Chapter 24

Wednesday, February 5, 1936

MacFreithshire

 

Everyone was up by six the next morning, ready to roll.

One by one, they followed Centurion Quintus through heavy fog and brambly woods. He warned them to keep very quiet, in case the zombies had scouts in the area.

But Johnny was preoccupied with something else. He was worried that the fog would prevent him from getting good photos of the bog zombie camp.

Of course, he had to stay out of sight. He didn’t want to repeat the disaster back at the train wreck, when his flashbulb attracted a zombie attack.

Johnny couldn’t help but think that he might be the first and only photographer to capture these scenes. He could just imagine Mr. Cargill’s reaction—especially when the Zenith Clarion scooped all the newspapers in the whole world.

His daydream of journalistic glory was interrupted by a whispered command from Quintus: “Down on the ground, all of you! Low as you can get!”

The Imperial officer’s voice carried a tone that made Johnny instantly obey. Since Nina couldn’t hear Quintus, and couldn’t read his lips without her goggles on, Johnny had to grab her and pull her down. Everyone else hit the dirt, too. And just in time.

Because not thirty feet beyond them, there came a pair of bog zombies hustling their way through the undergrowth. If the creatures happened to look off to their left, they almost certainly would see Johnny and his companions—even with everyone on the damp, mildewy ground.

Johnny held his breath as the zombies vanished behind some trees. He realized he had gotten so close to the ground that he had some of the forest dirt and dried leaves in his mouth. But instead of spitting them out and wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve, he waited until he thought it perfectly safe. Better to eat crud than make any noise.

Slowly, Quintus rose from his hiding place beneath the soil. “All right, we are in the clear. Come along now.”

Within ten minutes they were lying prone on a heavily wooded hill that overlooked what must have been a large farmyard. Johnny could see the foundations of several structures that had been destroyed or torn down. Two barn-like buildings were intact, however, and there was a large pen packed with hogs, oinking and squealing away. And in the distance, behind a screen of stately elms, stood a hulking old country mansion. The real estate, in itself, wasn’t that remarkable. It was what was going on there that set Johnny’s pulse zooming. He scanned back and forth with Nina’s binoculars.

There were scores, if not hundreds, of bog zombies and ghosts milling around, standing in clumps, coming in and out of many tents. Their coalesced voices made a sort of grating rumble and nagging hiss in the air. Johnny spotted a troop of Steppe Warrior ghosts at the far end of the big farmyard. One of them was Burilgi, for sure. That eyeless mug was unmistakable. Johnny shifted the binoculars slightly to the left and gasped. There stood Checheg, the one-armed girl warrior.

How about that? he thought, his spine tingling. The gang’s all here.

Johnny had to get a shot of this incredible scene. He rolled on his side and began to extract the Ritterflex from his camera bag. But before he could even open the viewfinder, someone slapped his hands and camera down into the dirt.

“Not now,” Marko growled. “You’ll have to show yourself over this ridge to get your shot. If just one of those zombies or ghosts happens to be looking this way, we’re all goners.”

“I wasn’t gonna stand up,” Johnny whispered angrily. If Marko had damaged his camera, that would be the final straw.

The others watched the confrontation in silence, looking a little alarmed.

“Listen, Johnny. I know you have to take risks to do your work. But you could get the rest of us killed, too. Like you nearly did after the train wreck.”

Just last night, Johnny had thought that he and Marko were starting to get along better. But now the guy was on his case again.

Johnny was preparing to throw some choice words back in Marko’s face. But then he caught sight of Nina shaking her head at him, scowling. He knew that look: Don’t do it, she was saying. Don’t be stupid. Wrong place, wrong time.

He took a couple of deep breaths and glared at Marko. “Okay. If I can’t take my shots here, then where?”

Marko nodded, as if to say, Glad you’re being sensible. He took a peek over the ridgeline. “I think over there, off to the left. You sneak down through the undergrowth and use the old farm equipment to hide behind. You get your shots, and then we all get out of here. This dump gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Johnny had to agree that Marko’s plan was a good one. But before he took his pictures, there was an important piece of business to discuss.

“Nina,” he said. “Can you locate this place on your map?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Nina answered.

“You don’t have to.” Everyone twisted around and blinked at Raj.

He had been lying behind them on his belly, chin in his hands—like a kid listening to the radio on his own living room floor. He looked a little pained, though. He had been complaining about the stubborn headache he had.

“This here is Bilbury Hall, near the village of Digginsham. Former family seat of the old Earl of Pilt. Anybody who knows west central MacFreithshire will know where it’s at.”

Iris beamed at Raj. “You, my friend, are brilliant.”

“Absolutely, mate,” Marko agreed.

“The problem,” Johnny said, “is how do we get this information back to the authorities, now that we’ve lost Rex Ward and our SGS guys?”

“And besides, we’re miles from anywhere,” Nina said. “It’d take a couple of days to even hike back to Chippington.”

“But what other choice do we have?” Iris asked.

“I’ll go.”

They all looked at Raj again.

“I can fly back to Higgsmarket in a few hours, if I don’t get lost in the fog. Then I’ll just hunt around until I find the right blokes to tell. Maybe Captain Ward’s back there already.”

Petunia looked as if she was about to cry. “But you’re my best friend, Raj. You can’t go!”

“Don’t you worry, Pet. I promise I’ll be back before you know it.”

Johnny knew Raj’s idea was the best option that they had. “I think Raj is absolutely right. He should leave immediately. The sooner we get word through to the authorities, the better.”

Marko nodded. “Agreed. Finding this lot of zombies is why we came. Be a waste not to finish the job proper.”

With a few words of farewell, Raj slipped away down the hill, into patches of fog and out of sight. Johnny supposed he would soon be flying hundreds of feet up in the air.

Marko rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Now let’s get Mr. Graphic his newspaper photographs.”

* * *

 

While the others lay hidden twenty or thirty feet to the rear in the weeds and brambles, Johnny crept forward until he was underneath a giant, rusting steam tractor. Quintus had come, too. They were partly hidden in yet more nasty weeds and thistles. Johnny had never, ever worn filthier clothes than these. He could hardly wait to get out of them and into a nice, hot bath. But that might be a while yet.

From his vantage point under the tractor—right beneath the boiler and next to one of the giant iron wheels—Johnny could see zombies and ghosts milling around. It was a good spot to shoot from.

Quintus made one of his grumbling sounds. “If I only had my century here with us, we would make short work of this mangy Eldurian mob.”

“Your what?” Johnny whispered. What was the wraith talking about? His century?

“My hundred men true and strong.”

Of course! Johnny thought. He’s not talking about a hundred years. Quintus was a centurion. Made sense that his unit would be called a century.

“The finest troop in the whole Ninth Legion,” the ghost continued. “None fiercer, none braver. The Eldurians took us only with overwhelming numbers, and then by ambush. Five hundred against one hundred.”

Now that sounded like a story Johnny wanted to hear. But first he had to get his shots. He flipped open the Ritterflex’s viewfinder, peered through it, and focused to infinity. He pushed his index finger against the shutter button. Click. Then came whiz-snap, as he rotated the lever on the side of the camera forward to advance the film, then backward to cock the shutter. Johnny repeated the process three times.

Just as he was closing the viewfinder, he saw something appalling out in that farmyard of horror.

A group of zombies and ghosts was herding six kids across the open space. Those boys and girls looked awful—dirty, hungry, scared out of their wits. They were being pushed and prodded toward one of the barns. They were shoved inside through an open door, and Johnny heard more kids screaming from inside.

So that’s where they’re keeping them!

There was still no telling why the zombies wanted kids. Johnny was betting it wasn’t to make meat pies. And it didn’t make sense to kill them and zombify them. They were too small to make good fighters. What could the reason be?

Whatever it was, wouldn’t it be great to spring all those kids and get them out of there? An idea began to form in Johnny’s head, a totally nutty idea that he hoped the others might like as much as he did.

Out of nowhere, Johnny heard a girl yelp in shock and surprise. As he turned around to look, he bonked his head on the bottom of the steam tractor’s boiler. Stars formed before his eyes, and through them he saw his worst nightmare coming true.

A bog zombie.

Charging through the undergrowth, heading toward the farmyard.

With Nina Bain squirming and screaming under its right arm.