by D. R. Martin
Everyone turned to regard Centurion Quintus, who had been standing unnoticed in a dark corner of the kitchen. He strode toward Johnny. Halting a few paces away, the ghost regarded him up and down. Those ancient black eyes and fierce, dark features almost made Johnny quake. He would never want to be on the other side in a fight against this guy.
“You cannot walk into that vipers’ nest blind and helpless,” the ghost warrior said. “Allow me an hour, two hours at most, to scout and spy. Perhaps I will find a way to free your friend, but with lesser peril. If I believe such an exploit would be suicidal, I will tell you honestly. You can trust me to never lie. I tell true, even when it disappoints.”
“Listen to him, mate,” Marko said. “It’s your only chance to save Nina.”
“Do what the centurion says, Johnny,” pleaded Iris.
Even though he was hot to act, Johnny knew that doing foolish, impetuous things—like, say, rushing off from the group to get a better view of dangerous bog zombies—might end in disaster. He might be angry and impatient, but he wasn’t stupid.
Johnny looked up into the centurion’s grim face. “Okay, Quintus. I’ll expect you back in two hours.”
Chapter 26
Wednesday, February 5, 1936
Bilbury Hall, MacFreithshire
What was that blasted word?
Basil Hastings slumped against the wall in a corner of the dimly lit, odoriferous barn, contemplating his fate. He had no idea what these zombies intended to do with him and the other children they had kidnapped—roughly forty of them, when Basil had last counted. But whatever the creatures had in mind, Basil doubted that he’d live to celebrate his thirteenth birthday.
He wondered how his two older brothers might feel when they heard about his demise. Maybe they’d regret those several occasions when they had put treacle inside his shoes and hid his favorite cricket bat.
But the person Basil felt most sorry for was his father, Lord Hurley of Evansham. Lord Hurley had lost his older brother Edward—the then-Lord Hurley—to an unfortunate drowning accident.
Basil’s uncle had been only sixteen when he died, long before Basil was born. Poor Father, Basil thought sadly, to have lost an older brother so—
That was the word he was trying to remember! Prematurely.
And now Basil wondered whether he might be prematurely deceased himself one day soon.
The monsters had taken good enough care of the kids. It had been two weeks, so far. They had provided them with ample blankets to sleep on. And though the fare was simple—bread, cheese, porridge, and water—it was clear that keeping the kids alive and healthy was a priority.
But why had the monsters rounded them all up in the first place? Basil had eavesdropped on a few of their conversations, hoping to glean some information that could help. Rather than being inarticulate fiends, they had actually sounded like reasonably intelligent—if rather loathsome—individuals.
One time, a pair of them guarding the barn seemed to be critiquing their bodies. And while they were grateful to have bodies “again,” they found them to be clumsy and awkward, not nearly as much fun as what they’d had before.
“I miss me old self,” one of them had sighed, in that rumbly-mumbly way of theirs. “But I died a long time ago, back in army days. Me first body would be dust by now.”
“Well, I say we old warrior ghosts owe a debt of gratitude to good Lord Percy for showing us the zombie trick,” the other had remarked. “Only way we could possibly get to be in the real world again in a real way. This body ain’t great, but I sure like being able to eat again.”
Basil was curious about who this “Lord Percy” bloke was. But none of the zombies elaborated. Undoubtedly, he was the worst villain of the whole lot of them.
Others had complained about dry skin and the need to grease themselves constantly. Another was unhappy with its looks—and who could blame it?
Basil heard numerous conversations about centuries-old battles that he had studied in history class. He was pretty sure that inside each of these repulsive creatures was a spook that had once been a soldier.
Basil hated to say it, but they all sounded like pretty ordinary chaps doing pretty ordinary jobs. Still, he worried about what they intended to do with the kids. Maybe they were going to hold them for ransom. Maybe they were going to use them as slave labor.
Meanwhile, within the little prison, boys from St. Egbert’s and other schools clumped together in one corner of the barn. And the youngsters from town and country did the same in another—though boys with boys, and girls with girls. Every now and again a schoolboy and a town boy would irritate each other enough to end up wrestling down on the dirt floor, perhaps throwing a few pitiful punches. Apart from the odd bloody nose and bruised pride, no harm was done. And it did let off a certain amount of steam.
The escapees Carson and Leith had ended up with Basil here in the local branch of hell. And he finally had the chance to find out how their escape had gone bust.
Leith shook his head in befuddlement. “Thought it would be easy. You know, just slip away quietly. Trying hard to not snap a twig or send a sparrow fluttering. And for a while, everything seemed tickety-boo. I bet we got a mile, at least. We came out on a country lane, and Goldsworthy and I had a bit of a debate about which way to go.”
“You know how pigheaded Goldsworthy can be,” Carson put in. “So he went his way and that was the very last we saw of him.”
“And it turns out he was right,” Leith groaned. “Carson and I promptly walked right into a mob of the monsters.”
So, as far as anyone knew, Goldsworthy was still banging around out there. Maybe he had alerted the police. Or maybe he had simply gone back home and was right now enjoying roast beef and potatoes.
Basil found life in stir grindingly boring. Unless one of the monsters came to grab someone. Or a new captive arrived. Then the place became a beehive.
So Basil felt a strong twinge of excitement when they brought a dark-skinned girl into the barn. “Brought” wasn’t the right word. It was more like they tossed her in through the door, very nearly pitching her over onto her face.
She had on hiking clothes of brown tweed—with knee pants, not a skirt—and had curly black hair cut fairly short. She wore a very nice canvas backpack that looked jammed full. The moment she opened her mouth to cuss out the monster that had thrown her in, Basil knew that she came from the New Continent. Her accent was unmistakable. Which country, he couldn’t say. Freedonia? Northland? Plains Republic? Who knew? Not the Old Dominion. No drawl or twang.
A few of the girls rushed forward to cluster around the new arrival and provide, Basil supposed, sisterly comfort.
But this was a very different sort of prisoner. She didn’t act frightened or waste any time in tears. She almost looked like she had come here on purpose—though Basil couldn’t imagine why you’d risk your neck in MacFreithshire these days. Still, he really wanted to talk to this girl. And not because he thought she was pretty—though she certainly was. Something about her struck a note of familiarity in Basil. But blast if he knew why.
Within minutes, the newcomer, who had introduced herself as Nina Bain, was walking about, looking for chinks in the barn through which to escape.
Basil thought it only polite to sidle up to the new girl and tell her that no chinks whatsoever had been located. He knew, of course, that sidling up to a girl would earn him a hazing from his mates—who were even now looking on and making kissing noises and smackings of lips.
“No good, I’m afraid, Miss Bain,” Basil said over the girl’s right shoulder.
She pivoted around and blinked at Basil. “You’ve already tried it?”
Basil was a little surprised. She didn’t even say, “How do you do?”
“We’ve all hunted high and low for a way out,” Basil answered. “The only thing we’ve found is a sort of manhole cover over there in the corner. But we’d need a big wrench to loosen it.”
“Well,” Nina Bain sai
d, “it doesn’t hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes check things out, does it?”
Basil shook his head nonchalantly. “No, not at all.”
Nina Bain continued to nose about one of the corners of the barn, paying particular attention to a barred window. Basil trailed behind her.
“You know,” Basil said, “you look dashed familiar.”
She peered at him, up and down. “Sorry, you don’t.”
“I know I’ve seen you before.”
“It’s possible. I mean, I had my picture in the newspapers last fall. Maybe even over here. Went on an adventure with my friends Johnny and Melanie Graphic.”
Of course, Basil thought. The business of the etheric bomb out in the Greater Ocean. She was a very close associate of Johnny Graphic. Their adventures were well known among the boys at St. Egbert’s.
“You’re the girl who saved that flying boat from a crack-up in the ocean,” Basil said in admiration. He gave her a friendly, expectant look, hoping for a nice chin-wag about her exploits.
That’s when one of the young ladies from Mrs. Vinson’s Academy for Girls let out a shout of warning. She was the only young captive who had the ability to see wraiths.
“Ghost!” the girl hollered in her high-pitched voice. “Coming through the double door!”
Nina Bain muttered a few more cuss words under her breath, then whipped off her backpack. Basil couldn’t imagine why.
Then the girl did the most remarkable thing. From inside the pack she plucked out a pair of highly peculiar aviator goggles—with wires and batteries attached to them. She slapped them on, then gazed toward the big double door.
A look of horror played across her face.
“Dogs in dishwater, no!” she whispered. “It’s Burilgi!”
Chapter 27
Thursday, February 6, 1936
MacFreithshire
In addition to having acute anxiety when flying up in the sky on ghost horses, Johnny had a particular aversion to being confined in tight places. He tended to hyperventilate and panic and turn into, generally speaking, a quivering mound of hopelessness and misery.
So when Centurion Quintus described what he had found and what he thought represented the best plan for freeing Nina, Johnny gulped and slowly nodded, thinking, no, no, no…
But it was the only good option they had. And Johnny had really meant it when he said he’d rather die—even in a tight, dark, cold place—than abandon his friend.
So, soon after midnight that evening, Johnny set out through the woods and fields, back toward Bilbury Hall—following Quintus’s green, ghostly glow. Behind Johnny came Marko, and behind him came Petunia Budd. The whole rescue mission depended on just the four of them. They had left Iris behind at the little cottage. There was nothing she could do, with that left arm in a cast. But she had persuaded her “big” sister Petunia to go on the rescue mission. It took many repetitions of the “magic” word.
“Please, please, please, please…”
It was slow going in the dark, as they treaded carefully through patchy fog and brambly undergrowth. Off to the west, Johnny saw muted flashes of lightning when the fog allowed, followed a moment or two later by distant rumblings of thunder. So far, they had managed to hike around MacFreithshire without getting drenched. And Johnny hoped that they would stay dry tonight.
Arriving at the culvert that Quintus had found, Johnny could see the glow of zombie campfires just a few hundred feet away. The creatures’ rumbly, grating voices were just audible. What, he wondered, did zombies chat about late into the night? “Well, I nicked me another black-haired boy. Now I just need a redhead with freckles for my collection. You got one to trade?” Or, “How does a feller unsquash his face and clean up proper-like after centuries under the muck?”
“Johnny Graphic!”
Johnny started and looked up into the dark, grim visage of Quintus.
“Sorry,” Johnny said. “Daydreaming,”
“We are here,” the ghost said. “Your torch, point it there.”
Carefully shading the top of his flashlight so the nearby zombies couldn’t catch sight of it, Johnny illuminated the thing he had been dreading.
It was the mouth of a tile culvert that opened onto the edge of the pond they were standing by. It was about two feet wide. Its purpose was to drain rainwater from the estate and farmyard, and feed it into the pond. A grown man might not fit inside it, but a boy would.
Lying in the mud next to it was a large, adjustable wrench, which Quintus had earlier “borrowed” from an unguarded tool shed.
Johnny gulped, inwardly rebelling against the notion of climbing into that hole in the ground. Not being able to stand, turn around, stretch. He could only inch forward on his hands and knees, or go in reverse. A desperate voice inside his head kept chanting, Not a good idea! Not a good idea!
“As I instructed,” Quintus continued, “you will go forward behind the girl ghost. She will light your way. To your rear, Marko will bear the wrench. Take the first fork to the left. This will lead you to the children’s prison. Somehow, you must wake one or more of the prisoners, who will use the tool to remove the drain cover. At the right moment, I will make a diversion, drawing away the abominations.”
Johnny knew the plan well enough. They’d gone over it a dozen times. But as is often the case with unpleasant tasks, the reality was altogether scarier than talk and theory. If they were going to do it, though, they might as well get on with it.
He nodded briskly. “Well then, let’s get going. Please, Petunia, after you.”
He figured the girl ghost was probably more agitated at being separated from her “little” sister than by the dangers of a midnight prison break. She, after all, could fly up and away whenever she wanted. Johnny and Marko had no such option.
“Okay,” Petunia agreed.
“Ready, Marko?” Johnny asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Marko replied, snatching up the heavy wrench.
Johnny blinked at Quintus. “See you back here, hopefully in about an hour.”
Quintus gave Johnny an Imperial salute. “May the gods defend you.”
“Sure hope so,” Johnny groaned, returning the salute. “In you go, Petunia.”
The little green ghost floated headfirst into the culvert. Johnny got on his hands and knees and climbed in, and he was soon a dozen feet along. He heard Marko come after him, the wrench he carried clunking on the inside of the tile enclosure.
Johnny tried to twist around, but it was impossible in the tight quarters. “Marko, can you maybe not make that noise?”
“I’ll try,” Marko replied, sounding unsure. “But I just barely fit in this thing.”
Johnny crawled along—his hands and knees dragging through dirt and dampness and slime, his head bumping on the tile. He felt sorry for Marko, who had to feel even more cramped and trapped. Johnny at least had some elbowroom. And, of course, neither of them could turn around if they needed to. That was maybe the worst thing. If, for some reason, they needed to retreat, they would have to crawl out of the culvert backward.
Even though he wasn’t moving that fast, Johnny could feel his heart thump-thump-thumping away like a steam engine. Sweat was dripping down his forehead. That had to be the adrenaline. From all his adventures last fall, Johnny was well acquainted with it. To control it, he tried to pretend he was a crawling robot—just a machine that put one hand forward, then a knee, then the other hand and the other knee. Hand, knee, hand, knee, hand, knee…
Empty out the head, that was the trick. If I can do that, he thought, I’ll get through this culvert with no problem. We’ll open the grate quick as you like, spring Nina and the other kids, and head for the hills. Say goodbye to this whole rotten nest of zombies and ghosts.
But just then Johnny slapped his left hand down onto something furry and squishy and quite dead.
He let out a yelp. “Eeeeyewww.” Without thinking, he tried to jump to his feet. But, of course, all he succeeded in doing was clun
king the back of his head and mashing his shoulder blades into the culvert tile.
“What is it?” Marko snapped.
By now, Petunia had floated back to see what was wrong, coming in close enough to illuminate the object.
Still shaking, Johnny rubbed the back of his head and looked down.
A rat. Probably dead only a few days.
Oh, great. Now Johnny had rat crud on his left hand. Who knew what kind of germs it was full of? He rubbed his hand violently on his left thigh, attempting to get every vestige of the critter off his skin.
Johnny shuddered with disgust. “I touched a dead rat.”
Marko laughed. “Is that all? Let’s get going.”
And they continued on. Johnny cringed whenever he put a hand down on the tile culvert. But he squashed no more dead rats. And, amazingly, he found himself getting used to the cramped quarters and the slightly rotten, mildewy smell.
A few minutes later they took the left turning in the culvert and soon arrived at an open space that allowed them to almost stand up and stretch. A couple of feet above their heads was a circular grate. This, according to Quintus, would be their entrance into the kids’ prison.
“Pet,” Marko said, “pop up there and make sure there’re no zombies about.”
Petunia floated right up to Marko, face-to-face, and frowned at him. “You forgot the magic word. Nice people use the magic word.”
Marko rolled his eyes. “Pleeeeaaase, Petunia, make sure there are no mean, old zombies up there.”
“Okay, Marko.” The little ghost smiled and zipped up through the grate.
A nervous moment or two passed. If there happened to be a guard inside the barn, all of their efforts would be for naught. All that crawling through the miserable tube in the ground would have been pointless.
For just a second, Johnny shut his eyes and yawned widely—he was super tired. And when he opened them, there was Petunia, looking very pleased with herself.
“No ugly old zombies up there at all,” she reported. “Just lots of children sleeping.”