Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb
Read Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb Online
Authors: D. R. Martin
Tags: #(v5), #Juvenile, #Detective, #Fantasy, #Magic, #Supernatural, #Mystery, #Horror, #Steampunk
JOHNNY GRAPHIC AND THE ETHERIC BOMB
An action-filled, 1930s ghost adventure for middle-grade readers. (And anyone else who enjoys a spirited yarn!)
All that Johnny Graphic ever wanted was to be a star news photographer. But the story that puts the twelve-year-old and his big sister on the front page could well come with a horrible headline:
BOY LENSMAN MURDERED BY GHOSTS!
The year is 1935 and in Johnny’s world spooks are very,
very
real. Most wraiths are friendly to the living. Some of them even have jobs. But a few ancient ghost assassins are on the warpath, out to kill Johnny’s sister Melanie—for reasons the kids don’t even begin to understand.
The two siblings have to unravel a deadly ghost conspiracy that reaches around the globe and threatens the lives of millions.
Or die trying!
Johnny Graphic
and the Etheric Bomb
By D. R. Martin
Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb
by D. R. Martin
Copyright © 2012 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.
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Cover Art and Design & Map © 2012 Steve Thomas
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Table of Contents
Prolog
Tuesday, October 1, 1935
Silver City, Coastal Federation
Twenty mounted ghost warriors charged through the stormy night sky. Through torrents of rain and deafening thunder. Through lightning bolts and blasts of hail.
Burilgi, their leader, rode out in front on a brown gelding. With seeping, empty eye sockets he surveyed the wrathful heavens. Many centuries dead, the wraith did not feel the chill and damp that would have pained an ordinary mortal.
After long hours pounding southward, the ghost troop soared out of the storm and into ragged clouds that reflected a salmon-colored dawn. Burilgi bent his bloody, eyeless gaze downward.
Spiderwebs of dirt roads spread out beneath him. Then came thousands of little houses on grids of streets. Automobiles belched smoke and puttered along. Farther to the south, a huge city glittered on the shore of a vast ocean.
The troop of Steppe Warriors flew in over the metropolis and scattered. Burilgi made his way to an abandoned herbalist’s shop in a part of the city where immigrants from the Jade Kingdom had settled. There he waited.
Some hours later, he heard a key snick into the lock of the shop’s front door. It swung open as he watched from his hiding place in the wall.
In stepped a tall, heavy white man—a living man—who wore a long black coat. His head was perfectly, glisteningly bald. The only hair he seemed to have was a trim white mustache. He didn’t even have eyebrows.
Fishing a flashlight out of his pocket, the man shot a beam of light around the room. Nothing was revealed but dusty display cases and cascades of cobwebs.
“Burilgi, are you here?” the man asked quietly.
The eyeless ghost emerged out of the far wall.
The very instant the bald man saw the wraith, he gasped and took a step backward. His narrow slits of eyes opened wide. He stood there stock still, except for the constant twitching of his left hand. Finally composing himself, he asked, “Are you all here?”
“All twenty.” Burilgi’s voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing on stone.
“You know your mission.”
“To exterminate the enemies of our khan. Now tell me where to find them.”
* * *
The Exquisite Pearl Temple sat on a narrow side street in Silver City’s teeming Jadetown. Burilgi entered the temple’s meditation chamber from the rear, through brick and mortar and iron, a spear in his hand. Butter lamps flickered here and there among the sculptures and tapestries.
At this late hour in the evening, only one person remained in the chamber—a thin, elderly man kneeling on a prayer rug before a large golden statue of the sacred one. He wore a shabby, wrinkled jacket of light blue, trousers of threadbare khaki, and a white shirt. A few strands of gray hair trailed across the top of his head.
“Mongke Eng,” hissed the specter.
The old man lifted his head, gingerly rose to his feet, wobbled, and turned around. He had a face very much like Burilgi’s—but without the cruelty and hatred. Mongke Eng focused his rheumy eyes on the ghost and nodded.
“Where are your guards?” snorted the specter. “I was told you would have guards.”
“None are needed,” replied Mongke Eng.
“Why not?”
“Because I am dying anyway.”
Burilgi tilted his head. “Of what?”
“Cancer. In my blood. Better to die quickly, I think.”
Burilgi couldn’t help but admire the old man. “To bravely face death at the hands of your enemy is honorable.”
“But why am I your enemy?”
“Orders from the khan.”
Mongke Eng looked astonished. “You have a new khan? A new leader? Remarkable. There has not been a khan in over three centuries.”
Burigli saw the face of the old man transform itself—from dismal acceptance of his doom to bright-eyed fascination. As if he was delighted to learn something new and wonderful, even in the very last moments of his life.
“You are from the era of Semei Khan, unless I am mistaken,” said Mongke Eng. “Circa 1220 to 1250. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“From the army of the One-Armed General? Your uniform is most distinctive. The rampant wolf that you wear on your tunic was unique among the Steppe armies. The bronze-pointed leather helmet, as well.”
The Steppe Warrior said nothing.
“Can you see without eyes?” Mongke Eng asked with sincere curiosity.
“Would I be here if I could not?”
Mongke Eng smiled at the terse reply. “What is your name?”
“Burilgi.”
The old man chuckled. “Destroyer? Your parents called you Destroyer?”
“A good name,” the ghost said. “You know why I am here.”
Mongke Eng nodded tiredly, like a man ready for a long, long sleep. “You’ve killed at least three others—and now me. Who is next?”
“Someone called Melanie Graphic.”
The old scholar shut his eyes and shook his head. “But she’s so very young.”
“She must die, too, old man. The khan has given me my orders.”
Mongke Eng was about to say something else when the spear caught him in the chest, tumbling him backward into the statue of the sacred one.
Chapter 1
Wednesday, October 2, 1935
Zenith, Plains Republic
Wearing a brown cloth cap and shabby overcoat, Johnny Graphic trudged along the north side of Superior Avenue, head down. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought.
No one noticed him. The people bustling around were far too busy chattering among themselves. If shoppers wondered about the square object in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, they didn’t say so. If they were curious about the peculiar grin that kept breaking out on his round, freckled face, they didn’t mention it. And as far as he was concerned, that was just fine. They had no idea they might be seeing his photo in tomorrow’s newspaper.
Johnny still couldn’t imagine never having to go to school again. Unless he wanted to. He’d spent a year studying hard and had passed the high school exams on his very first try. And here he was, at twelve and a half, taking photos for the
Zenith Clarion
.
He was an honest-to-goodness newspaper photographer
. The youngest ever in the history of Zenith, the second biggest city in the Plains Republic.
