Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb

by D. R. Martin

  Johnny suddenly lost his temper. “You’re lying, you rotten creep! You know what happened to our parents and you’re keeping it a secret. If they’re dead, tell us. If they’re alive, tell us where they are!”

  The zombie only smiled, which made Johnny even angrier. Not wanting to give Percy the satisfaction of seeing how riled he was, Johnny simply shut his mouth and looked away.

  But Dame Honoria had one last comment. “What baffles me, Percy, is how you persuaded the Steppe Warriors and other ghost assassins into following you, as their khan, their leader. Why in the world did they believe you?”

  Percy shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe how dense Mummy could sometimes be. “They haven’t had a khan, a ruler, in centuries. No one else had tried to help them to escape the ether, to go to their Eternal Blue Sky. So when I came along… Well, when people are desperate and hopeless, they’ll turn to any leader who offers them a better future.”

  The three interrogators were just leaving the room when Johnny heard a barely audible comment come out of Percy’s mouth.

  “Oh, poor Mummy,” the prisoner hissed in a whisper. “You have no idea what Sweetums has in store for you.”

  Out in the hallway, Johnny immediately told Dame Honoria and Mel what he’d just heard.

  The old lady shut her eyes and shook her head. “Oh my dear, he is a handful, isn’t he?”

  Chapter 51

  Wednesday, November 13, 1935

  On the road between Zenith and Capital City

  Johnny peered out into the night, staring at the blacktop rushing beneath the headlights of the big newspaper truck. He was squeezed in between Mr. Cargill and the bearded truck driver. They had left Zenith at 3 o’clock in the afternoon and it was now about midnight. They were out in the middle of nowhere and wouldn’t arrive in Capital City for another seven hours.

  A lot had happened back home while Johnny was away. Mr. Cargill had been thrown in jail for printing their stories on the etheric bomb. He’d told Johnny it wasn’t too bad, being stuck in the hoosegow. He’d been able to play poker with the other inmates and didn’t have to eat any vegetables—Mrs. Cargill being awfully big on vegetables. He served five days, but he said it had been worth every minute of it to get those stories into print.

  Johnny felt a little apprehensive about their current mission. He figured that once the government realized what was in the Clarion Extra edition, Mr. Cargill might get hauled off to the clink again.

  It all had to go like clockwork, like a military operation.

  Mr. Cargill decided to personally hawk the Extra edition in front of the Parliament building in Capital City. The newsies—boys and girls who sold newspapers in the street—had the assignment of spreading out across downtown. Over thirty of them were following along in a bus behind the truck. Johnny would go with a newsie he knew and take pictures of the operation.

  The chief also arranged for the World Press Association to send the stories out on the wires at 8 a.m. Plains Central Time. That’s when copies of the Extra edition would start selling in Zenith, as well.

  Radio stations owned by Mrs. Throckmorton—owner of the Clarion and Mr. Cargill’s boss—would lead their news with Johnny and Mel’s big scoop every hour on the hour.

  After mobbing a breakfast diner on the outskirts of town, Mr. Cargill’s troop of newsies deployed around Capital City’s business, government, and retail districts. The chief took a bag of papers and headed for the Parliament building. Johnny hiked east with his newsie pal Tom Krajnc, making for the front entrance of the Ministry of War.

  If enough members of Parliament read the story and were upset by the current government’s secret involvement in the etheric bomb scandal, they might vote to bring the government down. It was called a vote of no confidence. That would finish Scofield as etheristics minister and Patterson as war minister.

  * * *

  Johnny had on his sunglasses and his urchin disguise that he’d used for the goldbricking sewer workers story. He didn’t want anyone to recognize him, especially any ghost assassins. Lieutenant Finn and Sergeant Clegg had come along, too, just in case—following along a few paces behind.

  Johnny hiked with Tom to a spot outside one of the main entrances to the massive Ministry of War building. A heavy stream of government workers, military officers, and bureaucrats flowed around them.

  Johnny and Tom were both too nervous to talk. But Johnny kept an eye on his pocket watch. Mr. Cargill had been adamant about that.

  No one was to start selling the newspaper until 8 a.m. sharp. Together, the two boys counted down. When the second hand swept past the 12, Johnny nodded. Tom hauled the first copy out of his canvas bag and started shouting. Like most newsies, he had a piercing, powerful voice.

  “EXTRA! EXTRA! GUMMINT HELPS MAKE SUPER BOMB. IMPIL-CATED IN ETHERIST MURDERS. THE LATEST NEWS AND PITCHERS FROM MELANIE AND JOHNNY GRAPHIC. ONLY A NICKEL. ONLY IN THE ZENITH CLARION!”

  Eyes wide with surprise, a woman in a severe black overcoat dropped five pennies in Tom’s grimy hand and grabbed that first copy.

  Johnny snatched an Extra out of Tom’s bag and his breath caught as he scanned the front page.

  In smaller type below came the subheadlines:

  Beneath it were Mel and Johnny’s bylines and three of his shots: Mel and Dame Honoria right after their liberation on Old Number One, looking bedraggled and shell-shocked. The picture of Percy Rathbone being hauled out of the sinking rowboat by an invisible Lieutenant Finn. And a view of Doris Dinglemann and Emil LaGrange in the back of the flying boat, seeming very surprised and unhappy to be caught on film. There were also smaller photos of Minister Scofield, Minister Patterson, and Peter Santangelo.

  Two other stories shared the front page. The first was headlined:

  And the second proclaimed:

  Suddenly aware again of where he was, Johnny looked up and saw that Tom had been practically mobbed, as people pushed in around him to snap up copies of the provocative Extra edition.

  Chapter 52

  Tuesday, December 3, 1935

  Capital City

  It was nearly three weeks later when Johnny found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor in the parliamentary committee chamber in Capital City. He had his Zoom 4x5 in his lap. Four other photographers sat on his left and three more on his right.

  Johnny felt as if he had been dropped into the middle of a beehive that morning. Hundreds of people crowded into the chamber to watch members of parliament grill the accused scoundrels.

  Appearing first before the committee was the former minister of etheristics, Hubert Scofield. He refused to answer any questions, on the grounds of his right against “self-incrimination.” Mr. Cargill later told Johnny this meant Scofield didn’t want to admit he had done anything illegal. The chatter around Capital City was that Scofield would have a very hard time keeping his sorry keister out of Bonewood Scrubs Prison.

  Later in the morning, it was Peter Santangelo’s turn. As his left hand twitched incessantly, the tall, flabby man repeated the same thing over and over. He had only been following the orders of his boss, Hubert Scofield. And how could he have known that those orders may have broken the law?

  Santangelo managed to keep his voice expressionless and his pale face bland—even when he made eye contact with Johnny. But beads of sweat kept appearing on his bald head, no matter how often he tried to wipe them away with a handkerchief.

  This hardly seemed like the same guy who had threatened to throw Mel and Johnny in jail. Who had been incredibly rude and snotty. Who had gotten himself walloped with a broom by Mrs. Lundgren. Who had seemed really scary the times Johnny had met him. Today the bum almost came across as a decent, ordinary guy. But Johnny knew otherwise.

  From his position on the floor, Johnny could see Mel, Uncle Louie, Nina, Dame Honoria, and Mr. Cargill off to the side, in the spectators’ gallery. They all wanted to be a part of this historic event. In fact, Mr. Cargill was scribbling notes, having assigned the st
ory to himself.

  It had taken less than a week after the Clarion Extra edition had come out for the old government to collapse. Investigators for the new coalition government quickly discovered what Scofield and Mabel Patterson had been up to. It was bad enough that they had conspired with Percival Rathbone, pouring millions of hidden dollars into a secret campaign to build a doomsday bomb. But worse yet, they had approved the murders of members of the Hausenhofer Geselschaft, who might have helped rival nations make their own etheric weapons.

  When it was her turn to testify later that day, the former minister of war took her place before the committee. Even though Mabel Patterson faced long imprisonment in the Frozen Falls Women’s Correctional Institute, the stout, haughty politician with the bulldog face sat there stolidly. She offered no information, answering most of the questions by saying, “That topic is classified because of national security.”

  During a brief break in her testimony, the other photographers grabbed the chance to stand up and stretch their legs. Only Johnny remained seated cross-legged on the floor, his Zoom 4x5 in hand, ready to shoot.

  Patterson didn’t budge from her chair, waiting for the questioning to resume. She surveyed the standing photographers with an expression about as friendly as a rattlesnake’s. Her hooded eyes suddenly moved down and locked on Johnny. A look of volcanic hatred erupted across her face as she recognized him. Her blubbery lips formed a distorted scowl. Her eyes widened. Her nostrils flared. Her brow furrowed.

  But only for a few seconds.

  Long enough.

  In a single, smooth motion, Johnny lifted his camera, framed the shot, and pressed the shutter. The flashbulb dazzled the whole room.

  Instantly Mabel Patterson’s face shriveled up, like a deflated balloon.

  For the next few days Johnny’s picture of the furious ex-minister of war appeared on front pages around the world. No one else had gotten the shot.

  * * *

  That evening, at a bustling, noisy steak and chophouse in downtown Capital City, Mr. Cargill explained what was probably going on behind the scenes in the new government. Johnny, Mel, Louie, Nina, and Dame Honoria listened intently, nibbling at their dinners.

  “The officials don’t want to do any more than throw Scofield, Patterson, and Santangelo in jail. The new government figures the public is nervous enough, what with etheric bombs and zombies on the front pages. They want this whole incident to fade out of the news entirely. Did you notice that the questions weren’t very probing today? And darned few new facts came out. That’s their plan.

  “But at the same time, it wouldn’t surprise me if behind the scenes the folks at the Ministry of War are scrambling to figure out how many bombs Percy made. And how they can make ’em, too. Apparently, most of the scientists that Patterson and Scofield sent to help Percy died when the first bomb exploded.”

  Dame Honoria shuddered and Johnny felt sorry for her. Yet more victims of her little Sweetums—now safely ensconced in a high-security prison cell in Zenith. Of course, she was a victim, too.

  “So I bet you that Dinglemann and LaGrange are being pushed hard for everything they know,” Mr. Cargill continued. “I mean, if there happened to be another war with the Old Dominion, the bomb would be useful to have.”

  “They’d even think about a third Border War?” Uncle Louie exclaimed. “That’s just nuts!”

  “Have any of those people actually seen what war is like?” asked Dame Honoria, shaking her head.

  Their shocked reactions didn’t surprise Johnny. After all, Uncle Louie had witnessed terrible things in the trenches in the Great War. And Dame Honoria had volunteered as a nursing assistant in a military hospital in Royalton during the worldwide conflict.

  Buttering his hot popover, Mr. Cargill looked at the famous suffragist. “Dame Honoria, do you have any more ideas about your son’s zombie thing? Do you think there might be more of ’em out there?”

  Dame Honoria nodded. “If Percy has truly devised a solution to the problem of the First Impossible Thing—bringing ghosts back to life—you can be assured that we’re going to see more zombies. Sooner, I think, rather than later.”

  Chapter 53

  Friday, December 6, 1935

  Zenith

  Johnny walked into the crowded bar room and made his way through a haze of cigar smoke. Several people congratulated him on his great front-page shot of Mabel Patterson’s fearsome scowl. “It was nothing,” he mumbled modestly, “just doing my job.” He hopped up on a bar stool and ordered a hamburger with cheese and mayonnaise, deep-fried string potatoes, and a mug of Henderson’s Root Beer.

  The Morning Edition Bar and Grille was the most popular place in town for newspaper people to gather. Here you could see everybody from big-name columnists down to cub reporters. Kids weren’t usually allowed in. But Carlton Cargill made sure his star photographer could come here for a sandwich. Besides, other newsmen and newswomen about town were getting used to him. What seemed odd a few months ago—a twelve-and-a-half-year-old news lensman—didn’t seem so odd anymore. Johnny liked that.

  The bartender—a tall, lanky ex-printing press operator named Buddy—plonked down a huge hamburger on the counter and drew a mug of Henderson’s root beer with a big, foamy head. Johnny thanked him and slapped a dollar bill and some change onto the bar. He wolfed down a big bite, munched on a string fry, then took a gulp of root beer. He licked off the foam mustache that formed on his upper lip.

  “Pardon me,” said a vaguely familiar voice, “but aren’t you Johnny Graphic?”

  Johnny twisted around and saw a smirking face regarding him, someone from the Great East, though the accent sounded more like Royal Kingdom—haughty and snotty. He examined the short, thin man for a few seconds. The fellow wore a gray winter coat over a cream-colored summer suit.

  Then it hit Johnny. This fellow was Rotonesian. But something was wrong about him. Dark, cold, penetrating eyes. Rotonesians were warm, friendly people. At least the people Johnny met there had been. Not this guy. And he had on way too much cologne. And the voice—why did it sound so familiar?

  “Who wants to know?” said Johnny, narrowing his eyes.

  The Rotonesian doffed his plaid slouch cap. “Lately I go by the name of Prakoso.”

  “You have another name?”

  The diminutive man nodded and squeezed himself between Johnny and the next stool. He leaned confidentially toward the boy. “I do.”

  The photographer began to feel suspicious about the game his unwelcome companion was playing. “Uhhh, what is it?”

  Prakoso took a shelled peanut from the bowl on the bar, cracked it open, popped the two nuts into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Johnny, you have no idea,” he sighed, “how good they taste after all these years.”

  Johnny felt something cold and unsettling deep down inside him. “What’s…your…other…name?”

  The man chuckled ominously. “Ozzie.”

  Suddenly the voice made perfect sense. Involuntarily Johnny sucked in a quick breath of air. This was not good. Ozzie had been a ghost. Now he wasn’t.

  “Of course,” the little man said, “we met only briefly on Gorton Island and Old Number One. Not much fun for either of us, what.”

  Johnny was dumbfounded. “You’re a zombie?”

  “We prefer to call ourselves the reliving. Not so many nasty connotations. None of this nonsense.” He crossed his eyes, opened his mouth wide, and stuck his arms out straight ahead, miming a lumbering walk. “Apart from our earthy smell and the rotten skin tone, we’re not all that different from the never-been-deads.”

  “Wha-wha-whadaya want?”

  “I have a letter to deliver.”

  “Who to?”

  “The powers that be, old chap. Prime minister, king, queen, president, grand poobah. Whatever it is you have here. It’s very important that—”

  “This palooka buggin’ ya, sport?” Buddy the bartender had stopped directly in front of Ozzie and scowled down at him.
<
br />   Johnny couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than for Ozzie Eccleston to go away. But he had to find out what the zombie wanted. “It’s okay, Buddy.”

  The bartender looked unconvinced, but walked away. Ozzie snorted. “As I was saying, this message is of existential importance to—”

  “‘Existential’?” Johnny squeaked.

  “Means a question pertaining to one’s very existence. Life or death. The wrong answer could, in fact, lead to the doom of thousands of good citizens of the Plains Republic.”

  Yup, Johnny thought, this is bad. “What do you want me to do?”

  And Ozzie told him.

  “How about I meet you back here tomorrow,” Johnny said. “Same time. I’ll try to get an answer.”

  “Excellent, young sir. Now what would you think about buying your old friend Ozzie a hamburger sandwich?” He hopped nimbly up onto the stool next to the boy.

  Johnny nodded, still dazed. “Um, okay. How do you like your burger? Medium? Well done? Rare?”

  “Actually, raw. Perfectly raw.”

  * * *

  It was a clear, cold Sunday afternoon, two days later. A few minutes before the appointed hour, Johnny, five other living people, and a ghost gathered around the long meeting table in the board room of the Zenith Clarion.

  At the head of the table sat Carlton Cargill, grumbling certain words that children weren’t meant to hear or allowed to speak. The new Regional Director of Etheristics, Wilton Crider, sat next to him. Dame Honoria paced along the side of the table by the door. She wore a drab brown lady’s suit and a peculiar woolen beret that looked like a stack of overcooked pancakes. Also at the table were Uncle Louie and Mel. Colonel MacFarlane leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking very much on edge.

  Johnny sat on the side of the table by the broad picture window that overlooked Zenith Bay, brooding. When would this nightmare ever end!

  At exactly two o’clock, one of the newspaper’s security guards ushered in the little Rotonesian who reeked of cheap cologne. Ozzie almost walked right into Dame Honoria. Both juddered to a halt, a look of shocked recognition on their faces.