"Haul me up, Venkman!" he bellowed into the radio. "Now!"
On Seventy-seventh Street, Venkman and Spengler ran to the winch and started to crank the cable upward. Just as they began their rescue attempt, a Con Ed supervisor's car pulled up. Behind it was the same police car that had patrolled the area earlier. Venkman and Spengler exchanged nervous glances.
"What now?" Spengler asked.
"Act like nothing is wrong," Venkman advised.
The burly Con Ed supervisor rumbled up to the two men, followed by the pair of cops.
"Okay," the man demanded, "what's going on here?"
Venkman and Spengler stopped pulling up the ca ble. Venkman quickly doffed his Con Ed hard hat and put on a phone-company helmet. He stared angrily at the Con Ed man.
"What, I got time for this?" he blustered. "We got three thousand phones out in the Village and about eight million miles of cable to check."
The Con Ed man smiled thinly. "The phone lines are over there," he said, pointing toward the curb.
Venkman turned to Spengler and, forming a fist, hit him over the head. "I told ya!"
Stantz's voice suddenly emerged from the walkie- talkie. "Help! Help! Pull me up! It's alive! It's eating my boots."
Venkman offered the cops a quick grin and switched off the radio. "You ain't with Con Ed," the first cop concluded, "or the phone company. We checked. Tell me another one."
Venkman scanned his brain for a comeback. He faced the cop. "How does a gas leak sound?"
Down below the street, caught halfway up the air shaft, Stantz gazed at the scene unfolding beneath his feet. The slime was now bubbling up the air shaft after him. The ooze seemed angry. Determined. Hungry.
Stantz panicked. Nobody was receiving him over the radio. He gazed upward at the tiny manhole opening, far, far above him. "Get me out of here!" he screamed.
No response.
Desperation and fear getting the best of him, Stantz began kicking wildly at the air shaft. The old metal began to creak and groan under the assault by Stantz's boots.
A section of an old conduit came loose and began to topple over.
Stantz watched its journey, befuddled. "Uh-oh," he whispered.
The conduit fell on a heavy electrical transmission line. It ripped through the cable neatly. A shower of sparks lit up the air vent.
"Definitely uh-oh," Stantz theorized as the sparks seemed to illuminate every underground passageway extending outward from the air shaft.
Venkman was in the midst of attempting to sell the police another story when there was a sudden buzzing sound from deep within the open manhole.
Venkman and Spengler exchanged worried looks as Stantz's shouts emerged from deep beneath the city streets.
"Whooaaaah!" Stantz exclaimed.
"What the—" the Con Ed man had time to offer before, one by one, all the lights on the street flickered and then went out.
Then all the lights in the neighborhood followed suit.
The cops, the Con Ed man, and the two Ghostbusters watched in awe as, neighborhood by neighborhood, all of New York was plunged into total darkness.
From deep within the earth came a feeble voice, the voice of Ray Stantz.
"Sorry," he said.
10
The lights flickered out all over New Y ork City, Dana Barrett suddenly found herself engulfed in darkness. Always prepared, she felt her way around the living room, lighting various candles she had left out for just such an occasion.
Locating a small transistor radio, she turned it on and tried to find a special news report.
She had tuned in too quickly.
Most of the radio stations in New York were still scrambling to turn on their emergency generators.
Dana suddenly felt the overwhelming compulsion to check on little Oscar.
Grabbing a candle, she began to tiptoe toward the nursery when she was interrupted by a pounding on her front door.
Candle still in hand, she walked cautiously to the door and, leaving the guard chain on, opened it a crack. Outside, the hallway, eerily lit by a dim red emergency spotlight at the far end of the corridor, offered a visitor.
A hyper, wiry man.
"Janosz?" she asked.
Janosz smiled at her. "Hello, Dana. I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by to see if everything was all right with you. You know, with the blackout and everything? Are you okay? Is ... the baby ... all right?"
Dana felt a chill insinuate itself down her spine. She put up a nonchalant front. "We're fine, Janosz."
The minion of Vigo tried to stick his head farther inside the chained door, hoping to scan the apartment. "Do you need anything?" he said, still grinning. "Would you like me to come in?"
"No," Dana replied a little too quickly. "Everything is fine. Honestly. Thanks, anyway."
Janosz took the refusal in stride. "Okay. Just thought I'd check. Good night, Dana. Sleep well, don't let the bedbugs bite you."
"Good night, Janosz," Dana breathed, easing the door closed. She stood there, panting. There was some thing about Janosz. He had always been weird, but now he struck her as being weirder. She quickly double-locked the door.
She stood in the middle of her candlelit apartment.
Very alone.
Very afraid.
Outside Dana's door, Janosz smiled evilly at the closed portal.
Closed doors didn't bother him.
Locks meant nothing to him.
He had a job to do, and in time he would do it.
Janosz turned and gazed down the darkened corri dor. Blackouts. Hah! He reached deep down into himself
and touched the power within. Slowly his eyes began to flicker ... then to shine brightly.
Small beams of crimson-red energy lit up the hall enough for Janosz to walk down it without stumbling.
It was good to have a friend.
And Vigo was his best friend, ever.
11
By morning, New York City had its power restored, and Spengler, Stantz, and Venkman had their hands full.
They sat in a courtroom, sharing the defense table with Louis Tully, C.P.A., perpetual target of a bad haircut, former demonic possession victim, and now lawyer extraordinaire, thanks to a quick course in the Famous Lawyer's School and Dry Cleaning Emporium.
Louis Tully pushed his glasses higher on his nose, which in turn made his nose run. He pulled out a hankie from his badly cut suit, which caused the plastic pen holder to tumble out of his pocket onto the floor.
"S'cuse me." he muttered to the three Ghostbusters as he stooped to pick up his pens, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water on the defense table.
Across from him, the prosecuting attorney, an at tractive young woman who seemed to want to see Spengler, Stantz, and Venkman hanged, glared at Louis.
Louis quickly straightened himself and began por-
ing through an avalanche of law books he had gathered for the occasion.
"All rise," the bailiff said.
Everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Roy Beane strode into the room. A compact, balding man with the deep eyes of a ferret and a small, neatly trimmed mustache, the judge gaveled the court into session.
The three Ghostbusters slid into their seats as the judge began. "I want to make one thing very clear before we go any further," he said severely.
"The law does not recognize the existence of ghosts, and I don't believe in them, either. So ... I don't want to hear a lot of malarkey about goblins and spooks and demons. We're going to stick to the facts in this case and save the ghost stories for the kiddies. Understood?"