by D. R. Martin
Johnny Graphic and the Attack of the Zombies
The Pulse-Pounding Sequel to
Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb
Fresh from saving the lives of millions of people, Johnny Graphic and his friends are drawn into another rip-roaring ghost adventure.
This time an army of monstrous bog zombies has appeared out of nowhere to ravage the northern counties of the Royal Kingdom. They’re rampaging, burning, and smashing everything in sight. And they're capturing kids for reasons too terrible to even contemplate. Johnny, his best friend Nina Bain, and his sister Mel are summoned to help defeat the evil genius thought to be behind this nefarious plot. Percy Rathbone! The very same ghost who created the etheric bomb. Who nearly destroyed Johnny's hometown. And who was the last person to see Johnny's parents before they disappeared.
Cut off from all help in the grim, foggy northern wilderness, the young news photographer and his companions must fight for their very survival while they try to rescue the kids who have been taken. But Percy is plotting an even greater horror. And Johnny has to stop him before it’s too late.
The fate of the Royal Kingdom depends on it.
Johnny Graphic
and the Attack of the Zombies
By D. R. Martin
Johnny Graphic and the Attack of the Zombies
By D. R. Martin
Copyright © 2013 D. R. Martin
Published by Conger Road Press
Minneapolis, Minnesota
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Visit johnnygraphicadventures.com & drmartinbooks.com
Contact the author at [email protected]
Cover art and design & map © 2013 Steve Thomas
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
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Table of Contents
Prolog
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilog
Prolog
Tuesday, January 21, 1936
Chippington-in-the-Vale, MacFreithshire, Royal Kingdom
Basil Hastings, the third son of Lord Hurley of Evansham, slouched across the main quadrangle of St. Egbert’s School, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets.
He had just taken supper in the dining hall with the two hundred and twenty other sons of nobility and wealth who populated the student body of St. Egbert’s. The fare was, as usual, unappealing—some rather tough beefsteak, boiled potatoes, creamed corn, stewed prunes, and weak, tepid tea. As if the food weren’t punishment enough, Basil had developed a splitting headache.
All he wanted to do was lie in his bed with a cold washcloth across his face.
Basil’s dormitory was a gray, bleak pile of Gothic stonework. Drafts seemed to spill out of every chink and crack in the walls. In the depths of winter, the only real refuge from the pervasive chill was to huddle under several blankets in one’s bed.
He swiftly took off his rumpled blue jacket, trousers, shirt, and tie. Then he slipped into his flannel pajamas. He padded out on bare feet to the big lavatory and soaked a washcloth in cold water. Climbing into bed, he plastered the wet rag to his forehead. As he lay on his back in the dimly lit bedroom—on one of a dozen beds—he could hear the noises coming from the common room, almost directly beneath where he rested.
Boys hollering and singing. A piano being played rather badly. Footsteps racing up and down the staircase.
Basil wished he could have been down there, enjoying himself. Well, perhaps tomorrow, after this filthy headache was gone.
The last thing Basil remembered before he drifted off was hearing a raucous chorus of that popular music-hall tune, “Oh, By Golly, Polly Is a Jolly Dolly.”
* * *
When Basil started to come up out of his dreamless slumber, he realized that his head was no longer aching. The terrible pressure around his temples and eyes had disappeared. But something very strange was going on.
Slowly waking up, he thought that he heard the sound of breaking glass. And some boys were shouting and screaming outside.
With a violent swing of his arm, Basil threw off his three blankets and scrambled to his feet. The bedroom seemed full of a peculiar orange, dancing light. He dashed to one of the windows and gasped in shock at what he saw.
Over on the other side of the quadrangle, the St. Egbert’s School library was engulfed in soaring flames. A stone’s throw away, the centuries-old chapel looked like a huge, strange lantern—full of fire. Basil saw several grown-ups sprawled on the grass, not moving. One of them looked like the headmaster.
Up and down on the muddy quadrangle, boys in bathrobes and pajamas were running about willy-nilly, howling for help. And chasing after them were weird, loping figures, tall enough to be men, wearing odd, loose-fitting tunics and coats.
A pudgy boy tried desperately to elude the lunging grasp of one of the creatures. But the boy was too slow and too clumsy. With what looked like a gentle tap of the fist, his pursuer knocked him flat to the ground, then deftly picked him up and hurried away out of the quad—the very limp lad slung over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
I’ve got to warn the other boys! Basil thought. Then he looked around the sleeping chamber.
Blast it! He was all alone.
Everyone had flown the coop. And that’s exactly what Basil intended to do.
He quickly dressed, then grabbed his deluxe willow cricket bat. He rushed out into the hallway. The electricity appeared to be out, so he had to feel his way down the staircase.
Taking a deep breath, Basil—a wiry, cautious sort of boy—darted out the door and into the quad, then took a sharp right. He planned to make for the police station in Chippington-in-the-Vale, the small town a couple of miles away.
But as he ran past the infirmary, a hulking form leapt out in front of him. Basil briefly prayed that it was Angus Snodgrass, the groundskeeper, well known for his slouching posture and grimy, formless outerwear. But the boy’s prayer went unanswered, as the unknown assailant lurched at him with a guttural growl and outstretched, claw-like hands.
Basil jumped backward, just avoiding the grasping, menacing fingers. Petrified right down
to his bones, he swung his cricket bat and caught his attacker full on the side of the head. The hit made a horrific, sodden thunk.
But instead of collapsing into a heap, the thing stood there stolidly. Then it pulled aside its hood, and the glow of the burning buildings illuminated its features.
Basil’s jaw dropped, and his cricket bat slipped from his grasp.
The face that regarded him looked to have been fashioned from old, dark leather. Both cheeks and temples had been squashed inwards. The unblinking black eyes that stared at him were dull and flat and lifeless. A few snaggleteeth were all that remained in the distorted mouth.
“What do you want?” Basil asked, his voice quavering.
It seemed as if the creature tried to smile, but the corners of its mouth would not cooperate. Then it spoke.
“You.”
And before Basil could move an inch, he was swept up into sinewy, powerful arms, and carried off into the night.
Basil intended to scream for help. But only one word came out of his mouth.
“Zombie!”
Chapter 1
Friday, January 24, 1936
Zenith, Plains Republic
Johnny Graphic had been standing outside the jail entrance for nearly an hour. He was nervously awaiting the arrival of Harold “Mad Dog” Fleischer, the notorious bank robber.
Johnny’s editor at the Zenith Clarion wanted a shot of Fleischer for the front page. The stickup man was a hot news item, after his daring robbery of West Zenith National Bank a few days before. A half-dozen other newspaper photographers were lined up with Johnny, all jockeying to get the perfect shot. And Johnny knew exactly how he was going to do that—even though it made him pretty edgy to think about it. If his plan didn’t work, he’d be in big trouble.
He was yakking with a photographer a foot taller and ten years older than him, when a plain black van drove up to the jail entrance.
Johnny tried to relax. Okay, this is it. Stick to the plan.
Several cops rushed to the back door of the van and opened it. They hauled Fleischer out, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was one mean-looking guy—his long, haggard face contorted with rage.
The robber resisted the officers every inch of the way. He shouted profanities at the photographers as their flashbulbs went off. At the age of twelve and three-quarters, Johnny had never heard some of those words before. But they sure sounded bad.
With their big press cameras, the photographers had time for only one shot. Johnny waited to take his until all the others had finished. It felt like an eternity.
All of a sudden, his opportunity arrived.
He rushed up toward Fleischer and yelled, “Hey, Mad Dog. Give us a big smile!”
The criminal turned in his direction, his face full of fury. At precisely that instant, Johnny mashed down the shutter button. The flashbulb flared.
Fleischer roared at Johnny and broke free of one of the cops holding him. The robber lunged, getting so close that Johnny could actually smell the criminal’s sour breath.
Uh-oh, Johnny thought, I may have made a mistake here.
But in a wink, Fleischer’s captors yanked him backward, like a calf on a lariat. They finally wrangled him, still swearing a blue streak, into the jail.
“Great move, kiddo,” the other photographer laughed.
His heart racing, his hands trembling, Johnny turned to his chum. “Sure hope that shot turns out.”
It did.
Johnny’s photo editor said it almost certainly would be on tomorrow’s front page, as planned. Taking that particular shot had been a gamble, but it had paid off.
So Johnny should have felt like a million bucks. He should have had a spring in his step and a grin on his round, freckled face as he climbed off the streetcar near Grover Falkland Junior High.
Not only had he gotten the shot, he was living the life he’d dreamed about since he was little. Johnny Graphic was a genuine, bona fide news photographer. He’d achieved almost everything he had wanted to. And how many kids of twelve and three-quarters can say that?
After testing out of school last summer, Johnny had started shooting assignments for the Clarion right away. For a couple of months, things went swell.
Then, without warning, he got roped into investigating a ghost conspiracy that spanned the world—with a million lives on the line, including his own and those of everyone he loved.
Along with his sister, uncle, and best friend, Johnny had traveled across the Greater Ocean, chasing ghost assassins. He had witnessed the explosion of the first, and hopefully only, etheric bomb. He had temporarily gone blind. He had helped to rescue his sister from the clutches of Steppe Warrior ghosts. He himself had narrowly escaped death several times. He still shuddered to think of how close the city of Zenith had come to total annihilation.
And in spite of all that, he had managed to deliver a steady stream of news photos to his boss, with his sister writing the accompanying stories. Photos and stories that were published in hundreds of newspapers around the world. He was proud of every bit of it.
A newspaperman with that kind of success should have been over the moon. But as he walked into Shep’s Super Soda Shop, Johnny Graphic frowned. He was not a happy guy. Because he knew there was one thing he hadn’t been able to do—maybe the biggest thing. And doing it had just gotten harder.
All around, kids from Falkland Junior were sucking on malted milks and laughing and joking with each other. As he walked past their tables, Johnny nodded to a few guys who had been in Camera Club with him before he left school. He felt a little pang of nostalgia for the many hours he had spent in the darkroom with them, talking about photo gear and sharing their plans for the future.
His best friend, Nina Bain, was waiting for him in their favorite booth at the back of the malt shop.
“I’ve been thinking about that rotten crumb-bum Percy Rathbone,” Johnny fumed, thumping onto the seat. “He’s messed up everything. Everything.”
Nina gave him an exasperated look. “That again?” she groaned, taking a sip of her strawberry malt. “You’ve been bellyaching ever since we found out the trip was postponed. I understand that you’re disappointed. But what’s done is done. Mel has to stay here in Zenith and help track down Percy.”
“I know,” Johnny said, grabbing one of the fries from Nina’s plate. “I know.”
It almost made Johnny go nuts to even think about it. He and his sister, Melanie, had been all set to fly across the ocean to hunt for clues about their missing parents. Nina and Uncle Louie were coming, too. All Johnny and Mel had to do was send stories and photos back to the Clarion about the search for Mom and Pop. The newspaper was picking up the entire tab.
And then that rodent Percy had to go and escape from the toughest jail in Zenith. And suddenly, the trip to find Johnny’s parents was put off indefinitely.
They figured that one of Percy’s minions had slipped into his cell and cut off his head. But it wasn’t really Percy’s head. Percy was a ghost. He had been temporarily residing in another person’s dead body, which he had reanimated.
When the body was beheaded, his ghostly self was released. Then Percy could easily fly through the jail walls without setting off any alarms.
Nina took a bite of her Cozy Island hot dog, and fixed her brown eyes on Johnny while she chewed and swallowed. “I know how much you want to find your folks. But Percy might be planning something even more dangerous than what he cooked up last year. I, for one, am glad Mel and Dame Honoria are on the case.”
Johnny grumbled—the noise he made whenever anyone confronted him with common sense that he didn’t like. But Nina was right about the need to find Percy, after all the terrible things he’d done.
And nobody would be better at tracking him down than Johnny’s godmother, Dame Honoria, and his sister Mel. They were two of the top etherists in the world.
Etherists were professional ghost handlers. Of course, to be an etherist, you had to be able to see and hear ghosts.
Mel and Dame Honoria were among the small number of living people who could. Johnny could, as well, but Nina lacked the ability. As for becoming a ghost, only two or three percent of people and animals had that rotten luck.
Etherists dedicated themselves to communicating with ghosts. They solved problems for ghosts. They enabled ghosts to interact with the real, physical world—giving them purpose and function.
Etherists found actual employment for ghosts, who were suited for certain types of jobs. Mine owners sent ghosts into the earth to locate the richest veins of ore. Government officials sought them out to clean up hazardous materials. In the dead of winter, when frigid temperatures might imperil living officers, the police hired dead cops to work the stakeouts. Deceased doctors would look inside people for illnesses.
Not all ghosts had the temperaments to associate with living beings. Many preferred to spend their days alone or with other ghosts, ruminating about the sad state of their deaths. Others acted out their anger by tormenting those who were still alive. More than a few times, Mel had been hired to evict an obnoxious wraith that was haunting a house occupied by some unfortunate family.
Mel and Dame Honoria were both authorities when it came to second-guessing rogue ghosts. But Dame Honoria had special expertise when it came to the rogue ghost Percival Rathbone. He was, after all, her dead son.
Johnny could never understand why Percy had gone so bad. The man had everything going for him.
When he was alive, Percy had been a brilliant young etherist. He had spoken passionately about helping these poor dead people who had not been able to reach their final destination after death.
Percy believed that the solution to the ghosts’ plight lay in solving one of the Two Impossible Things.
The First Impossible Thing was to bring the ghosts back to life. The Second Impossible Thing was to give them a proper death by helping them escape the ether.
Johnny could kind of understand Percy’s devotion to his cause. But like many fanatics, Percy took it to incredible extremes. It amazed Johnny how good intentions could go so horribly bad.
And now it seemed that Percy had figured out how to restore ghosts to “life” by possessing dead bodies. Johnny called it “zombification,” and it gave him the chills to think about it.
