Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (18 page)

I strove forward towards the first creature, and without stopping took a perfect horizontal slash to its head, removing it in one, gladly remembering why I chose this sword above all else. The second reached for me and I parried its arm off with a hanging parry before bringing the blade down onto its neck, cleaving deeply. The strong cutting edge of this sword meant I felt little resistance against the soft flesh of my foes. Drawing back the blade which sliced further into the spine, the beast was done. As I drew back the blade the third bore down to my side, I quickly wrenched the final part of the blade from my victim and smashed the pommel in to the thirds nose, knocking it back, it’s face already perspiring fresh blood. I swung the blade around taking its head off as I had the first.
A hand grabbed at my shoulder, twisting me around, the fourth beast was attempting to reel me in, but as it did, I crashed the knuckle bow into its face, caving in its nose, striking a third and fourth time until its face was obliterated and it dropped in a bloodied mess. The skull of the beast was fractured in multiple places, the nose bone driven up into the brain. I spun around to see the fifth reaching for me and in one cut upwards to its arm, removed it below the elbow, blood gushed from its wound but it kept coming. Finally I brought the blade down on its skull, the heavy curved blade burrowing deeply into the centre of the skull and the force driving it to its knees.
My work here was done, time not wholly wasted. Putting my foot on the beast I prized the sword from its skull. I looked at the sword which had given such fine service, the edge was now chipped and burred, the blood of several days work was eating at the metal, but it had done me proud. It was time to continue on my journey, I had at least cleared a path for myself and reduced the threat to the inn. The path of destruction I had just created went some way to reducing the anger I felt.
I now faced a forced march situation, but without the discipline and combined strength of an army, I had to rely only on my own will to drive me forwards. With my blood running hot and temper equally as highly strung, it was frustrating to now have to toil on along a path I had already walked once. I had left many friends behind on this journey, both old and new, and now I had been parted from Holmes, my only hope lay in the knowledge of his capable nature. I knew in my heart that he would ultimately triumph, the only question was at what expense.

I made for the path which I had so lately descended. It had taken me an hour to come down. For all my efforts two more had passed before I found myself at the falls of Reichenbach once more. The trip had been a dreadful one, emotionally. Having spent an hour climbing down, at least one fighting and now two back up, I was more than concerned for Holmes. A lot can happen in four hours, and I truly had no idea what to expect. It was rather unlikely I would stumble upon a fight, as it would have either already happened and been over by now or not at all, a fortunate fact considering my ammunition situation, but none the more comforting.

Along the hard journey I could only wonder about the possible outcomes of this whole situation. Would ending Moriarty finish the beasts off? As a doctor I could not see how, he seemed to have released a disease upon the world. It would however stop him creating and controlling more, as well as any other wicked deeds he would inevitably pursue. This would mean that no matter the outcome of the day, we could well be fighting for many months to come, if we could survive at all. None of it mattered though, Moriarty had to be stopped, and that was the only important element now.

Half way along my journey back to the falls I saw a boy, it was Peter’s son heading towards me. I had not expected him to be returning this way, back to the besieged town, why had he left Holmes?

“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Mr Wilkinson told me to go back to the inn, sir.” The boy spoke good English, as his father did, but he

also confirmed my worst fears. Moriarty and Holmes were in the same location, and that could only end in some kind of battle. I had faith in Holmes’ intelligence and skills as a fighter, but I also now fully understood Moriarty’s wickedness and capability to pursue evil.

“Where is Holmes?” I insisted.
“I do not know sir, he told me to keep back from the waterfall, and I did, but he vanished up towards to edge, and I waited for him, but he never returned, and then Mr. Wilkinson came along and told me to return to my father.”
“Thank you my boy, the town is a fearful mess, but it is still probably the safest place for you providing you can get back to your father. Do you know how to get back into the upper floor of the inn?”
“Yes sir, I have climbed it many times,” he replied.
“Good, then do so, avoid contact with any people until you can get in to be with your father.”
“Ok, sir.”
“Good lad.”
The boy hurried off towards the town with an immense amount of energy, the likes of which I only wished I could now possess. I continued with my journey, now more weary than before, as there was a chance I could stumble upon the villain himself.
As I approached the falls I noticed two men walking away from the place where I had last seen Holmes. I froze, not expecting to see anyone at this time and place, other than Holmes of course, and praying not to see sign of that villain Moriarty. I squinted to try and see and establish whether they were humans or zombis. They appeared cleaner than zombis, but dirtier than any gentleman should look, a fact I was all to aware of with my own attire. The men spotted me and stopped, as surprised as me, this was a concern, because only those expecting a fight would be so concerned to see another man.
The two men were tall and strong, though fairly simple. Their expressions and body posture suggested they were men who relied on the strength and physical prowess as a job, these were not sightseers. The two looked me up and down and then at each other, my face evidently not familiar, but my blood and dirt stained clothes catching their attention. My sword was in plain view for them to see, giving no false pretences to my purpose, though my Adams guns remained hidden to them beneath my jacket.
Peter had described men just like these to be carers for Moriarty, and it would seem only logical that those two men would be in this time and place. We stared at each other for an age, neither totally sure of the other’s purpose or intentions, but equally as wary of each other. I slowed my breathing, for my heart was already running too quickly. Only a guilty man would make a snap decision or jerk reaction here, and I would therefore not be the first to act. I could see that both carried weapons beneath their coats from the way the garments stuck out ever so slightly from their bodies. Still, at a time like this, no man should be without a gun. However, only a guilty man would draw that weapon upon another. Finally the one’s arm snapped quickly across his body under the pocket of his coat, the action of only a man drawing a weapon would cause.
Before waiting to see what the man drew from his jacket, I pulled both Adam’s guns from there holsters and fired two rounds from each gun as quickly as the guns were horizontal. I would never have shot first in this situation before the events of the last few days, but killing was now as natural to me as eating, with self-preservation being the order of the day. These men meant me harm, through no fault of my own, my life was now more important than any others, except perhaps Holmes, for our task was too great.
Walking up to the men, I had hit both in the chest with both rounds, they lay bleeding to death, wriggling in pain. These were without a doubt Moriarty’s villains, for no other men would have gone for a gun before asking my purpose. Knowing what would soon become of these henchmen, I aimed at the first’s head and fired, his moans were immediately silenced, whereby I turned my other gun on the second and brought him to the same fate. Never would I choose this manner to deal with the wounded, but these men could not survive, at best they could hope to get infected somehow and return from the dead. These men were also part of Moriarty’s wicked deeds, any knowledge died with them, a service I gladly accorded to the world.
After what felt like an age I finally got back to the point where I had left Holmes at the narrow path of the fall. There was Holmes’s Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.
It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick. He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then. He had remained on that three foot path, with the wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until his enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss boy had gone too. And then what had happened? Who was to tell us what had happened then?
I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed with the horror of the thing. Aside from the crashing of water upon the basin and rocks, the valley was silent, a awful position to be in with vital questions left unanswered, perhaps killing those brutes was a tad premature.
What truly hit me like a train at this time was how little I now had left in the world. My offices were demolished, the clothes I wore ruined, my weapon collection mostly missing, my friends left for dead or missing and my ammunition almost non-existent. Doubt and despair were truly settling in for the first time, as my mission appeared to have reached an end, but without a conclusion. Thinking back of England, I wondered if the country had even been able to suppress the zombi hordes.
England had overcome all odds for hundreds of years, if Bonaparte was found wanting, perhaps the might of the country would once again triumph.
My mind was wandering, but it served no purpose. I left the trance and came back to reality. I could not leave this place without answers. Then I began to think of Holmes’ own methods and tried to practise them in reading this tragedy. It was, alas, only too easy to do.
During our conversation we had not gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where we had stood. The blackish soil was kept forever soft by the incessant drift of spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it. Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the farther end of the path, both leading away from me. There were none returning. A few yards from the end the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of mud, and the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and bedraggled. I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had darkened since I left, and now I could only see here and there the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only the same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my ears.
But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of greeting from my friend and comrade. I have said that his Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which jutted on to the path. From the top of this bolder the gleam of something bright caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came from the silver cigarette case which he used to carry. As I took it up a small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered down on to the ground. Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages torn from his notebook and addressed to me. It was characteristic of the man that the direction was a precise, and the writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in his study.
My dear Watson [it said], I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.
Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax or diversion, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M, done up in a blue envelope and inscribed “Moriarty”, it will now provide enough information to ensure this wickedness is never again seen on civilised soil. I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,
Very sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes

Looking up from the letter, out at the black dirt, a most odd foot print caught my attention. Just half a print was visible, a huge boulder resting in part where the other half would have been. It would not be possible for a shoe to flex this much to enable a print to be left so clearly with a rock so nearby. I studied the spot intensely, as it made no sense, there was no logical way that the print could have been made in that fashion, and upon this Holmes’ very words struck me like a punch in the face.

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

As ever, Holmes was right. The rock had evidently been in this place for a long time, but the print was made just hours before. Therefore, this huge boulder must have moved, but not accidentally. Looking up around the rock face for some form of information or evidence to pursue my theory, I could see wet dirt on a small part of the rock, in a place that only a human could have made so in a deliberate fashion.

Touching the rock, it had a slight play in it, but wiggling it did nothing, until finally I pushed. The small rock repressed in on itself to my surprise, and the larger bolder next to it shifted and swung back, presenting an entrance. This was a most surprising experience, but one Holmes had clearly found for himself and left markings for me to do so also. This type of secret chamber could only be made out of the necessity of hiding wicked and evil things, for no upstanding citizen would have need of such trickery.