Despite the possibility that Katzenjammers awaited her outside, Lightning determined that her best course was to scurry to the nearest air-raid shelter, and so she held Eddie’s bomber jacket over her head to shield herself from falling debris. However, there were skirmishes in the street, and as the falling bombs hit, the windows of the shops exploded; Lightning quickly put on the jacket, the better to protect herself as she ran for cover.
A moment here, as we caution you, Gentle Reader: This is indeed a ghost story, and there may those among you for whom this tale is too oversetting. If so, please move on to lighter fare, as we are determined not to shirk our duty in the presentation of this story.
For in the very moment Lightning put on the jacket, she found herself seated in a Sopwith Camel, directly behind her forebear, Edam Merriemouse-Jones himself! Like him, she wore the attire of a bomber pilot, complete with goggles and a silken scarf wound ’round her neck. The synchronized twin-mounted Vickers were rat-a-tatting at an enemy plane, and Lightning ducked down to avoid a return volley.
Forthwith, the Sopwith shot up into the clouds. The enemy plane did not follow. And there, Eddie turned round, saw Lightning, and looked quite pale and astonished.
He said, “How came you here, and who on earth are you?”
“No one on earth,” Lightning replied, a bit sassily, despite her own astonishment (for she was, indeed, an intrepid adventuress and given to quick-wittedness even in the most perilous of circumstances). “If you are Edam Merriemouse-Jones, then I am Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, your relative.” And she proceeded to describe how it was in London, and how she had come across his jacket.
As they flew through the gray mist, he shook his head and said, “Then it is true, and I have known it for some time, though I could scarce accept it: I am a ghost, and I have cursed myself for all time. Alas! For I swore I would kill Orloff von Limburger, but he is dead already!”
“I beg your pardon?” Lightning asked.
Gnashing his teeth, Eddie explained, “On July 6, 1917, von Limburger was shot through the head, and I and many others believed he had died. But he came back to the skies-much changed-and rumors spread that his evil masters had taken his body and performed blasphemous rites over it, creating the ghostly apparition that continued to mow down the valiant and the true! When I felled that mouse who resembled him, I wondered at the time if it was some ruse to throw us off his scent, but I did not dream that he had become a monstrous, undead killing machine.”
He regarded young Lightning. “That you are here, in my jacket, tells me that my vow to kill him is impossible to keep, and thus I am doomed to fly throughout eternity, fighting a war that will never end.”
Lightning was very sorry, both for himself and for her own sake, and she wondered aloud if she, too, had perished-in her case, during the most recent wave of the Blitz.
“What do you speak of?” he asked her, and as she proceeded to explain that England was again at war, he gnashed his teeth once more and raised his paws to heaven.
“Why do you misuse us so unfairly?” he cried. “How is it that British mousedom is so cruelly tormented throughout the decades of this century? Why were our trials not brought to an end on July 6, 1917?”
As Lightning bore witness to his anguish, his words caught her attention: for she remembered in that instant that 070617 were the numbers on the mysterious black aeroplane that led the bombing runs on England!
She cried out, “Mr Edam, I have had a startling revelation!” And she described to him the strange registration number on the black aeroplane.
“It is the date when von Limburger was killed!” she concluded. “And you swore to defeat him upon the lives of yourself and your descendants-and I am here!” Her beady eyes shone.
“I believe I have been sent to help you defeat the Bloody Rat Baron, once and for all!”
As soon as Lightning uttered those words, a tremendous mist rose around the Sopwith Camel, followed by a ferocious thunderclap. She covered her ears with her paws and shut tight her eyes… and when she opened them again, she found herself in the front seat of the Sopwith Camel, quite alone… approximately ten thousand feet above the ghastly catillion of Katzie bombers unleashing yet another barrage of bombs over London. And there, at the head of the flotilla, flew the black plane numbered 070617-the plane of the ghastly von Limburger!
“Edam Merriemouse-Jones!” she cried, looking about. “Where are you? What shall I do?”
Then she tingled from head to toe as if she had been struck by, well, lightning-as if volt upon volt ripped through her slender, dainty frame. The brown leather bomber jacket crackled, energizing her and guiding her in her ensuing actions: she pushed the Sopwith down into a death spiral, aiming it directly for the black aeroplane!
“For Crown and Country!” cried the voice of Edam Merriemouse-Jones, deep within Lightning’s being. “It will take a ghost to kill a ghost. Though it may mean your own life, are you with me, young lass?”
“Yes! Indeed!” Lightning cried. “I am!”
Her entire being filled with fursome terror and ecstatic joy as she allowed her relation full use of her limbs and faculties, preparing to dive-bomb into the black-cloaked plane of Orloff von Limburger.
The Sopwith Camel shuddered and whined as it hurtled through the English night. The other planes flying with von Limburger fired at her, but she and Eddie together dodged them all handily. A bullet zinged less than half an inch from Lightning’s silky cheek.
Faster she fell, faster and faster, the Sopwith Camel screaming toward its target-a bomb itself now, racing to smash into the enemy!
Lightning prayed, and she thought of her dear Mama and Papa, and the Summerfield family, and of dear Quincy, who had never understood why she could not be settled. She kept her eyes wide open so that she could witness history-and the liberation of her relative from his ghostly torment!
“Eek! Eeek! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!…” she squeaked, while flames blazed on the wings of her plane as she dive-bombed toward von Limburger’s deathly craft.
IMPACT!
And before she could add the “k” to her final eek, Lightning Merriemouse-Jones stood before the graceful white gates billowing with mist and listened to the exquisite soprano chorus…
… when suddenly, the purplish-green taxi pulled up beside her, and the passenger door opened. [7]
REVOLUTION: NUMBER 9 by Judi Rohrig
Not far from where Rose crouched in the dark, the leafy limbs of the thick bushes and low trees of the woods surrendered to harried chopping and hacking. The Bachyrita posse was in a fevered frenzy now, closing in fast.
Rose tried not to breathe, but her chest swelled and sank in ways she couldn’t control after all the running. And even if she were able to stop her desperate gasping, surely the rataplanning of her heart would betray her. Not that her pursuers would “hear” the palpitations. The Bachyritas’ BrainPods® would “see” her, though. That’s why their posses were known as “pit vipers,” because they could pick up her body heat through their sensors. Neither the dark nor the thick growth of the woods would offer Rose much in the way of cover from these snakes.
Here in the darkness, they would hold the advantage even if they hadn’t dragged a Franklin along.
Rose lifted her head, squinting, begging the dim light to make meaning of the shadows. She’d been through this area before, and if she could just get to the river, she could connect with those still fighting for something that mattered.
But the knots in her deltoids and calves were screaming their exhaustion. She’d be lucky if she could even make it to the river. Forget getting across the damned thing.