(no subject)
It’s not quite seven miles from the Museum to the Firehouse. Ray doesn’t actually mind having to walk that far. There was a time when he would’ve given up early on and flagged down a taxi, but when you’ve managed to keep in reasonably decent shape for forty-seven years and spent a few weeks walking across an entire country, six-and-change miles of relative flatness isn’t a problem. Oh, sure, he could call for Ecto, or he could get a taxi, but from the look of things none of the lights are coming back on. This isn’t a brown-out, this is a blackout. There’s no sense in adding to the swiftly growing chaos on the streets. It’s not even all that hot, by his standards- if six and a half years in Nyissa don’t readjust your standards for what constitutes inconveniently warm, then nothing will.
It’s not until he’s covered two and a half miles that he realizes there’s more to what’s going on in the streets than mere ordinary chaos. Something is going on that’s got cars trying and failing to veer away from the western side of the island, even though he’s walking down Eighth Avenue. Maybe a truckload of something toxic overturned on one of the other avenues? Without the traffic lights that’s a disturbingly real possibility. He stops, and reaches for his cell phone.
”Ghostbusters,” says Janine. ”Rest assured we have enough generator power to keep the ghosts confined for three days. Whaddya want?”
“Janine?” says Ray. “What’s going on?”
”Whaddya mean, what’s going on? Where are you, Dr. Stantz?”
“I’m at Eighth and Thirty-ninth and the traffic is acting really weird. Are you guys getting any-“
A piercing electronic shriek nearly splits the phone loudspeaker; Ray jerks his head away. ”Just a second, Dr. Stantz. That’s the police scanner.”
He can’t make out the words, but whoever’s reading off the information over the police scanner sounds simultaneously incredulous and horrified. Ray remembers that tone from this city all too well; his stomach doesn’t so much sink as put on a weighted belt, check its swim fins, and drop over the side of the boat with intent to reach the bottom as swiftly as it can equalize the pressure in its head cavities.
”Dr. Stantz?” says Janine very slowly when she comes back on. ”You’re not gonna believe what’s coming down the West Side Highway. . .”
It’s not until he’s covered two and a half miles that he realizes there’s more to what’s going on in the streets than mere ordinary chaos. Something is going on that’s got cars trying and failing to veer away from the western side of the island, even though he’s walking down Eighth Avenue. Maybe a truckload of something toxic overturned on one of the other avenues? Without the traffic lights that’s a disturbingly real possibility. He stops, and reaches for his cell phone.
”Ghostbusters,” says Janine. ”Rest assured we have enough generator power to keep the ghosts confined for three days. Whaddya want?”
“Janine?” says Ray. “What’s going on?”
”Whaddya mean, what’s going on? Where are you, Dr. Stantz?”
“I’m at Eighth and Thirty-ninth and the traffic is acting really weird. Are you guys getting any-“
A piercing electronic shriek nearly splits the phone loudspeaker; Ray jerks his head away. ”Just a second, Dr. Stantz. That’s the police scanner.”
He can’t make out the words, but whoever’s reading off the information over the police scanner sounds simultaneously incredulous and horrified. Ray remembers that tone from this city all too well; his stomach doesn’t so much sink as put on a weighted belt, check its swim fins, and drop over the side of the boat with intent to reach the bottom as swiftly as it can equalize the pressure in its head cavities.
”Dr. Stantz?” says Janine very slowly when she comes back on. ”You’re not gonna believe what’s coming down the West Side Highway. . .”