Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (2 page)

“The practice is quiet,” said I, “and I have an accommodating neighbour. I should be glad to come.”
“And to start tomorrow morning?”
“If necessary.”
“Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe. Now listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria tonight. In the morning you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the first nor the second which may present itself. Into this hansom you will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it away. Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops dash through the Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a quarter past nine. You will find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Into this you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the Continental express.”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“At the station. The second first-class carriage from the front will be reserved for us.”
“The carriage is our rendezvous, then?”
“Yes.”
The door abruptly rung with an obnoxious and heavy handed tone, clearly made by an uncivilised and crude being. Holmes looked at me, evidently suspecting more than a casual evening call. Not believing more attacks could be made in one day than had already been, nor in my presence, I strode to the door and opened it. It occurred to me after I had already turned the door handle that whilst walking to the door I had heard Holmes rising and drawing his Webley, a sign that should have led me to greater caution.
As I turned the handle and began to pull it backwards, the door was struck with great force, crashing the edge in to my head and sending me barrelling to the floor. Slightly dazed and with the uncomfortable feeling of a blood trickle beginning to run down my face, I looked upwards at the door. Before me stood four men, rough and primitive looking, with murder in their eyes, and yet, unarmed.
Before I could react, gunshots rang out from above me, the reassuring sound of someone coming to my aid. We rarely fired a gun in this line of work, Holmes must consider these men of the utmost danger. The gunpowder residue wafted overhead from the three shots he had already fired into the first assailant. Holmes was an especially average shot, but at this range that mattered little. The strong sound of .450 Adams rounds being belted out of Holmes’ Webley Bulldog slammed into the first man, a stout but punchy piece.
These men had fired no shots and bore no weapons, but clearly meant us serious harm, that much Holmes was clearly certain of. His first shot cleanly struck the man in the chest, but his second, resulting from the recoil and double action pull lifted, effecting the grouping in such an amateur fashion, striking the side of the man’s neck, and going straight through, hitting the man behind him in the right arm. The third shot hit the attacker just off centre in the forehead, sending the man tumbling to the ground in a completely lifeless manner.
The aggressive defence and threat of firearms clearly meant nothing to the further aggressors, who merely kept driving forward over the body of their comrade. I drew my gun from its shoulder holster, a Beaumont Adams, converted to the same .450 Adams calibre that Holmes favoured. Still lying flat on my back I took aim at the man coming right at me, I fired two shots to the chest, neither stopped the man for a second, I fired three more shots in the centre of the man, each striking solidly with a clean grouping. He stumbled back, and yet seemed to feel no pain or be particularly effected in anyway.
Shocked and in fear I stumbled to my feet and withdrew across the room, two more shots rang out from Holmes’ gun, one hitting the same attacker in the shoulder, the other missing, it had no effect. Both of us now out of ammunition, I ran for the gun cabinet, seeing Holmes reach for the nearest object, a stoker from the fireplace. I had a great degree of respect for Holmes’ fighting abilities with his hands and various other tools, but these were nothing like opponents we had previously faced.
Grasping the stoker in two hands, Holmes struck with force against the very same man I had shot five times, he first struck the collar bone, knocking the assailant’s stature slightly and clearly incapacitating he left arm, though no pain seemed to ensue.
I ripped the cabinet open, taking up my recently purchased rifle, a wonder I now was pleased to have purchased just a few months before, an 1881 model Marlin under lever rifle, kept for this very type of situation which I had hoped to never face but prepared for anyway. The 45-70 was expensive and difficult to come by here in England, but a fact I was willing to accept for such a fine piece of equipment.
I snatched up a box of cartridges from the shelf in the cabinet but in the heat of the moment spilt its contents across the floor. Picking up shells as quickly as I could I began loading in the rounds, but time was too short to load its full capacity of ten. As I got three rounds into the rifle I reached for the lever, Holmes could not wait any longer, with the reassuring course ratchet sound of it clicking forward and back I took aim at the third ruffian.
These thugs were clearly dosed heavily with something which had created the rage filled, pain free aggression state that they were in. That second attacker may well die in a few hours of blood loss, but that was too long to wait. At a distance of just three feet I took aim at the third man’s heart and squeezed the trigger, smoke filled half the room and the both pungent and yet rather satisfying sulphur smell of black powder dominated the small space. The bullet struck the man dead, causing his body to twist ninety degrees. The shirt on his back was spattered with blood, but the bullet had not left his body, the bulge of what was evidently part of his spine now protruding from his back and pressing against his shirt was an unpleasant site, but no worse than I had seen many times in the service of Her Majesty.
Despite his injuries the mangled man still stumbled towards me with what were clearly his last minutes or seconds of life, I didn’t fancy risking being struck with the last of his strength nor having personal contact with the savage ruffian. I racked the lever and raised the muzzle of the Marlin just a little higher and let off a second round between his eyes. This time the bullet went clean through, the exit wound showering blood and brain matter across the floor whilst the bullet imbedded in the door, my opponent toppled like lumber to the dirt.
I looked over at Holmes who had clearly knocked his opponent to his knees, the man’s right leg crooked from a break, with a powerful two handed strike Holmes hammered down towards his head, though the assailant lifted his hand, either in defence or to reach for Holmes. The stoker struck the thug’s forearm smashing it to the ground and before he could recover Holmes quickly
delivered an equally hard stroke to the left side of the skull. A gaping hole opened as the skull cracked and split, the eyes immediately became lifeless and his body slumping to the floor.
I turned to my right side where the fourth and final assailant was coming at me, just as strong as the others; morale clearly meant nothing to these men. Holmes being the other side of the room threw the stoker at the man to slow him down, just as I was taking aim with the Marlin. I fired as it struck the man across the head, causing him to shift slightly and avoid my last bullet. The beast was now upon me, throwing me straight to the ground, I held him upwards and away from me with my rifle. He was strong and I could do nothing but keep him at arm’s length.
A familiar metal on metal contact rang out from my left hand side, the sound of my service sword being drawn, Holmes ran across the room with it like a charging cavalryman and in one full horizontal slash took the man’s head clean off. The head flew across the room and blood spurted across the floor to my side, a truly unpleasant site. I pushed the body to my side as Holmes’ hand was offered to assist me up. The bloodied sword still in his right hand, my 1845 pattern infantry officer’s sword, a lovely brass hilted weapon that I had kept in its dress scabbard on the wall since ’80. The thick blood trickled down the etched and blued blade, a tragedy for such a well kept piece, who’s blade read “In Arduis Fidelius” Steadfast in Adversity; it lived up to its promise.
We both stood in shock now that the events had caught up in our minds and looked silently around at the bloodshed which surrounded us in what was, just minutes earlier, a perfectly kept and clean, relaxed and comfortable room. The mangled bodies now lay lifeless from here to the door, blood trickling along the floor. Holmes knelt beside the closest body and inspected it closely. He opened the jacket of the man looking for a purse or anything else which might give some idea of his identity or purpose, but there was nothing. I looked closer at the remains myself, but something struck me as odd, the faces of all were heavily textured and worn, as if they were much older than the bodies that carried them. Holmes knelt down closer to the body of one, scrutinising it. For a number of minutes he looked over the body with intrigue as much as surprise.
“Most peculiar, heavily wrinkled skin on younger bodies, congealed blood around their mouth and jaw, the eyes are glaringly bright and red,” said Holmes.
“What does this mean?” I asked.
“These were Moriarty’s villains,” said Holmes.
Yet no man would fight with that form of unforgiving devotion to his master, nor fight through such pain and injury. I had many times seen the results of the bravest men of the British Army sustain gunshot wounds and few were able to keep up that sort of fight.
“These were no ordinary villains,” I said.
“In my research over the last week I discovered peculiar attentions that Mr. Moriarty was making in to either science or the occult, or rather both. I know that his attentions to Switzerland have been more and more common of late and that must have some significance,” he said.
“What do you expect to discover?” I asked.
“When you have one of the first brains of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his beck and call, there are infinite possibilities.”
“Hence the impeding journey,” I quickly replied.
“No doubt, I suspected that evidence of the sort, to not only arrest but have Moriarty hanged, would exist in whatever practices he may be partaking in, somewhere in that land.”
“And yet it is a large country to look,” I both thought and said.
“The exact location of Moriarty’s dealings or practices will soon be revealed once he believes I am en route towards them, a simple bluff may be all that is needed to give his final secret away,” Holmes replied in his characteristic and calculating fashion.
“Using us as bait to destroy him?”
“Indeed my dear friend, I am a marked man for as long as this villain lives freely, and clearly the risk to our countryman now extends beyond organised crime. Whatever we just faced was a new kind of enemy, the likes this fine country has never seen. The hour is late and I must have time alone to fully understand and calculate the impending struggle. A war could be on our hands within days, Moriarty already believes us to be dead, and will not know otherwise till the morrow. Let us take this advantage to leave for Switzerland, threatening his very plan at the core while we can,” Holmes replied.
Despite Holmes’ urgency to leave my home, we both now took a short rest, propping a chair back upright from where it had fallen during the fight. Holmes took out another cigarette and offered one to me, I couldn’t say no. It was a strange thing, to relax in one’s own beaten home before the bodies and bloodshed. I should imagine this was the sort of calm in between the storm that the defenders of a besieged castle might feel amidst the many months of hardship, surrounded by the blood and death of your foe within your own demolished walls.
It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening, or call for the support of the police, for as he further explained, no more evidence yet existed for Moriarty’s involvement. It was evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the roof he was under, and that that was the motive which compelled him to go. With a few hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose and came out with me into the garden, clambering over the wall which leads into Mortimer Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom, in which I heard him drive away.
Now left in the peace of the night in the carnage of my own home, I again sat back down, contemplating the day’s events. I had not ever seen my friend in such a worried state, nor ever one where he fired first. As much as Holmes had uncovered already using all is cunning and wit, it was quite evident that there was still plenty that lay in the dark, a worrying fact considering the evening’s events. Holmes may have left in order to make my home safer, but it did not feel so, now having the defence of only one man rather than two, and a broken door to weaken the defences. I walked over to my sideboard and poured myself a tall whiskey in a glass that would be considered uncouth due to its size, I didn’t care. Sitting down with my drink I mulled over the best way to secure the premises to allow me as comfortable and safe a night as possible, for that time was all that mattered; because evidently from the morning on I would not return to this place for some time.
The bodies did not bother me terribly, it was nothing I hadn’t seen many times before, I merely put blankets over them and left them where they were, as there was nothing more I could do in the time I had without causing a major ruckus with my neighbours, who would be far from understanding in the short term. I would likely have many questions to answer to the police on this matter, but something told me the problem would be resolved for me, or I would not ever return to answer them. Next I had to deal with the door, it was buckled on the hinges and would no longer shut. Pushing it as tight as I could I pulled my sturdy coffee table across the room and
placed it in front of the door to give it some support and strength. This would not stop any intruders, but it would at least give me enough warning to be awake and be prepared if necessary. I was now content that the room was as well prepared as was necessary and achievable at such short notice. Walking back over to the gun cabinet which was a mess, casings scattered across its base and out across the floor and my Marlin still on the ground nearby. I reloaded the rifle, as well as my service revolver. For the first time ever, I needed everything my cabinet had to offer. Picking up a canvas roll bag I kept for carrying weapons to the country, I loaded the whole contents of the cabinet, the entirety of my collection. This gun collection was considered excessive by many, but now it felt sadly lacking. I gathered up my officer’s sword and gave it a quick wipe down before loading that also. I was now content that things were as best they could be, sleep was now the vital element needed in preparation for the following days, the events of which were barely conceivable at this time. With all luck, I would go unbothered through the night.