Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb

by D. R. Martin

  Sad—Still not knowing if he and Mel would ever see their parents again.

  Scary—A million people coming within a hair’s breadth of getting blown to smithereens.

  Sad—Seeing a great old lady getting betrayed by an ungrateful wretch of a son.

  Johnny thought it was loathsome, the way Percy had used Dame Honoria’s Star of Gilbeyshire for the second bomb. Dame Honoria had said that she believed Percy intended her to carry the gem back to the Royal Kingdom. What means of transport could be safer and more secure? And back home, almost certainly, Percy would issue his ultimatum and, if necessary, blow up the capital city of Royalton.

  What really made Johnny’s blood run cold was that Percy knew his own mother would die a horrible death.

  It was a wickedly clever plan. Obviously, once Percy had been captured, his confederates—probably Ozzie and Miss Worthington-Smythe—improvised and made Zenith their target.

  But maybe one of the worst things about what had happened was that now, even more living people believed that ghosts were all bad, all dangerous. Just because of Percy and a few rotten spooks.

  Johnny had read about anti-ghost bigots who wanted the authorities to chase ghosts out of cities—to research how they could actually be “exterminated,” as if they were noxious bugs or something. Most ghosts were decent people who’d just caught a bad break. They deserved sympathy, not hatred. That’s what Mom and Pop had always said.

  For now, though, Johnny thought it would be nice to really, truly get back to normal. Take ordinary news pictures of ordinary news.

  No more dangerous adventures for a long time, thanks very much. Just the trip to the Confederazione with Mel to track down the contessa and hear the story behind that picture she drew—the sketch that showed Lydia and Will Graphic in captivity. Johnny didn’t want to let his hopes get too high. But maybe, just maybe, he and Mel would find their parents alive and well. To have them back in their lives again—he couldn’t imagine how swell that would feel.

  “Master Graphic.”

  Johnny nearly jumped out of his wingtips.

  There behind him was Colonel MacFarlane, up on Buck, wearing a severe expression. Naturally it was hard to hear a ghost and ghost horse sneak up on you.

  “Whadaya need, Colonel?” Johnny asked, a little sharply. He wanted to be alone, wanted to think. And the stitches in his chest make him kind of grouchy. That sword wound still hurt.

  “You’re required back at the house,” the colonel pronounced gravely. “Immediately.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Indeed so.”

  Johnny groaned. He really disliked flying up in the air with the colonel and Buck. “Uhh, why?”

  “Something important, is all that the commander told me. She ordered me to find and fetch you.”

  Chapter 69

  Johnny clambered down off Buck right at the front steps, bolted them three at a time, and dashed inside. He had no idea what the emergency might be. Another ghost attack? Another etheric bomb? More zombies?

  Seated on the big leather sofa in the living room were Carlton Cargill and his managing editor, Maude Beale. Mel, Uncle Louie, and Nina were standing by the fireplace, beneath the portrait of Lydia and Will Graphic. Dame Honoria sat in the rocking chair near the china cabinet, going back and forth. Hovering nearby was Bao, who, in honor of her undaunted bravery, had been promoted by Dame Honoria to the position of personal ghost assistant.

  Everyone had smiles on their faces. So, not bad news, at least.

  “What’s going on?” Johnny asked, after saying hello to his boss and Miss Beale.

  Mel cleared her throat and looked as if she might break into a little celebratory dance.

  “Well?” Johnny said.

  His sister took a deep breath. “Mr. Cargill and Miss Beale have a proposition for us.”

  “Oh?” was all that Johnny could think to say.

  “John, my lad, your efforts and the efforts of Miss Graphic this past autumn have not only been heroic acts of first-class journalism, but have been a terrific boost for the Zenith Clarion.” Mr. Cargill punctuated his words by stabbing the air with his unlit cigar. “Our circulation has risen nearly fifty percent and we’ve collected hefty fees from the World Press Association for the use of your stories. Mrs. Throckmorton is delighted.”

  “And if Mrs. Throckmorton is delighted,” put in Miss Beale, “the chief is delighted.”

  Johnny puffed up a little bit and grinned at Mel and Uncle Louie. It felt awfully good to know the chief valued his work that much. But there were two things he had been curious about.

  “Mr. Cargill,” Johnny said, “what was the government doing about the threat? And do they know that we destroyed the bomb?”

  His boss nodded slowly. “I have confidential word that our military and police agencies went on high alert. The mobilization of soldiers at the Zenith army base was part of that effort. Mr. Crider of the Ministry of Etheristics informed me—and you can share this with no one else—that the prime minister himself sends his thanks.”

  Now that would have been fun to tell his friends about back at Falkland Junior High, thought Johnny. A kid getting thanked by the most important person in the country. But he understood why it had to remain a top secret.

  “Now we hardly want any more zombies wandering among us,” Mr. Cargill continued, “or more etheric bombs threatening other innocent metropolises. Nor do we want certain photographers and their sisters getting sliced to pieces by malevolent specters. However newsworthy these items might be, we don’t need more of that kind of trouble.”

  Johnny was bubbling with curiosity. Where was the chief headed with this? “Mel said you had a proposition, Mr. Cargill. What kind of proposition?”

  Mr. Cargill regarded Johnny intensely. “In a couple of weeks you and Melanie plan to fly to the Confederazione di Ducati to hunt for the Contessa di Altamonta, the ghost artist who drew the mysterious picture of your parents. Correct?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah, Mel’s already got the airline tickets, via Neuport and Royalton. On Zephyr Lines.”

  “Well, then, my young friend, you’d better get a refund,” said Mr. Cargill.

  “I don’t understand,” replied Johnny, scrunching up his face in bafflement.

  Mr. Cargill chuckled. “If you agree to our proposal, Johnny, the Clarion would like to send you and Melanie to write and photograph a series of reports on the hunt for Will and Lydia Graphic. Our readers have expressed a big interest in the story, and so has the World Press Association. They want to know what happened to your folks nearly as much as you and Melanie do.

  “Not only will we pay you for your articles and photos, as usual, but we’ll provide you with a flying boat. We’ll cover the expenses for the journey. And we’ll pay the mortgage on your house all through 1936. Melanie’s already agreed. All you have to do is say yes.”

  Johnny could hardly believe it. He and Mel could do everything they’d planned to do. Find the contessa and go wherever the clues she provided led them. On whatever schedule they chose. And all they had to do was write stories and shoot photographs. What could possibly be better? Then a gloomy thought entered Johnny’s head.

  “What about Uncle Louie and Nina?” he asked with concern. “Do they get to come, too?”

  Nina’s bubbling giggle gave him his answer. “Yes, we do!” she exclaimed.

  “They’re gonna let you out of school again?” Johnny asked.

  “They sure are,” she said proudly.

  Uncle Louie laughed and nodded. “Nina did such a swell job making up her schoolwork this fall—even though we were on the road for weeks—that the principal gave the okay the minute I got her on the phone. Said it was a fantastic educational opportunity for a young lady, traveling to the Old Continent.

  “Anyway, I’ll be co-piloting and Danny’ll be back in the captain’s seat. We get a Gianelli Z-509 this time. Flies faster, higher, farther, and cheaper than a Como Eagle. A lot more cramped, though. No sleepi
ng cabins. Best of all, Nina operates the radio again.”

  Nina beamed at Johnny and let out a spontaneous yip of delight.

  “And I shall be returning home with you,” said Dame Honoria in that uniquely sonorous tone of hers. “Bao is eager to see Gilbeyshire, as well. And we’re bringing her friend Evvie, Lord Hurley of Evansham, back home to have a reunion with his family. I once met his younger brother, the present Lord Hurley.”

  “But what about Percy?” Johnny asked. “I thought you were going to stay here and try to help the authorities question him.”

  “I saw Percy again this morning, Johnny,” replied Dame Honoria. “I believe he needs to spend more time in solitary reflection. I shall return to help when he shows some sign of contrition.”

  Turning back to Mr. Cargill, Johnny asked, “And no one’s seen Ozzie?”

  Before the editor could answer, Dame Honoria sniffed in a haughty and dismissive manner. “The little weasel’s probably trying to cadge more free hamburger sandwiches from strangers in disreputable pubs.”

  Mr. Cargill shook his head. “We and the authorities have pictures of his present appearance. But no one’s spotted Ozzie since your last encounter with him, John.”

  Still, even with villains like Ozzie on the loose, Johnny figured that things had turned out well—considering the terrific dangers they’d encountered. He looked around the living room, a ridiculously big smile spreading across his freckled face. Here was everybody he cared about. His sister and uncle. His godmother Dame Honoria. His best friend Nina. Bao. His bosses.

  And now they would be having a new adventure. But this time, the reward at adventure’s end wouldn’t be the prevention of some titanic disaster, but the mending of a broken family.

  The boy photographer turned to face Mr. Cargill.

  “Count me in, Chief,” Johnny said. “When do we leave?”

  Epilog

  Saturday, January 4, 1936

  Zenith

  Percival Roderick Gorton Rathbone shifted awkwardly, sitting on the edge of his prison cot, questing for a position that would bring comfort.

  He wasn’t the first ghost to take over a newly dead body. But he was the first in many centuries. Hijacking a fresh corpse was easy—once you had someone to teach you how.

  Not that there weren’t challenges.

  For a start, becoming a zombie hurt. In the muscles. The bones. The organs inside. A kind of burning, tingling sensation that flowed from one end of his new body to the other. Terrible itching of the hair follicles. Sleep that came only in brief snatches. Fingers and toes that were constantly numb.

  But a zombie body was stronger and more durable than a living body—able to sustain punishment an ordinary person could not take. However, no one was indestructible. Given enough damage, even a zombie would release the ghost at its core. Or so Percy had been told.

  He had just started pacing his cell—for at least the hundredth time—when he heard a ghostly “Pssst-pssst” emanating from a shadowy corner. He peered in that direction and was gratified to see the fearsome features of the Steppe Warrior Burilgi protruding from the varnished cement wall. Making sure none of the guards had their eyes on him, Percy went over to have a jaw wag with his old henchman.

  He heard a remarkable story of miserable ineptitude. The second bomb. Unexploded. Destroyed. All that effort gone to waste. Zenith would have been the perfect target for a grand blow-up. Even better than Royalton. The Graphics’ hometown. Burnt to a cinder. Along with Mummy. How delicious. And it would have gotten him out of this zombie body and the prison that it was in.

  “And is everything prepared for my return home?” Percy said.

  “Yes, master, it is,” the ghost replied. “Ready to move at your command.”

  As he told Burilgi what had to be done, Percy noticed something odd.

  “What happened to your pigtail?” he asked.

  The Steppe Warrior grumbled and showed no sign of wanting to answer.

  “Very well, then,” said Percy, going down on his knees and holding his head erect. “Do it.”

  Burigli tensed like a steel spring, then whipped his blade from right to left, in a blur, striking Percy’s zombie head clean off his shoulders. The detached noggin hit the cement floor with a muffled thud and rolled off into a corner, under the cot.

  Within seconds the diaphanous form of Percy’s ghost appeared next to the Steppe Warrior—as dour and gloomy as ever.

  “Now,” Percy said, “take me to Ozzie and Miss Worthington-Smythe.”

  - The End -

  Appendix

  The Eight Laws of Etheristics

  1. Ghosts—also known as specters, wraiths, sprites, spirits, phantoms, phantasms, and spooks—are the sentient remains of deceased humans and animals.

  2. Ghosts exist non-corporeally in the forms and with the perquisites in which and with which they died, in a non-material universe parallel but contingent to our own, called “The Ether.”

  3. Ghosts are creatures of free will.

  4. Ghosts may exercise their free will by serving living humans and—and thus endowed by living “effectuators”—assume a degree of corporeality required to perform the tasks requested of them in our material universe.

  5. Ghosts’ corporeality—including use of implements they may have utilized when alive—finds expression as it is needed and vanishes when it is not, often in the blink of an eye. The duration and efficacy of this phenomenon can vary, however, for reasons not yet understood.

  6. Ghosts who are engaged corporeally in any activity that may harm living humans or animals are subject to the same injuries as the living—though they cannot be killed a second time.

  7. Ghosts are free at any time to withdraw from their arrangements in service to practicing etherists, and others with the capacity to see and hear them, but thereby lose the benefits of corporeality.

  8. Practicing etherists and others with the capacity to see and hear etherians are free to end arrangements with them, thereby terminating the ghosts’ benefits of corporeality.

  —Adopted this Sixth Day of May, 1896, by the Third World Congress of Consulting Etherists, gathered in Molderdam, Kingdom of the Low Countries. Anna De Waart, General Secretary, presiding.

  Acknowledgements

  During the writing of Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb, several individuals were instrumental. Marlo Garnsworthy brought her expertise in kids’ literature to the table and made a huge difference by spotting the “elephant in the living room.” Kate Collins, an avid fantasy reader, came up with several important tweaks. Jeri Smith was my excellent copyeditor/proofreader. Steve Thomas created the wonderful book cover and map. Above all, my wife, Sue Wichmann, kept the book on track over these many months.

  Available Now… The Exciting Johnny Graphic Sequel!

  Johnny Graphic and the Attack of the Zombies

  Fresh from saving the lives of millions of people, Johnny Graphic and his friends are drawn into another rip-roaring adventure.

  This time an army of monstrous bog zombies has appeared out of nowhere to ravage the Royal Kingdom. And they’re capturing kids for reasons too terrible to even contemplate. Johnny, his best pal Nina Bain, and his sister Mel are summoned to help defeat this evil invasion.

  The fate of the Royal Kingdom depends on them!

  You can get your Kindle copy of Johnny Graphic and the Attack of the Zombies right here.

  You can buy your paperback copy right here.

  Visit drmartinbooks.com & johnnygraphicadventures.com

  Contact the author at drmartin120@gmail.com

  If you enjoyed Johnny Graphic’s first adventure, please consider reviewing the book. Even a few brief sentences would be very much appreciated.

  You can post a review of your Kindle copy here, via your Amazon account.

  Or here, at the popular web gathering place for book lovers, Goodreads.

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