Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb (33 page)

With shocking abruptness, Gizmo Gunderson—the steel mill mechanic—materialized out of the darkness on the far side of the pool of light that illuminated the fateful tug of war. He was gripping an ice pick in his right hand as he strode up to Johnny and Nina.

The young mechanic lifted his arm, brought the tip of the ice pick down within an inch of the tiny ghost, and stabbed a hole right through her.

Checheg flew out of the black diamond like a shot, wailing in anguish, instantly regaining her normal stature. She had a gaping fissure right through her stomach, and her face was a mask of pure agony. She zoomed away, through half a dozen pieces of heavy machinery.

Gone, disappeared, vanished.

At the instant the tiny ghost gave up the struggle, everyone on both sides sprawled backward into heaps on the filthy concrete floor. The Star of Gilbeyshire flew out of Nina’s grasp and skittered off into the shadows, its livid green glow extinguished.

Sitting in a big blotch of grease, his fancy overcoat ruined forever, Johnny was amazed that the tug of war had ended as unexpectedly as it had begun. They’d caught another huge break, thanks to Gizmo Gunderson.

Johnny hopped up and tried unsuccessfully to levitate Dame Honoria, who was way too much of a handful. Uncle Louie came over and gently hauled the celebrated suffragist to her feet. Mel and Nina clambered up as well, dazed as they gazed at each other. The two began to blubber and embrace. Flo and Danny stood there shaking their heads in wonderment, while the superintendent merely looked appalled.

His heart still pounding, his face beet red, Johnny approached Gizmo, who also looked flushed and a little shaky. “Hey, thank you. You saved a lotta lives tonight.”

The young mechanic seemed startled. “Did I? Really?”

Johnny nodded.

“You know, I could see ghosts all my life,” Gizmo said. “Only it brought me nothing but grief. Kids would beat me up, make fun of me. I mean, no one here even knows. This may be the only time it’s been good for anything.”

Johnny clapped Gizmo on the shoulder and shuffled back to Mel, who still was very upset.

“When will it
stop?”
she sobbed. “I am so very, very
tired
.”

“Me too,” groaned Nina.

“Young ladies!” Dame Honoria boomed, dusting herself off. “We haven’t the luxury of weeping or dawdling. We still have to destroy the jewel, the sooner the better. Will someone please find the blasted object. And you—” She pointed an imperious index finger at the superintendent. “Please see to it that the Super Stamper, as you call it, is fully operational.”

They all slogged off into the shadowy maze of giant machinery. “How many times in an evening does a guy have to save Zenith?” Johnny muttered, to no one in particular. “Jeez Louise!”

* * *

The Super Stamper stood a good three stories tall. The dark, hulking machine had well-oiled steel shafts at each of four corners, upon which the tempered steel top plate—about the dimensions of four billiard tables—rode down onto a bottom plate. The device could exert two thousand tons of pressure.

Right at the center of the bottom plate sat the black diamond known around the world as the Star of Gilbeyshire. The pear-shaped gem still seemed far too small and inconsequential to blow up a city of a million people.

The bedraggled party-goers were gathered on one side of the huge press.

The superintendent looked nervous and not very happy to be there. Next to him, Gizmo Gunderson simply appeared dazed. A bashful smile kept breaking out on his face.

Mel and Danny leaned against each other—her arm about his waist, his around her shoulder. Johnny was holding Nina’s shoulder as well, primarily because she seemed in danger of collapsing in a heap. Floating up above were the colonel and Bao.

“Mr. Superintendent, if you please,” Dame Honoria intoned.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, flipping several switches on the control panel and turning a dial.

The Super Stamper vibrated to life.

Then the superintendent mashed down on a large green button.

The top plate began rumbling downward.

Twelve feet. Eight feet.

Johnny sure hoped that Mel and Dame Honoria knew what they were doing. It would be terrible if instead of destroying the bomb by crushing it, they set it off. But it was too late to worry about that.

The top plate got to four feet. One foot. One inch.

Suddenly there was a muffled, brittle
CRAAACK
, followed by a CRUUUNCHing sound.

And in less than a tiny fraction of a heartbeat, Johnny and the others were enveloped in a howling green hurricane of ghosts.

Chapter 67

A solid wall of ghosts surged in all directions!

In only a couple of seconds, Johnny saw hundreds of transparent spectral faces flash past him.

Children and old people. Men and women. The recently dead and ancient wraiths. All colors and all races.

They showed emotions ranging from delight and joy to abject fear and loathing, as they swirled around Johnny and the others. Laughing, shouting, sobbing, shrieking. The noise was overwhelming.

Johnny threw himself and Nina onto the hard concrete out of pure reflex. She yelped in pain and angrily bopped him on the ear. Mel toppled Danny, too, afraid for their lives. And Dame Honoria—apparently loath to spend any more time on the filthy factory floor—merely covered her head and crouched.

Even those who couldn’t see ghosts flowing through them felt a powerful electrical charge. Uncle Louie later told Johnny that he could sense every hair on his body trying to jump to attention. His eyes had burned and his ears had rung; his fingers and toes had tingled. Flo’s auburn hair stood up like a fright wig.

For several long minutes, ghosts kept geysering out of the demolished diamond. Many flew up through the metal roof of Shed Number 3 and vanished. But others lingered amid the giant machines, wailing and jabbering and trying to make sense of things. Dozens of times Johnny heard the same question: “Why aren’t we really dead?”

The whole shed seemed to be swimming with ghosts. Johnny couldn’t imagine that anything like this had ever happened before.

After a while Dame Honoria gathered Johnny and the others around her, and motioned for the superintendent and Gizmo Gunderson to come over.

“Gunderson, my lad,” said Carlton Cargill, clapping an arm around the man’s shoulder, “you did something very big here this evening. First-class work.
First-class!
Good job that you could see ghosts.”

The young man beamed and shrugged. “It just seemed like the thing to do. Lucky I have an ice pick on my belt.”

“Hats off to you, too, Mr. Superintendent,” Mrs. Throckmorton said.

The superintendent smiled a quizzical smile, as if he wasn’t at all sure what he was being thanked for. “I don’t suppose you could tell me, um, what we just, uhhh, did here tonight?”

Mrs. Throckmorton gravely shook her head, as did Dame Honoria and Mel and Johnny.

“However,” said the newspaper publisher, “I’m going to speak with management and arrange that you and Mr. Gunderson both shall have bonuses for your efforts tonight. But remember, you must never tell anyone what happened here.
Never!

“Now Dame Honoria, Carlton, Miss Graphic, Johnny—I need to discuss something with you.”

* * *

Mr. Cargill, Uncle Louie, Nina, Danny, and Flo went to warm up in the superintendent’s office. Mrs. Throckmorton had driven off in her limousine to make an important phone call, but promised to send the vehicle back for the rest of them as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Johnny, Mel, Dame Honoria, the colonel, and Bao wandered amid the gigantic machinery of Shed Number 3, telling the remaining ghosts about the true, terrible cost of the etheric bomb.

“As long as ghosts believe they can escape the ether,” Mel said, “there’s a danger that someone will make more etheric bombs. We have to spread word throughout the entire ghost world that being in the bomb only makes your predicament worse. Far worse.”

Johnny jumped in. “If these ghosts tell other ghosts who tell other ghosts who—”

“Then we might be able to throw gravel into Sweetums’…” Dame Honoria grimaced and shook her head. “I mean into
Percy’s
gears. We don’t know if his cronies are planning to make any more, even without him. But we must try to put a stop to it.”

Johnny hunted through every nook and cranny of Shed Number 3, training a flashlight here and there. His feet were frigid, his fingers freezing, his nose red, and his breath making little fountains of condensed moisture. He wondered if he would ever warm up again. Altogether, he and the others spoke to hundreds of wraiths.

Some of the ghosts Johnny talked to were relieved to be out of the bomb. (“It vas terribly cramped in der,” stated a Barovian field marshal. “Like zardines in de can. Poor dizipline, much pushing und shoving. Danke, mein Junge.”) Some were angry. (“You have ruined everything!” shrieked an Onango tribeswoman with many brass rings around her neck. “Now I will never escape this hell!”) And others looked as if they would kill themselves—
if only they could
. (“Heaven,” moaned a rotund medieval monk from Ville de Riviere, “eez all zat I wanted.”)

It was almost on to breakfast time when Mel, Johnny, Dame Honoria, the colonel, and Bao felt they had done everything they could. They were about to head out the door when the little mountain girl caught sight of the back of a wraith ambling around behind one of the many bulky machines. She made a gasping noise and ran over to try to catch a glimpse. Johnny trotted after her.

Up she flew, for a bird’s-eye view.

She looked down and squealed with joy.

“Evvie,” she cried, “
is that you?”

Beaming with delight, Bao turned to Johnny. “It’s my friend Evvie. We flew across the ocean together.”

Johnny saw the ghost of a young man in safari duds stop in his tracks, twirl around, and look up. What had been a scowl on his face turned into a giant grin.

“Bao!” the specter laughed, hands on hips. “My dear old girl! Where
have
you been?”

Chapter 68

Thursday, January 2, 1936

Zenith

Johnny trudged along the rocky shore of Great Lake early in the afternoon of the second day of the new year. The sky was a bright electric blue, the air crisp and clear and almost down to freezing. A frigid wind whipped in off the water, prompting him to pull his fedora down over chilly ears. A few hundred feet away automobiles and trucks made a steady hum, cruising up and down the busy Lake Highway.

The top headline of that morning’s
Clarion
had proclaimed:

Positioned beneath it was one of Johnny’s pictures showing the Hotel Splendid’s demolished ballroom.

Just like the initial story that ran on New Year’s Day, the follow-up article said nothing about how close Zenith had come to utter annihilation—not once but twice. Neither story even hinted at the etheric bomb nor the incident at the Acme Iron Works.

Johnny crunched to a halt on the rocky shore and stared out across the big lake—so big that you couldn’t see the other side. The wind died down and now it didn’t feel as nippy.

Just twelve months earlier, as an eleven-year-old, Johnny had been so keen to test out of school that he had studied for hours every night. But being a grown-up—at least when it came to the news photography business—hadn’t exactly been a picnic in the park.

So much had just been, well, scary
.
Or sad.

Scary
—Ghosts trying to kill his own sister.

Sad
—Spooks getting shredded to bits without escaping the ether.

Scary
—Percy and Ozzie hijacking the bodies of the dead, becoming the first zombies.

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.