Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb (27 page)

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.

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.

Dame Honoria spoke first—in a tone that could have frozen all the water in Zenith Bay. “Johnny tells us that you’re in there somewhere, Ozzie.”

A dark, frightening grin spread across the round Rotonesian face.

“Well,” Dame Honoria continued, “you’re going to have to prove it.”

Ozzie bowed slightly from the waist. “Of course, ma’am. I’d expect nothing less.”

“The voice sounds right, anyway,” said Dame Honoria. She indicated a chair for Ozzie/Prakoso. She walked around the table and sat facing him.

“I shall ask you things that only my father’s majordomo might know,” she said. “Things too obscure for even the most meticulous briefing.”

Ozzie crossed his arms and said, “Ask away, Mrs. Rathbone. Ask away.”

“My father’s favorite drink?”

“He was a claret man, your old dad. He had to have his Chateau Greysolon close at hand. The ’97, of course.”

Dame Honoria’s eyes widened a bit, then squinted. “The name of the budgie I kept on Gorton Island?”

“MacTavish. A blue budgie. Miserable little blighter never missed a chance to bite me.”

The zombie successfully answered several more of Dame Honoria’s questions and she finally nodded to Crider and Mr. Cargill.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rathbone,” Crider said. “Naturally, Mr. Eccleston, we have many things we’d like to ask you. But the first is simple: what is it you want?”

The zombie reached inside his jacket and pulled out a buff-colored envelope. He slid it across the empty table toward Crider. “A little message for your government.”

Crider grabbed the envelope, ripped it open, extracted a sheet of paper, and began to read.

Johnny’s heart dropped like a stone when he saw Crider’s ruddy complexion turn a sickly white.

When Crider finished reading, he stared at Ozzie with a stunned expression. “Good heavens, man. You can’t be serious.”

The Rotonesian zombie grinned a shy little smile. “Oh, but we are, Mr. Crider. We are.
Deadly serious
.”

Chapter 54

Tuesday, December 10, 1935

Zenith

Johnny wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the secret meeting in the boardroom of the
Zenith Clarion
. But he didn’t think it was right that his best friend couldn’t know about the terrible news. After all, she had risked her life, too, on their journey across the Greater Ocean. So he arranged to meet her after school at their favorite soda fountain. “A top-secret meeting,” he had whispered in her ear.

He was on the Oakley Avenue streetcar in East Zenith when he noticed that the girl ghost Bao had tailed him. He spotted her a couple of times, flying along in the rain, a good hundred feet behind the streetcar. The ghost had been following him around the house a lot, looking weirdly moony when they made eye contact.

Dripping from the rain, Johnny stepped into Shep’s Super Soda Shop—all glass and mirrors and stainless steel and colorful vinyl upholstery. For a moment no one bothered to look at the new arrival. But when some girls in the nearest booth noticed him, they almost shouted in unison, “It’s Johnny Graphic!”

That unleashed a torrent of greetings: “Hey Johnny!” and “Hi Johnny!” and “Look who’s here!” and “Where’ve you been?” But there were also a few catcalls and boos and one loud, rude raspberry. Not everyone was impressed with Johnny Graphic the Newspaper Big Shot.

A moment later, in came Nina Bain in her yellow rain slicker and yellow fisherman’s hat.

Her entrance provoked fevered speculation. Johnny could hear joshing words about “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” and even the dreaded “First comes love, then comes marriage…”

Both blushing fiercely, they settled into the last booth in the back. The very skinny Shep magically appeared with a tray. He unloaded their regulars—a vanilla shake and La Concha hamburger for Johnny, and a Cozy Island hot dog and strawberry malt for Nina. “Both of ’em on the house, Johnny,” Shep said. “Don’t be a stranger now.”

After they cleaned their plates and drained their glasses, Johnny leaned toward the center of the table. Nina leaned in, too, eager to learn the forbidden knowledge.

“We have to talk softly, Sparks,” Johnny said. “It’d be really bad if anyone overheard. And whatever I tell you has gotta be super, duper,
duper
secret. I mean,
you can tell no one
.”

“Absolutely, not a peep.” Nina’s eyes were glittering with anticipation.

Johnny recounted everything that had happened at the top of the
Clarion
Tower. He had both elbows on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. He spoke intensely but very quietly. They were almost nose-to-nose. Johnny could hear other kids chattering about them. He hoped they didn’t think he and Nina were whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“So Ozzie hands the letter to Crider. He reads it. Crider almost looks like he’s going to…well…like…
puke
.”

“What was in the letter?” Nina asked with an impatient expression.

“Do you know what an ‘ultimatum’ is?”

“
Of course I know
. A demand for something, backed up by a threat of hurting you.”

“Well, this ultimatum’s a doozy.”

“How so?”

Johnny leaned even closer toward Nina, and she leaned toward him.

“They want whole cities reserved for ghosts and for zombies. All the living get kicked out. First out of Zenith. Then Silver City, Molderdam, Tor Chan, Ville de Rivière, Royalton.”

Nina gasped. “That’s utterly crazy!”

“No argument there, Sparks. Nutty as a holiday fruitcake.”

“And what if the government doesn’t agree?”

“If Zenith isn’t emptied of every living human by the end of this year, they’ll blow us all up with another etheric bomb.”

When Nina gasped, kids in the nearby booths instantly looked their way. Johnny knew there were a lot of nosey parkers around, trying to overhear their conversation. He put an index finger to his lips, signaling to Nina that she should lower her voice.

“The end of the year is just a few weeks away,” she whispered.

“Right again, Sparks.”

“And even if the government agreed, where would everyone go?”

“There are over one million people in Zenith. That’s a lot of folks to turn into refugees.”

“Do you really think Percy’s gang would do it?”

“Dunno. They murdered those members of the Gesellschaft. Pulverized all those ghosts in the bomb. They have blood all over their hands. So yeah, maybe.”

They stared at each other silently, grimly, momentarily at a loss for words.

Gripping her lower lip with her teeth, Nina looked as though she might burst out crying. “But I love Zenith,” she said. “Everything about it. The parks, the libraries, the museums, the movie houses, the stores downtown. To have it blown up by maniacs and zombies—well, it’s the most horrible thing imaginable.”

Johnny almost felt guilty, telling her the terrible news. It wasn’t easy being one of the very few people on earth who had actually seen the etheric bomb in action. And now they both had to carry around the awful secret of a second bomb.

“What do you think the government’s going to do?” Nina asked with a note of desperation.

“Mr. Crider said he didn’t know. But he made Mr. Cargill promise not to print anything until a decision was made, until he could give an official okay. If any of us blabs, we get tossed in the clink.”

“Seriously?”

“You betcha, Sparks.
Seriously
. Even if you’re just a kid.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“’Cause there’s no one in the world I trust more than you. You won’t go around blabbing it. And besides, like I said, you deserve to know.”

Nina rewarded him with a grin.

“Anyway,” Johnny continued, “it just absolutely killed Mr. Cargill, not being able to break the biggest story in years. But he agreed. If news of this got out, there might be panic. Anarchy. A lot of people could get hurt.”

“So what happens next?”

“If the prime minister decides to give in, I suppose they’ll force an evacuation of Zenith.”

“That’s hard to imagine. Based on just a single letter? What if it’s a trick?”

“We thought of that. That’s why Mr. Cargill believes the new prime minister will probably decide to do nothing. Call Ozzie’s bluff. If it is a bluff.”