again. "Get rid of the stretcher," he directed, heading for the door."Then get his clothes off. You can cover him with a sheet while I wash up." Sam didn't wait for the double acknowledgement before the lavatory door was shutting behind him, "Al?" he called, turning on the water tap.
"Good news, Sam." Calavicci appeared through the far wall, picking a strand of long blonde hair from his lapel. "According to Ziggy, the kid... uh, Ray's chances of surviving just went up 10 per cent."
Sam, busy lathering with dish detergent, looked up, dismayed. "Only 10 per cent? That means they're still only...."
"Thirty-two per cent."
"Right" Beckett scrubbed furiously at his nails, sloshing soap suds onto the floor. "Does he know why the numbers are still so low?"
Al again consulted his comlink. He entered several figures, waited, then entered one more. His brow wrinkled. "Time factor involved here on two levels," he reported, giving the instrument a sound whack on his thigh. "If you finish operating inside of the next twenty minutes, the kid's chances go up to 91.81 per cent; they drop fast at 22 minutes, evidently from the shock. After 27 minutes his chances of surviving the next day are under 9 per cent." He looked up, his expression grim. "Ziggy also thinks that monster we saw earlier is still around. Even if Dr. Stantz survives the operation, he might not make it out of the cabin alive."
"And the world?" Sam asked unhappily.
That elicited a whole new scenario to be run through the computer. Al read the results, stared, then re-ran the program, his jaw dropping.
Alarmed, Sam left off scrubbing his left forearm to stare at the older man in turn. "What is it, Al? What's wrong?"
Al raised his head, turning the comlink around so that Sam could read the results for himself. "Not wrong, Sam, better! Look at this!"
"Plus-71 per cent" Sam frowned. "The world's survival rate increased by twelve times! Then the operation is going to be a success?"
Al shook his head. "Not necessarily, but the team -- or at least the surviving members stay together even if you fail."
"They don't disband if Ray dies?"
"Some do, some don't" Al settled himself on an invisible chair and crossed his legs. "Ziggy re-accessed some old newspaper articles; it seems that both Venkman and Spengler do leave for awhile but the business continues under Zeddemore's leadership. He puts a new team together and handles routine cases for awhile with somebody named Kobart. Then about six months later Venkman comes back on a part time basis. Looks like they're still in business. And the scenario holds true even if only two of them walk out of here tonight."
"Then the world doesn't depend on Ray's survival anymore?" Sam asked, using his elbows to shut off the tap.
Al shrugged. "70 per cent isn't bad odds," he pointed out, "but if the boy makes it the odds go up another nineteen points. If I was a gambling man..."
"Which you are," Sam interjected, with a smile.
"...which l am, I'd rather bet my bankroll on 89 per cent than 70, wouldn't you?" He gave Beckett a direct look. "Do your best, Sam, or you may not have a world to come back to when you're finished leaping."
Sam gave the lavatory door a sound kick, slamming it back against the wall. "As a doctor, I plan on doing that anyway."
"Sure you do," Al agreed, following him out
The operation began precisely five minutes later with Sam dabbing some of the ether formerly used in the production of illegal substances onto a wad of cotton and holding it across Ray's nose and mouth. "No, don't fight it," he instructed, but Ray instinctively raised both hands, struggling weakly against Sam's own. "Dr. Venkman, a little assistance here, please?"
Peter was at his side in a flash, grabbing Ray's wrists and pinning them to the bed. "It's okay, pal," he soothed, easily restraining the injured man. "Don't be afraid, it's Peter."
"Breathe deeply," Sam said. "That's right.. in... exhale... in...."
Ray's struggles slowed quickly; within seconds he was unconscious, a fact confirmed by a hovering Al Calavicci. "He's under," the ex-astronaut remarked, keeping his comlink turned in Stantz' direction. "Pulse, respiration and blood pressure are within acceptable norms."
"Good." Sam nodded, satisfied, then jerked his head toward the door. "You two better wait outside; the fewer people in here the fewer sources of infection I have to worry about." Peter didn't move, rather he regarded Sam sharply for a long moment Sam turned on him, impatient and harried. "You made up your mind to let me do my job," he stated flatly. "Now either do as I say or call it off, but decide now; there's no time left" Peter stiffened at that but he only nodded shortly and stalked out.
Bereft of purpose due to his own broken wrist, Egon left as well, calling over his shoulder, "We'll borrow some of your clothes for him when you're finished," before shutting the door.
Left alone, Sam began his work, using Al's sophisticated sensors to monitor Ray's vital signs, while outside two worried Ghostbusters spent their time pacing the floor and cursing -- Egon in several languages, two of which had not been spoken on this planet for millennia. This state of affairs continued for nearly a quarter of an hour without incident until... Egon's PKE meter turned itself on.
"Blast!" the physicist swore, swooping the instrument off his belt. "Positive readings and they're Naggaoth's."
"Direction?" Peter asked, calmly helping the older man on with his pack.
Egon shook his head. "No, only contact, but he's close."
Peter snapped the trailing straps around Egon's waist then reached for his own pack, slipping it easily across his broad shoulders. Then he tapped, quite politely, on the closed lab door. "Got a bit of a brouhaha brewing," he quipped, visibly paling at the blood which seemed to be everywhere. He gulped and added, "It-it's Naggaoth."
Sam nodded, his mind still on the task at hand. "I need approximately ten minutes to finish tying off these blood vessels," he muttered, dropping a sponge carelessly to the floor. "No margins."
Peter nodded and withdrew his head. "Egon, old buddy," he told the tense blond who was staring intently at the front door, "we need ten minutes or Ray's bought it, and I need a direction on Naggaoth."
Spengler gestured with his meter, then clipped it to his belt and drew his particle thrower. "Straight ahead. Dr. Venkman," he replied, powering up. "Naggaoth's coming straight at us."
"Just the way I like it," Peter grunted. He threw open the door and stepped out into the world of white. He cleared his throat before shouting, "HEY, Naggaoth! WE'RE WAITIN' ON YA, BABE! "
He cocked his head, listening carefully and was rewarded by the crunch of heavy feet in the new fallen snow. "Naggaoth comessss," the being hissed, becoming visible -- and substantial. "Naggaoth feeedsss."
"Egon!" Peter yelled, opening fire.
Struck squarely by the proton beam, the Lord of Decay began to melt, liquefying like an old corpse and oozing into the white coated earth. A gangrenous residue marked the spot where the creature vanished.
"Keep alert. Peter," Spengler advised, spinning in a slow circle. "A Class 8 isn't going to be stopped by one proton beam."
"Naggaoth isss here."
The voice originated a dozen feet to Egon's fore. The physicist spun, snapping off a shot at the head which emerged from a mud hole, Peter's fire striking at roughly the same instant. Once more the creature melted back into the ground. "He's playing with us," Spengler said, casting a glance at the PKE meter.
"Just like he did in Bangor." Peter edged nearer the cabin, eyes darting in all directions. "He played cat and mouse with his early victims, too. I understand that he got as much enjoyment from the chase as he did-"
"Consuming them," Egon finished grimly.
"Yeah." A sprint of ten yards took Peter back to the cabin. He moved aside to let Egon in, then resumed his position blocking the entrance with his body. "Bauer needs another ten minutes minimum," he said as an aside. "We have to keep Naggaoth outside until then or Ray won't have a chance."
"Until then?" Spengler asked incredulously, peeking into the lab and then quickly closing the door again. "What are we supposed to do after that? We can barely restrain a Class 8 with two throwers, and then not for long. And without traps, he'll rip us apart."
"Then we'll have to think of something else, won't we?" Peter snarled, snatching the PKE meter from Egon's belt. "I'm not letting that thing get to Ray no matter what the cost."
"I do concur," Egon said mildly. "I was only wondering how we plan to accomplish that."
"I...." Venkman broke off abruptly to offer his older colleague an apologetic smile. "I don*t know how," he said more quietly. "I only know we have no choice." He turned back to the doorway, holding the PKE meter straight out like a sword. "This thing is pretty useless," he complained, giving it a shake. "I can't pinpoint Naggaoth at all."
Egon nodded, causing his blond wave to bob. "He's giving off too much wide- spectrum PKE. No way to tell where he'll concentrate it for a manifest"
"I just love it when you talk like that," Peter sighed with characteristic sarcasm. "Doesn't help a bit but it sounds great"
He trailed off, watching in fascination as the rough planks making up the kitchen floor began to dance, several nails tearing free with the sound of a gunshot. He pressed a hand against the door frame but it remained stubbornly stable, only the floorboards showing any motion. "The game is afoot," he quipped, taking aim.
"More like a floor," the blond returned, clutching his own thrower against his side to steady it. He too aimed carefully... ...and the shaking stopped.
"I feel like a maze rat," Egon complained, not lowering his weapon. "Being taunted into action."
"Sssweet flesh foood. A scaly hand oozed through the floorboards, dripping slime and decayed leaves. It made a snatch for Egon's ankle, the talons actually causing a whistling sound as they closed on empty air for Egon was already in motion. A wild leap carried him beyond the range of that grasping hand and an agile twist of his body brought his thrower to target. He fired, spraying the hand and now extended arm with a stream of energized protons. Naggaoth screamed, emerging fully head and shoulders when Peter joined his power to Egon's, both packs turned to tractor mode.
"Full power!" Peter yelled, turning a knob.
Egon's weapon jumped suddenly, nearly freeing itself from his one-handed grip. "I... I can*t hold it!" he screamed. "My arm...."
Tight lipped. Peter moved closer to the physicist, eyes fixed firmly on the struggling swamp thing. "No good," he called over the crackle of energy. "I can't get any closer to you without cutting my power."
"It's feedback from Naggaoth." Moving slowly and carefully, Egon freed his broken hand from the sling, grunting when the crude splint caught in the material. He clenched his teeth and pulled it loose, then positioned his fingers across the top of his barrel. "I've got... full power!" he said, turning the knob. His energy stream brightened perceptibly, twining itself over and around Peter's at the target "We got him!"
"Yeah," Peter returned, bracing himself feet apart "And now that we got him, what are we gonna do with him?"
"Feeed me .flesh thing." The nether-lord rose higher through the floor, swelling until he filled the eight-foot space between floor and ceiling. Then he began to shrink and opaque, solidifying before the humans' stunned eyes. "Feeed Naggaoth" he hissed, snapping his alligator jaws together in Peter's direction.
"This is like... bad, isn't it?" Peter asked with more than his share of understatement.
Egon nodded. "I'd say so." And then he was backing hurriedly out of the way of another angry swipe of those razor-claws, dropping to his knees to continue his own attack. "We*re not going to be able to hold him much longer," he said with alarming calm. "And once we fall...."
"Ray won't have a chance," Peter finished grimly. "And where is Winston?"
***