The slumped figure on the box uttered a low moan, the first sound to come
from Peter Venkman in some minutes. Green eyes flickered then opened,
gazing blankly at first, finally lighting on the white knuckled fist
clenched in his lap. He moaned again, a small tortured sound almost beneath
the thresholds of audibility. "My ... hands," he croaked over and over, "My
hands ... my...."
Peck tapped smoldering ash off of his cigarette, then dropped the butt onto the ground. "I think Mr. Venkman is sufficiently convinced that I mean business," he told the grinning negro at his shoulder. "Invite one of the others to join us. Which one do you suggest?"
Ali grinned even wider. "Blondie's pretty stone faced," he said, drawing on the predatory instincts of a long-term prison denizen. "It may take some time to get a good reaction out of him, but I think you'll get plenty if you use that other kid. Sweetcheeks here didn't like it when I belted him earlier." He sniggered. "Ya think maybe they got something going?"
Peck pursed his lips, waving one well-manicured hand disapprovingly. "Don't be vulgar, Ali," he chided. "At least not during business hours. Bring Dr. Stantz then, and be quick about it. I only gave Venkman a sample dose and I think he's already starting to come out of it."
"Right." Ali disappeared with one of the inhyuman attendants, the miasma of an open grave swirling in their wake. He returned within minutes with Ray Stantz, one guard on each arm. This was not, as one might suppose, to encourage him along; rather Ray had been so frantic to reach Peter that he'd precipitated himself through the cell door the moment it had been opened. Unrestrained, he would have beaten his escorts to the main chamber by a good margin.
"Peter!" Stantz yanked himself free of Ali's half-hearted grip and flung himself to Venkman's side. He batted wildly at the skeletal hands holding the psychologist erect until they fell away. Bereft of support Peter slid from the chair, and only Ray's hasty grab prevented him from impacting the stone floor face first. "Peter?" Ray lay his friend down, checking him carefully for injury. Barring some scattered cuts and bruises from earlier, there were none. He took one of Peter's hands, chafing it gently with his thumb. "Peter, can you hear me?"
The darker man whimpered, tugging at the light grip. "My hands.... Oh, my hands...."
"What?" Stantz lifted the fine-boned hand he was gripping, turning it over to check the palm. Nothing. "Peter, there's nothing wrong with your hands," he said soothingly, getting no response. His expression hardened and he shifted his attention to the tall, fair man regarding the friends with undisguised satisfaction. "Who are you," he demanded. "And what have you done to Peter?"
Ali sniggered; Peck merely nodded. "You made a good choice, Ali," the fair man approved. "This might be a simpler task than I'd imagined." Addressing Ray, he went on, "I'm disappointed you don't recognize an old friend, Dr. Stantz -- a very old friend. As for this..." He gestured towards Peter's weakly twitching form. "...a minor demonstration only." Louder, "Mr. Venkman, you're fine now."
Peter immediately fell limp. "Oh, man," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "Totally bad trip." He opened his eyes wide, pulling his hand free of Ray's and raising them both to his face. "My hands are ... okay?"
"Just a sample of my abilities," their captor gloated proudly. "You Ghostbusters believe yourselves to be so invulnerable, but a single pinch of my powders is enough to send you away for several minutes. A full strength dose -- a single word from me..." He waved his hand, gesturing wide. "...and you return to the hellfires of your own mind forever."
Peter shuddered and drew himself into a ball, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. "No," he moaned. "No more."
"Then perhaps you're ready to do as I ask," the blond advised, "and release Samhaine."
"Samhaine?" Ray stared at the robed man in shock. "You don't honestly expect us to release him, do you? You must be crazy!"
Ali reached across and casually slapped the engineer to the ground. "You wanna try and be a little more respectful when you talk to the boss," he suggested, his very nonchalance an insult.
Ray pulled himself up but didn't reply, drawn as he was by a weak voice calling his name. "Yes, Peter?"
"You ... can't do what they ask." Venkman's voice was weak, his eyes still glazed with shock, but there was no mistaking the steel which lent his normally droll tenor the whip of command. "I saw some of the bodies left over from Samhaine's first visit -- the children...."
"I won't help them, Peter." Ray lacked the conspicuous steel of the other man, though not his courage; his promise was solemn, his resolve every bit as firm. "I ... saw the children, too." Twin gazes of stony defiance impaled the berobed men in unison, solid in their refusal.
Rather than being angered, Peck took the resistance in commendable stride, Ali even breaking out into a harsh bark of laughter. "Aren't they just too macho?" the blond jeered, deliberately lisping the phrase. He gestured to one of his extra-terrestrial minions. "Another small demonstration, and then we get serious." Heedless of Peter's frantic protests, two skeletal hands grabbed Stantz from behind, twisting his arms behind his back until he could neither struggle nor move without tearing them out of their sockets. "What is your hell, Dr. Stantz?" Peck wondered aloud, as Ray was forced to his knees before him. "Ali, didn't you say our young friend had no qualms about begging you earlier?"
"None." Ali shook his head in disgust. "Guy's got no self-respect at all."
Peck considered, sifting a pinch of his reddish powder out into the palm of his hand. "You'd make a lousy psychologist, Ali," he chided, settling the vial back into one volumous pocket. "It's not a lack of self-respect which allows a man to humiliate himself for another. Only the strongest of friendships could permit that. Love, Ali," he explained to the puzzled black. "I assume you have at least a passing acquaintance with the word?"
"Oh." Ali brightened. "I loved someone once. Had to kill her, though; did three years on that one."
"I'm not a bit surprised." Without warning, Peck leaned forward, puffing the reddish dust into Ray's skewed up face. "Your friends are dead, Raymond, and it's all your fault. They died hating you -- and you're alone forever."
He stepped back as Ray collapsed, hanging limply from the entity-s supporting arms. "Let's see what happens to a man when love and friendship are stripped away. What happens to a man when his soul is gone?"
"Ray," Peter began, struggling to a sitting position.
"Silence!" Peck jabbed a long forefinger in Venkman's direction. "Say another word and I kill him now." Peter subsided, glowering; Peck snapped his fingers and the guard released Stantz, spilling him haphazardly to the floor, where he lay unmoving for some minutes.
"I hope we're gonna see something," Ali complained, prodding the still figure with his toe. "He ain't doing nothing but layin' there."
"Patience, Ali." The bearded man settled himself onto his crate and crossed his legs again. "I'm sure it takes a little longer to function when you no longer have a reason for doing so. Look at his face."
Peter gritted his teeth, fighting the double urges that were all too manifest in his face. The first was to get up off the floor and batter the two leering men above him into plant food. The second and strongest was to do anything -- anything -- which would wipe away what he saw in the expressive planes of Ray's features. Sorrow so deep it was a physical pain clouded the clear brown eyes, grief wiping away sight and sound. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but he made no move to turn his face or to brush them away, shame holding no portion in Ray Stantz' newly damned soul.
"No...." Peter moaned, quelling instantly at the sharp look Peck directed his way.
"Not yet, Mr. Venkman," the fair man chided. "Things are just starting to get interesting."
Ray sat up slowly, seemingly not noticing that it was his broken hand he was using for support. The tears flowed faster and more freely, catching on the auburn hair dusting his cheeks before falling away. Peck had said he was alone, so alone he was, with that wrenching loneliness which depended nothing on solitary existence. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whimpered, oblivious to Venkman's presence. "Egon ... I'm sorry ... I'm sorry." He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, for a long time. Eventually he looked up, eyes settling on the small stand bearing Peck's equipment. "Please...." he whispered, crawling toward it.
Ali made a motion in Ray's direction, but Peck stopped him with a gesture, shaking his head and pointing.
Ray reached the table and examined it interestedly, brushing aside instruments and vials with indiscriminate abandon. He hesitated over the commando knife Ali had handled earlier, but selected instead a long, razor edged scalpel from its tray.
"Self mutilation?" Ali wondered. Peck shrugged.
Ray sat on the floor examining the scalpel from all angles. He turned it over and over, fascinated by the sparks of laser light thrown off its silvered edge, mesmerized by the daub of blood which appeared on his thumb when he tested the blade. Through it all, the tears continued to fall unchecked.
Minutes passed during which Stantz did not move; Ali began to fidget. "Look, can't we...." and that was when Ray acted. Moving with slow deliberation, he raised the knife, bringing it down onto his exposed right wrist and slashing deep. Skin and muscle parted beneath that keen blade until there was only the stark whiteness of bared bone.
"Oh, no," Peter breathed, forcing himself shakily to his feet. "That's enough, Peck! That's enough! Bring him out of it!"
Peck regarded the weakened Ghostbuster with patent condescension. "You're forgetting yourself, Mr. Venkman," he began dangerously. "Still, perhaps it is enough for your second -- and final -- demonstration." He slipped from his seat, stooping to peer into Ray's clouded brown eyes. Reaching out, he grasped the engineer's left arm, stopping the man's pathetic attempt to transfer the knife into his right hand doubtless to finish the job of ending his own life. "You can hear us now, Dr. Stantz," Peck enunciated clearly, giving Ray a shake. "You're back. You can see us--"
"We're not dead!" Peter shouted, elbowing the man rudely out of the way. He knelt, taking his friend's face in both hands and tilting it upward until he could make eye contact. "R-Ray...." He trailed off, biting back a cry of his own as his fingers cramped in remembered agony. The illusion of the flames had been too real, the pain to raw, for him to truly accept the fact that his flesh had not actually melted away like wax. Gamely he fought the pain, controlling his voice with difficulty. "You're not alone, Ray," he repeated more softly. "I'm here." He held on as the other man cringed away, but Peter did not allow him to escape. "I'm here."
Slowly Ray's eyes began to focus, centering by necessity on the familiar face so close "P-Peter?"
"Yeah, it's me," Venkman acknowledged, dredging up a smile. "You okay, pal?"
"Peter." The brown eyes continued to stare, lighting from within with a joy so profound that Peter actually flinched beneath it. Stantz brought up his left hand to gently touch Venkman's beard-shadowed cheek, wiping away tears the psychologist hadn't even been aware of shedding. "You're alive?" he asked wonderingly. "Really?"
"Yeah, buddy. Really." Peter winced as another spasm worked its way through his fingers, but he held on to his smile and wrapped his friend in tight, protective arms. "I'm here."
Ray returned the embrace, hanging onto the other man as though Peter might vanish if he let go even for an instant. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered, turning his face into the front of Venkman's shirt. "I'm so sorry."
The psychologist shot Peck a hard look; the blond shrugged. "It does take a finite amount of time for the drug to wear off, you know."
Peter turned away, laying his cheek against Ray's hair and closing his eyes. Despairing and afraid, he could only hold his shivering friend tightly and lift up the forlorn prayer that the end, when it came, would be quick for them both.
***
Winston proceeded on his third and final tour of the big house, checking each nook and crevice with impartial care. The results added up to the same total as before: exactly zero. If Peter, Ray and Egon had ever been here, they had left not so much as a single clue behind. During the entire search, Slimer remained close by Winston's side, popping in and out of walls and furniture and alternately chattering and wailing to himself -- garbled, nearly unintelligible sounds that Zeddemore paid little attention to, if at all.
The top-to-bottom search came to an end in the basement. The various boxes stored there yielded no information to the questing Ghostbuster, and finally he was forced to concede the hunt a failure. Disheartened, he upended a crate and sat down, while Slimer floated two feet above his head.
"Nothing." Winston fished into several pockets, locating a pack of Juicy Fruit and selecting a stick. The green N-E hovered closer, looking interested, and Winston handed over the rest of the pack. "Where could they be, Slimer?" he asked, chewing thoughtfully. "There's no sign of a struggle, no blood -- thank goodness -- and no burns on the walls or floor. Whatever happened, it doesn't seem to have been violent." Slimer finished examining the pack of gum, then popped the whole thing, wrappers and all, into his huge maw. "PKE meter isn't much help, either," the human went on. "I'm getting a reading, but nothing I can pinpoint. I'm not even sure this place had a gooper problem at all."
"Goopies heeere," Slimer piped up, nearly losing his gum. "My kind and worse."
"Not to mention...." The meaning behind the reedy falsetto took a moment to penetrate. "What did you say?"
"Worse." The little being hovered closer, quivering like jello. "Big worse. Baaaaad."
"How do you know that?" Winston asked, maintaining as neutral a tone as he was capable to avoid alarming his companion back into unintelligibility.
"Feeel them." Slimer quivered again and closed the distance between himself and the human, wrapping one sticky hand around Winston's arm. "Afraid, Winston."
"There's nothing to be afraid of while I'm here." Zeddemore patted the hand lightly, wiping the viscous residue that instantly coated his fingers off onto his blue uniform. "Can you tell me where the big worse is, Slimer?"
The little entity considered, using Winston's neck as a pivot to examine the room from all directions. "Heeere," he crooned, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Close."
"Where, Slimer?" Winston twisted around until he could peer earnestly into the big orange eyes now no more than six inches above his head. "Peter might be with the big worse -- Peter and the others. Can you tell me where?"
Slimer considered again. The mention of Peter and the others gave him the courage to release Winston's arm and float nearer the concrete wall on the north side of the basement. He paused, staring at it intently for thirty seconds. "Heeere," he said at last, growing transparent with fear. "Baad. Heeere." As it to emphasize his point, Slimer oozed slowly through the wall, reappearing almost instantly. "Room."
"There's a room in there?" Winston left his box-seat and crossed the basement, hunkering down to run a calloused hand along the junction between wall and floor. He rose onto one knee and then to his feet, tracing a single, nearly invisible crack upwards. "I think this is a door, Slimer!" he said, excitement quickening his pulse. He pulled his particle thrower and switched on his pack, exhilarating as he always did in the steady whine of leashed power. "Slimer, go back through the wall and see if you can find anything resembling a switch or lever that will open this door. If I have to blast it open, I'll alert everyone in there. But don't be seen."
"Uh-hun! Uh-huh!" Slimer bobbed several times, his version of agreement, and popped through the wall again, while Winston carefully examined his side of the barrier. It had been over a day and a half now since his partners had disappeared, and Winston's gut knotted when he considered all of the things which could have happened in that long a time. One thing he did know: if Peter, Ray and Egon were in there, Winston was going to get them out. One way or the other, he was going to bring his friends home.
***
Egon stood staring through the barred door long after Ray had disappeared down the hall. His expression was carefully neutral, but the blue eyes betrayed his own fear and apprehension for his friends -- and himself. That they were going to die was something he now believed fully; if he'd had any doubts on the subject, Peter's harsh scream had dispelled them completely. And now that their captors had taken Stantz away, Egon was left alone with nothing but his concern for the two younger members of the team to divert him from the fears regarding his own life.
After awhile, Spengler sighed and moved away from the door, ambling aimlessly about the little cell in an effort aimed at restoring some warmth to his frozen extremities. His feet were nearly numb, but they couldn't compare to the ice which was twisting his gut into knots. Peter and Ray were in the hands of kidnappers with access to supernatural or paranatural forces. Egon knew from experience that these forces would not be friendly to anyone even remotely connected to the team; having actual Ghostbusters in their control....
He shuddered and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. "Thinking about what is happening to Peter and Raymond is counterproductive," he admonished himself sternly. "I must focus my thoughts on escape."
Far easier said than done, even considering the iron will of the physicist. Peter's single scream still echoed endlessly in his thoughts, filling him anew with dread. Frustrated beyond endurance, Egon slapped one concrete wall, wincing at the pain which ran up his arm. "Swell," he muttered, no less frustrated but now also smarting. "Bust your hand, genius." That thought brought another, close on its heels: Ray sitting hunched on the floor cradling his own broken hand. He'd not complained about it once, Egon remembered; had, in fact dismissed it as his own fault and said not a word else about it. Egon sank down beside the latest batch of equations he'd drawn in the dust and traced one with his finger -- the one Ray had pointed out as unworkable only minutes before.
"Ray," he groaned aloud, "Peter...." He stopped, eyes hardening. "There has to be a way out of this. Something ... anything!" He scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, crawling about on all fours, then stretching up to his full height to test every inch of stone individually. His only reward for such painstaking thoroughness was a single rusty nail which may have lain there for years half covered in dust. He picked it up and, grimacing with effort, bent it into an S-shape. "I'm no cat burglar," he murmured, eying the door thoughtfully, "but the principle behind a lock can't be too difficult to decipher."
Thus cheered at the prospect of some form of activity, Egon set to work on the door, praying all the while that, even if he could escape, he would not be too late to help his friends.
***
Peck tapped smoldering ash off of his cigarette, then dropped the butt onto the ground. "I think Mr. Venkman is sufficiently convinced that I mean business," he told the grinning negro at his shoulder. "Invite one of the others to join us. Which one do you suggest?"
Ali grinned even wider. "Blondie's pretty stone faced," he said, drawing on the predatory instincts of a long-term prison denizen. "It may take some time to get a good reaction out of him, but I think you'll get plenty if you use that other kid. Sweetcheeks here didn't like it when I belted him earlier." He sniggered. "Ya think maybe they got something going?"
Peck pursed his lips, waving one well-manicured hand disapprovingly. "Don't be vulgar, Ali," he chided. "At least not during business hours. Bring Dr. Stantz then, and be quick about it. I only gave Venkman a sample dose and I think he's already starting to come out of it."
"Right." Ali disappeared with one of the inhyuman attendants, the miasma of an open grave swirling in their wake. He returned within minutes with Ray Stantz, one guard on each arm. This was not, as one might suppose, to encourage him along; rather Ray had been so frantic to reach Peter that he'd precipitated himself through the cell door the moment it had been opened. Unrestrained, he would have beaten his escorts to the main chamber by a good margin.
"Peter!" Stantz yanked himself free of Ali's half-hearted grip and flung himself to Venkman's side. He batted wildly at the skeletal hands holding the psychologist erect until they fell away. Bereft of support Peter slid from the chair, and only Ray's hasty grab prevented him from impacting the stone floor face first. "Peter?" Ray lay his friend down, checking him carefully for injury. Barring some scattered cuts and bruises from earlier, there were none. He took one of Peter's hands, chafing it gently with his thumb. "Peter, can you hear me?"
The darker man whimpered, tugging at the light grip. "My hands.... Oh, my hands...."
"What?" Stantz lifted the fine-boned hand he was gripping, turning it over to check the palm. Nothing. "Peter, there's nothing wrong with your hands," he said soothingly, getting no response. His expression hardened and he shifted his attention to the tall, fair man regarding the friends with undisguised satisfaction. "Who are you," he demanded. "And what have you done to Peter?"
Ali sniggered; Peck merely nodded. "You made a good choice, Ali," the fair man approved. "This might be a simpler task than I'd imagined." Addressing Ray, he went on, "I'm disappointed you don't recognize an old friend, Dr. Stantz -- a very old friend. As for this..." He gestured towards Peter's weakly twitching form. "...a minor demonstration only." Louder, "Mr. Venkman, you're fine now."
Peter immediately fell limp. "Oh, man," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "Totally bad trip." He opened his eyes wide, pulling his hand free of Ray's and raising them both to his face. "My hands are ... okay?"
"Just a sample of my abilities," their captor gloated proudly. "You Ghostbusters believe yourselves to be so invulnerable, but a single pinch of my powders is enough to send you away for several minutes. A full strength dose -- a single word from me..." He waved his hand, gesturing wide. "...and you return to the hellfires of your own mind forever."
Peter shuddered and drew himself into a ball, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. "No," he moaned. "No more."
"Then perhaps you're ready to do as I ask," the blond advised, "and release Samhaine."
"Samhaine?" Ray stared at the robed man in shock. "You don't honestly expect us to release him, do you? You must be crazy!"
Ali reached across and casually slapped the engineer to the ground. "You wanna try and be a little more respectful when you talk to the boss," he suggested, his very nonchalance an insult.
Ray pulled himself up but didn't reply, drawn as he was by a weak voice calling his name. "Yes, Peter?"
"You ... can't do what they ask." Venkman's voice was weak, his eyes still glazed with shock, but there was no mistaking the steel which lent his normally droll tenor the whip of command. "I saw some of the bodies left over from Samhaine's first visit -- the children...."
"I won't help them, Peter." Ray lacked the conspicuous steel of the other man, though not his courage; his promise was solemn, his resolve every bit as firm. "I ... saw the children, too." Twin gazes of stony defiance impaled the berobed men in unison, solid in their refusal.
Rather than being angered, Peck took the resistance in commendable stride, Ali even breaking out into a harsh bark of laughter. "Aren't they just too macho?" the blond jeered, deliberately lisping the phrase. He gestured to one of his extra-terrestrial minions. "Another small demonstration, and then we get serious." Heedless of Peter's frantic protests, two skeletal hands grabbed Stantz from behind, twisting his arms behind his back until he could neither struggle nor move without tearing them out of their sockets. "What is your hell, Dr. Stantz?" Peck wondered aloud, as Ray was forced to his knees before him. "Ali, didn't you say our young friend had no qualms about begging you earlier?"
"None." Ali shook his head in disgust. "Guy's got no self-respect at all."
Peck considered, sifting a pinch of his reddish powder out into the palm of his hand. "You'd make a lousy psychologist, Ali," he chided, settling the vial back into one volumous pocket. "It's not a lack of self-respect which allows a man to humiliate himself for another. Only the strongest of friendships could permit that. Love, Ali," he explained to the puzzled black. "I assume you have at least a passing acquaintance with the word?"
"Oh." Ali brightened. "I loved someone once. Had to kill her, though; did three years on that one."
"I'm not a bit surprised." Without warning, Peck leaned forward, puffing the reddish dust into Ray's skewed up face. "Your friends are dead, Raymond, and it's all your fault. They died hating you -- and you're alone forever."
He stepped back as Ray collapsed, hanging limply from the entity-s supporting arms. "Let's see what happens to a man when love and friendship are stripped away. What happens to a man when his soul is gone?"
"Ray," Peter began, struggling to a sitting position.
"Silence!" Peck jabbed a long forefinger in Venkman's direction. "Say another word and I kill him now." Peter subsided, glowering; Peck snapped his fingers and the guard released Stantz, spilling him haphazardly to the floor, where he lay unmoving for some minutes.
"I hope we're gonna see something," Ali complained, prodding the still figure with his toe. "He ain't doing nothing but layin' there."
"Patience, Ali." The bearded man settled himself onto his crate and crossed his legs again. "I'm sure it takes a little longer to function when you no longer have a reason for doing so. Look at his face."
Peter gritted his teeth, fighting the double urges that were all too manifest in his face. The first was to get up off the floor and batter the two leering men above him into plant food. The second and strongest was to do anything -- anything -- which would wipe away what he saw in the expressive planes of Ray's features. Sorrow so deep it was a physical pain clouded the clear brown eyes, grief wiping away sight and sound. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but he made no move to turn his face or to brush them away, shame holding no portion in Ray Stantz' newly damned soul.
"No...." Peter moaned, quelling instantly at the sharp look Peck directed his way.
"Not yet, Mr. Venkman," the fair man chided. "Things are just starting to get interesting."
Ray sat up slowly, seemingly not noticing that it was his broken hand he was using for support. The tears flowed faster and more freely, catching on the auburn hair dusting his cheeks before falling away. Peck had said he was alone, so alone he was, with that wrenching loneliness which depended nothing on solitary existence. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whimpered, oblivious to Venkman's presence. "Egon ... I'm sorry ... I'm sorry." He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, for a long time. Eventually he looked up, eyes settling on the small stand bearing Peck's equipment. "Please...." he whispered, crawling toward it.
Ali made a motion in Ray's direction, but Peck stopped him with a gesture, shaking his head and pointing.
Ray reached the table and examined it interestedly, brushing aside instruments and vials with indiscriminate abandon. He hesitated over the commando knife Ali had handled earlier, but selected instead a long, razor edged scalpel from its tray.
"Self mutilation?" Ali wondered. Peck shrugged.
Ray sat on the floor examining the scalpel from all angles. He turned it over and over, fascinated by the sparks of laser light thrown off its silvered edge, mesmerized by the daub of blood which appeared on his thumb when he tested the blade. Through it all, the tears continued to fall unchecked.
Minutes passed during which Stantz did not move; Ali began to fidget. "Look, can't we...." and that was when Ray acted. Moving with slow deliberation, he raised the knife, bringing it down onto his exposed right wrist and slashing deep. Skin and muscle parted beneath that keen blade until there was only the stark whiteness of bared bone.
"Oh, no," Peter breathed, forcing himself shakily to his feet. "That's enough, Peck! That's enough! Bring him out of it!"
Peck regarded the weakened Ghostbuster with patent condescension. "You're forgetting yourself, Mr. Venkman," he began dangerously. "Still, perhaps it is enough for your second -- and final -- demonstration." He slipped from his seat, stooping to peer into Ray's clouded brown eyes. Reaching out, he grasped the engineer's left arm, stopping the man's pathetic attempt to transfer the knife into his right hand doubtless to finish the job of ending his own life. "You can hear us now, Dr. Stantz," Peck enunciated clearly, giving Ray a shake. "You're back. You can see us--"
"We're not dead!" Peter shouted, elbowing the man rudely out of the way. He knelt, taking his friend's face in both hands and tilting it upward until he could make eye contact. "R-Ray...." He trailed off, biting back a cry of his own as his fingers cramped in remembered agony. The illusion of the flames had been too real, the pain to raw, for him to truly accept the fact that his flesh had not actually melted away like wax. Gamely he fought the pain, controlling his voice with difficulty. "You're not alone, Ray," he repeated more softly. "I'm here." He held on as the other man cringed away, but Peter did not allow him to escape. "I'm here."
Slowly Ray's eyes began to focus, centering by necessity on the familiar face so close "P-Peter?"
"Yeah, it's me," Venkman acknowledged, dredging up a smile. "You okay, pal?"
"Peter." The brown eyes continued to stare, lighting from within with a joy so profound that Peter actually flinched beneath it. Stantz brought up his left hand to gently touch Venkman's beard-shadowed cheek, wiping away tears the psychologist hadn't even been aware of shedding. "You're alive?" he asked wonderingly. "Really?"
"Yeah, buddy. Really." Peter winced as another spasm worked its way through his fingers, but he held on to his smile and wrapped his friend in tight, protective arms. "I'm here."
Ray returned the embrace, hanging onto the other man as though Peter might vanish if he let go even for an instant. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered, turning his face into the front of Venkman's shirt. "I'm so sorry."
The psychologist shot Peck a hard look; the blond shrugged. "It does take a finite amount of time for the drug to wear off, you know."
Peter turned away, laying his cheek against Ray's hair and closing his eyes. Despairing and afraid, he could only hold his shivering friend tightly and lift up the forlorn prayer that the end, when it came, would be quick for them both.
***
Winston proceeded on his third and final tour of the big house, checking each nook and crevice with impartial care. The results added up to the same total as before: exactly zero. If Peter, Ray and Egon had ever been here, they had left not so much as a single clue behind. During the entire search, Slimer remained close by Winston's side, popping in and out of walls and furniture and alternately chattering and wailing to himself -- garbled, nearly unintelligible sounds that Zeddemore paid little attention to, if at all.
The top-to-bottom search came to an end in the basement. The various boxes stored there yielded no information to the questing Ghostbuster, and finally he was forced to concede the hunt a failure. Disheartened, he upended a crate and sat down, while Slimer floated two feet above his head.
"Nothing." Winston fished into several pockets, locating a pack of Juicy Fruit and selecting a stick. The green N-E hovered closer, looking interested, and Winston handed over the rest of the pack. "Where could they be, Slimer?" he asked, chewing thoughtfully. "There's no sign of a struggle, no blood -- thank goodness -- and no burns on the walls or floor. Whatever happened, it doesn't seem to have been violent." Slimer finished examining the pack of gum, then popped the whole thing, wrappers and all, into his huge maw. "PKE meter isn't much help, either," the human went on. "I'm getting a reading, but nothing I can pinpoint. I'm not even sure this place had a gooper problem at all."
"Goopies heeere," Slimer piped up, nearly losing his gum. "My kind and worse."
"Not to mention...." The meaning behind the reedy falsetto took a moment to penetrate. "What did you say?"
"Worse." The little being hovered closer, quivering like jello. "Big worse. Baaaaad."
"How do you know that?" Winston asked, maintaining as neutral a tone as he was capable to avoid alarming his companion back into unintelligibility.
"Feeel them." Slimer quivered again and closed the distance between himself and the human, wrapping one sticky hand around Winston's arm. "Afraid, Winston."
"There's nothing to be afraid of while I'm here." Zeddemore patted the hand lightly, wiping the viscous residue that instantly coated his fingers off onto his blue uniform. "Can you tell me where the big worse is, Slimer?"
The little entity considered, using Winston's neck as a pivot to examine the room from all directions. "Heeere," he crooned, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Close."
"Where, Slimer?" Winston twisted around until he could peer earnestly into the big orange eyes now no more than six inches above his head. "Peter might be with the big worse -- Peter and the others. Can you tell me where?"
Slimer considered again. The mention of Peter and the others gave him the courage to release Winston's arm and float nearer the concrete wall on the north side of the basement. He paused, staring at it intently for thirty seconds. "Heeere," he said at last, growing transparent with fear. "Baad. Heeere." As it to emphasize his point, Slimer oozed slowly through the wall, reappearing almost instantly. "Room."
"There's a room in there?" Winston left his box-seat and crossed the basement, hunkering down to run a calloused hand along the junction between wall and floor. He rose onto one knee and then to his feet, tracing a single, nearly invisible crack upwards. "I think this is a door, Slimer!" he said, excitement quickening his pulse. He pulled his particle thrower and switched on his pack, exhilarating as he always did in the steady whine of leashed power. "Slimer, go back through the wall and see if you can find anything resembling a switch or lever that will open this door. If I have to blast it open, I'll alert everyone in there. But don't be seen."
"Uh-hun! Uh-huh!" Slimer bobbed several times, his version of agreement, and popped through the wall again, while Winston carefully examined his side of the barrier. It had been over a day and a half now since his partners had disappeared, and Winston's gut knotted when he considered all of the things which could have happened in that long a time. One thing he did know: if Peter, Ray and Egon were in there, Winston was going to get them out. One way or the other, he was going to bring his friends home.
***
Egon stood staring through the barred door long after Ray had disappeared down the hall. His expression was carefully neutral, but the blue eyes betrayed his own fear and apprehension for his friends -- and himself. That they were going to die was something he now believed fully; if he'd had any doubts on the subject, Peter's harsh scream had dispelled them completely. And now that their captors had taken Stantz away, Egon was left alone with nothing but his concern for the two younger members of the team to divert him from the fears regarding his own life.
After awhile, Spengler sighed and moved away from the door, ambling aimlessly about the little cell in an effort aimed at restoring some warmth to his frozen extremities. His feet were nearly numb, but they couldn't compare to the ice which was twisting his gut into knots. Peter and Ray were in the hands of kidnappers with access to supernatural or paranatural forces. Egon knew from experience that these forces would not be friendly to anyone even remotely connected to the team; having actual Ghostbusters in their control....
He shuddered and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. "Thinking about what is happening to Peter and Raymond is counterproductive," he admonished himself sternly. "I must focus my thoughts on escape."
Far easier said than done, even considering the iron will of the physicist. Peter's single scream still echoed endlessly in his thoughts, filling him anew with dread. Frustrated beyond endurance, Egon slapped one concrete wall, wincing at the pain which ran up his arm. "Swell," he muttered, no less frustrated but now also smarting. "Bust your hand, genius." That thought brought another, close on its heels: Ray sitting hunched on the floor cradling his own broken hand. He'd not complained about it once, Egon remembered; had, in fact dismissed it as his own fault and said not a word else about it. Egon sank down beside the latest batch of equations he'd drawn in the dust and traced one with his finger -- the one Ray had pointed out as unworkable only minutes before.
"Ray," he groaned aloud, "Peter...." He stopped, eyes hardening. "There has to be a way out of this. Something ... anything!" He scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, crawling about on all fours, then stretching up to his full height to test every inch of stone individually. His only reward for such painstaking thoroughness was a single rusty nail which may have lain there for years half covered in dust. He picked it up and, grimacing with effort, bent it into an S-shape. "I'm no cat burglar," he murmured, eying the door thoughtfully, "but the principle behind a lock can't be too difficult to decipher."
Thus cheered at the prospect of some form of activity, Egon set to work on the door, praying all the while that, even if he could escape, he would not be too late to help his friends.
***