by D. R. Martin
Johnny saw a ghost of middle age at the end of the orchid house, waving at the king. He had on hunting clothes and appeared to have been killed by a shotgun blast—hopefully accidental.
Then the king’s gaze fixed on Bao. “And this pretty girl?”
“The young lady is Bao,” Dame Honoria said. “We found each other during my captivity on Old Number One. She has been in my service ever since.”
Bao made a curtsy and started giggling.
“And the young man next to her?” the king asked.
“The gentleman is the late Lord Hurley of Evansham,” Dame Honoria said. “He and Bao are great, good friends.”
“I can see the family resemblance, Lord Hurley,” the king said. “I’m acquainted with your brother, the current Lord Hurley. And please do accept my sympathy with regard to the abduction of your nephew from St. Egbert’s School. Along with the rest of the kingdom, I’m praying for his safe, expeditious return.”
Evvie’s face turned into a mask of shock.
“I have a nephew?” he said with genuine surprise. “And he’s been kidnapped? This is terrible. Terrible.”
Chapter 10
Thursday, January 30, 1936
MacFreithshire
Basil Hastings never thought in a million years that he would ever feel the least bit nostalgic for St. Egbert’s School. Those lumpy, thin mattresses. Those cold-water showers. Those miserly meals of tough, stringy beef and overcooked peas.
Now it all sounded like a bit of heaven.
It had been nine days since the creatures had taken them captive on that horrible night of fire and destruction. All during that time, the boys of St. Egbert’s had slogged slowly northward. Up forest paths and narrow country lanes, always at night. Sometimes in chill drizzles. Sometimes through that miserable, thick fog that popped up out of nowhere. More boys and girls joined them along the way. Some of them were from schools like St. Egbert’s. Others were the children of locals—farmers’ and shopkeepers’ sons and daughters.
A couple of times they were lucky enough to spend the night in deserted buildings—an abandoned school and a vacant granary. But most of the time, they were forced to sleep on the ground. Those who needed them were allowed to pilfer coats and blankets along the way, for warmth. Fortunately, Basil had on his school clothes and overcoat. Some of the St. Egbert’s boys were still in their pajamas and robes. Food was whatever they could scavenge. Unfortunately, they had to go to the bathroom out in the bushes. Basil longed for a lovely, porcelain toilet.
Communications from the creatures never amounted to much. They ordered the children around in their low, harsh voices, which sounded like tubas gargling ball bearings.
“Go!”
“Stop!”
“This way.”
“That way.”
And most ominously, “Escape means death.”
At first, of course, the kids whined and jabbered and cried.
But as Basil suspected, the creatures—all dark and leathery, and smelling of fish and stinky cheese—didn’t take kindly to protesters and chin-waggers. And more than a few fuzzy young cheeks were slapped hard. Very hard. He was glad he had kept his mouth shut. As his old pater used to say, “Basil, no one likes a complainer.”
Late one night, Basil was lying on a wet spot of grass off a narrow shepherd’s path, near what he thought might be the village of Nashton. He had curled up as tightly as he could, trying to warm himself. Tucking up against another boy for warmth—let alone a girl—was, of course, out of the question. Things were not that desperate. As he struggled to fall asleep, he could just barely make out the whispered conversation between Goldsworthy, Carson, and Leith.
“There are a dozen of them,” Goldsworthy was saying, “and over forty of us. If we wait for just the right moment, a bunch of us ought to be able to get away. They can’t catch us all.”
“But they said they’d kill any escapees they caught.” Carson’s voice was quite sensibly quaking with fear.
“Listen, Carson, that’s just a bluff. If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it back at the school. Whatever their reason, they need us alive. I don’t think these palookas will be knocking us off without a very, very good reason. You can bet on that, pal.”
Basil smiled in the dark. He knew that Goldsworthy’s slang came from watching way too many crime movies. For some reason, Goldsworthy fancied a future career as a gangster chief. To Basil, it seemed like a peculiar dream for the son of a banker. Or perhaps not.
There was a long silence, then Leith spoke up.
“The problem, Goldsworthy, is how do we get forty frightened kids to do what they need to do when they need to do it?”
“It would be like herding cats,” Carson put in.
Basil couldn’t help himself, and a chuckle escaped from his mouth.
“Hastings, are you awake?” Goldsworthy whispered.
“No,” Basil replied, smiling in the dark.
“Be that way, then, you witless prat,” Goldsworthy hissed.
There was another pause in the plotting. Leith again broke the silence.
“I think just the three of us should give it a go. Slip out before we’re noticed. They won’t know what happened until the morning. We might even be able to bring back help.”
“I don’t know, Leith.” Carson could not control that quaver in his voice. “We haven’t thought it through very well.”
Goldsworthy snorted. “Why do we have to? We just sneak away. How can they possibly track us in the dark?”
Basil didn’t know if this lot was being brave or brainless. Possibly both at the same time.
“That’s two to one, Carson,” Leith said. “Stay if you want. But Goldsworthy and I are making a break.”
Basil could hear Carson’s heavy breathing, almost as if he were hyperventilating. It didn’t sound as if he enjoyed making his decision. After a moment, he squeaked, “All right, I’ll go.”
“Good man, Carson,” Leith said, sounding full of bluster.
“Knew you’d do the right thing,” Goldsworthy said. “Now after the next creature comes and goes, we all crawl off together. When it seems we’re safely out, we divide up. Harder for them to catch us, then.”
Except for the light of the creatures’ torches and oil lamps some distance away, the woods were perfectly dark. Basil, though he didn’t like Goldsworthy or Leith, was starting to feel fearful for them. This wasn’t some fictional boys’ adventure story. They could get hurt or killed. Better by far, Basil thought, to hang tight and wait for the inevitable rescue.
Basil, exhausted right down to his bones, had nearly drifted off into a fitful slumber. But then he heard the crinkling and crunching of grass and twigs and gravel, as the three boys began to crawl away. He genuinely hoped they would make it.
Transfixed, he held his breath for what seemed a long time. But it was likely less than a minute. Nothing happened. As exciting as the great escape may have been, now it was time to sleep.
* * *
Basil’s morning wake-up call came in the form of a kick to his right leg by one of the creatures. He stumbled to his feet and started to shout some angry words. But the leathery face that glared down at him quickly shut him up. This was the one that had grabbed him at St. Egbert’s, and Basil knew not to give it any lip.
The creature shoved Basil into a line of captives that was forming. “Time to go.”
It seemed as if the villains had a hard time talking. That might explain their anti-social qualities, Basil supposed. Some other kids laughed when he suggested they might be bog warriors come back to life. Incredible, perhaps, but it was the best theory he had.
One of those dense fogs had come in, so he could only see a few of the other boys and girls. Wherever it was they were going, these ground clouds would slow them down. That had to be a good thing.
Suddenly, Basil remembered what had happened in the night. The three boys had escaped. Surely by now their captors would know that they were missing.
Prodded forward, the gaggle of bedraggled children and teenagers began to move.
That’s when Basil observed something odd up ahead. He picked up his pace, and two hulking figures became clearer in the fog. They were carrying squirming bodies over their shoulders.
Basil trotted up ahead of a half-dozen other captives, and was shaken by what he saw.
One of the creatures was hauling Carson, distinguishable by his limp, blond hair and big ears. The other monster had Leith, whose blue-and-white school scarf was still tied jauntily around his neck. They had gags in their mouths and were bound hand and foot.
But where was Goldsworthy?
Basil scooted forward again, provoking some girls to snap angrily at him for pushing them. He ignored them and kept going, until he was first in line, behind the creature that seemed to be the chief of the kidnappers. They were still on the shepherd’s path, entering out onto a meadow.
Goldsworthy was nowhere to be seen. Neither walking nor being carried.
Had he made it?
Had he escaped?
Was he bringing help?
Or had he met some other, darker fate?
Chapter 11
Saturday, February 1, 1936
En Route to Higgsmarket, Royal Kingdom
The journey to Higgsmarket was a slow, ninety-mile trek north through thick fog. The town car couldn’t have been going more than fifteen or twenty miles an hour. But the interminable drive gave Johnny and Nina plenty of time to hear what Rex Ward had to tell them about current intelligence from MacFreithshire.
The county was still cut off, with roving gangs of zombies terrorizing residents who had stayed. It was hard for the army and police to stop the scoundrels, because they appeared and vanished with unseemly ease. The patchy fog—which came and went without warning—also made things difficult for the good guys. But somewhere these zombies had to have a base. And when it was found, the army would act decisively.
As excited as Johnny felt, it was strange, not having his sister or Uncle Louie with him.
Uncle Louie was on his way to the Rowestoft aeroboat port, to take up duty working on Como Eagles. Right up until he got into the car, he said he was a little unsure about leaving Johnny and Nina, even for just a few weeks. But Johnny could tell that this was what Uncle Louie really wanted. He had been raising kids for a long time, and deserved an adventure on his own.
Mel, of course, stayed at Wickenham with Dame Honoria and Professor DeNimes, studying the piles and piles of papers and books that Percy had left. When Johnny heard about what Dame Honoria had planned for Ozzie—the not-very-good zombie spy who was still lurking around the neighborhood—he had a good laugh. Hopefully, the scheme would work out.
On the drive to Higgsmarket, Nina wore her etheric goggles. She kept looking through the car’s rear window, apparently to make sure that the colonel and his lads were still galloping along behind. And she intently lip-read everything that Rex said, asking him to repeat himself a few times. At one point she asked why he had on a Barovian uniform, since he wasn’t a Barovian. And what about the target over his heart? Johnny had wondered the same thing.
“My stock in trade,” the ghost answered, “was spy craft. My superior sent me on a secret mission to Barovia late in the war, to find out about certain troop movements. I speak perfect Barovian, and I wore this enemy uniform, so I wouldn’t be detected. But someone betrayed me. They captured me, tortured me, and summarily put me before a firing squad. Shot to death. I think you’ll find five bullet holes in my chest. And, of course, I’m doomed to wear these blasted enemy rags through all of eternity. What I’d give to have died in a nice tuxedo or even a tweed hunting jacket.”
“So what will be happening when we get to Higgsmarket?” Johnny asked, eager to get off the topic of gentlemen’s attire.
“We’ll meet up with your official guide. Goes by the name of Marko. He comes highly recommended, I’m told. He’ll want to brief you on his strategy for guiding you through hostile country. Remember, you’re under instructions to only observe and report.”
Johnny was anxious and apprehensive about working with this new guy. He and Nina would have to depend on him to keep them safe during the mission. He sure hoped that Marko knew his stuff.
“You can enjoy a little sight-seeing in Higgsmarket and get a good night’s sleep,” Rex continued. “Then tomorrow morning we’ll head down to the rail yard to board old Sal.”
“What’s Sal like?” Johnny asked.
Rex looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Best that you wait and see.”
* * *
Back in Royalton, people had seemed oblivious to the crisis in the north. But in Higgsmarket, Johnny sensed an air of nervousness. People rushed up and down the sidewalks. Johnny didn’t see very many smiles, just grim and wary looks. He caught snatches of conversations as he and Nina walked along.
“… have enough water and food for a week…”
“… sending the young ’uns to Gran’s in the south…”
“… don’t think they’re telling us everything…”
When they walked by a grocery store, Johnny was shocked to see that most of the shelves had been stripped nearly bare. This is what people did when they were facing natural disasters and other emergencies. Stock up on food and additional supplies. And there seemed to be a lot of soldiers and police officers about.
Johnny took a few pictures of the main shopping street, and caught a glowering look from a policewoman directing traffic at a busy intersection. No, things definitely did not seem normal in Higgsmarket.
In the teashop where Johnny and Nina had lunch—delicious little sandwiches of ham and deviled eggs—Johnny asked the waitress why everyone seemed so jumpy. He was anxious to hear what the locals knew.
“Well, m’dear,” the rosy-cheeked woman said, “you’d be jumpy too, with that business in MacFreithshire being so close. Lots of people think that whatever is happening up there might be more than gangsters run amok.”
“What do you mean?” Johnny asked.
“My sister Agnes lives near Chippington and her letter said that those that’ve seen the hooligans say they don’t look human. Brown as mahogany, they are. Odd of figure. Terrible strong.”
The waitress patted Nina’s hand. “Not that there’s anything wrong with dark skin, m’dear. But their skin isn’t soft and pretty like yours. It’s leathery and unnatural. And what kind of monsters take children, yet ask for no ransom. There’s more here than meets the eye, if you ask old Stella.”
“I wish we could tell her what we know,” Nina whispered, just before the dessert tray arrived, loaded with small pieces of cake.
“I wish we could too, Sparks,” Johnny said. “But telling her about Percy and the zombies would only make matters worse.”
As Nina wrote down some notes for their first story in her narrow reporter’s tablet, Johnny placed his camera bag down on the floor next to his stool. He told her some of the things that she might want to jot down, and she shared her thoughts.
The two friends were sitting at the counter with their back to the door. Johnny sipped on his cup of tea and nibbled on his chocolate cake, thinking about what a huge scoop their articles and photos would be—once publication was allowed. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if their stories won some big awards. Though he didn’t brag about it, Johnny was awfully proud of winning the Clarion’s Newshawk award at the end of last year. He could make a habit of something like that.
He was daydreaming about future accolades, with a goofy grin on his face, when the rosy-cheeked waitress came out of the kitchen. Her jovial face suddenly transformed into a mask of outrage.
“You there!” she barked, looking right between Nina and Johnny. “Out! Or I’ll have the police on you!”
Johnny twisted violently around, nearly falling off his stool.
There, facing him in a half-crouch, was a boy about his own age, with wild, shaggy blond hair and a grimy face.
The
two of them briefly made eye contact—both equally startled.
The boy took a few steps backward, then turned and bolted out the teashop door.
With Johnny’s camera bag in his left hand!
Chapter 12
Johnny heard Nina shout his name as he scrambled out of the teashop onto the crowded sidewalk. He almost lost sight of the blond-haired boy. But he could tell that the miserable young camera thief had darted to the right. Pedestrians howled their disapproval as the bandit bulled his way through the crowd.
“You there, stop!” someone shouted.
“Hooligan!” a woman screeched.
“Blasted scoundrel!” cried a well-dressed businessman.
As Johnny plowed after the robber, he collected a few scolding words of his own, even as he repeated, “Sorry… Sorry… Sorry.”
It wasn’t easy getting through the crowd. But when he arrived at the first intersection, about a hundred yards from the teashop, Johnny could see that, up ahead, no one was being shoved or budged. No one was shouting at a rude boy. The thief must have gone either right or left.
Johnny peered to the left, across the main street, but saw no one running away up that avenue. Then he swiveled to the right, and just barely saw the blond-haired boy vanish around a curve in the road. He set off after him, knees high, feet pounding the decrepit sidewalk. As he blasted around the curve, he saw his quarry receding in the distance.
This kid is a lot faster than me, Johnny thought, as he dashed along. But I’ve got to catch him or I’ll lose my camera.
Just then, he heard the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, then a few shouted words: “Master Johnny, climb on board!”
It was the colonel and Buck!
Johnny, completely out of breath, nodded and took the colonel’s hand. The old ghost soldier hauled him up into the saddle and told him to hang on.
And off they galloped, just in time to see the blond-haired boy cut down an alley. A few seconds later they arrived at the same spot, which was the entrance to an arcade. The colonel headed Buck into the arched passageway.
