Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (14 page)

The dozen or more soldiers that stood before me were fiercely finishing off what was left, driving bayonets through hearts and smashing skulls with rifle stocks. I looked around, Holmes was prizing his blade from a creature’s neck where it had struck the collar bone and driven down to sever the throat. The enemies within reach were now utterly vanquished, but peering up the road beyond, the hordes continued to bear down upon us. Holmes sheathed his sword and picked up one of the rifles lying on the ground from the fallen soldiers, picking through a body’s webbing for ammunition that he stuffed in to his jacket pockets. The men had still not spoken a word to us, but were quickly reloading their weapons.

The officer that commanded them was lying wounded in the arms of one of his men. They evidently did not know the manner in which this infection was transferred, and it would be a difficult one for them to accept. I heard the sound of Holmes’ top-break revolver clicking back into position from being loaded behind me, before he strolled past. This was not going to be a happy situation.

Reaching the dying officer, Holmes lifted his pistol to the man’s head just a few feet away and squeezed the trigger, but as he was firing one of the nearby soldiers knocked his weapon aside with their rifle, sending the round barrelling off aimlessly into the wilderness and the gun to the floor. Before Holmes could recover the man smashed the rifle into him and drove him back up to a tree.

“What do you think you are doing?” the soldier yelled.

“He will soon become one of those creatures,” Holmes replied.
“I do not believe you sir!”
“Nice to be appreciated Watson,” said Holmes.
As the man again began to speak, Holmes drove an uppercut in to the soldier’s ribs, causing him to reel back in pain Not allowing him time to recover, Holmes paced quickly forward delivering a strong right hook to the man’s jaw and sending him tumbling to the ground. Turning over on the floor the man reached for his rifle and swivelled it towards Holmes, but it was kicked from his hands before the trigger could be pulled. Holmes leapt on to the man, delivering a quick jab to his nose which dazed him. Holmes then reached for the soldier’s rifle and laid it across his throat. The rest of the soldiers were still in too much shock, considering the recent attack, our assistance and their injured officer to decide what to do.
I ran towards my friend pleading with him to stop, but before I could bring about an end to the dispute a cry of pain rang out from behind us. Releasing the man’s throat we looked around to see the recently injured officer holding onto the man who had been attending him, teeth firmly imbedded in the throat.
Taking aim with the rifle Holmes now possessed, he fired into the skull of the officer sending blood and gore splashing over his victim. The beast released its grasp on the man and fell back down to the ground, now peaceful. Two of the soldiers rushed to help the wounded man to his feet, blood poured from his wound, though the teeth had not reached his windpipe.
I reached out a hand to the man Holmes had knocked to the ground and helped him to his feet before strolling over to the new casualty with Holmes, this was becoming an all too often and uncomfortable scenario. Holmes handed the rifle back to the man who took it and ceased all hostility. Reaching the officer’s bloody body, a pool of blood was expanding from its skull, the bullet hole having ripped straight through the skull and left a large exit wound. The wounded man looked up at us, given assistance to stand by a comrade. Looking not just in pain but bedraggled and hopeless, he spoke up.
“Thank you, and sorry, that we could not trust your knowledge.”
“It could have saved your life,” replied Holmes.
“Will I face the same fate as him?” the soldier asked.
“With no doubt I am afraid,” Holmes replied.
It was hard information to accept and Holmes pulled no punches in its explanation, but it was better to explain now, so that the man could understand whilst he still had control of his body and put his affairs in order.
“How long do I have?” the soldier asked.
Holmes looked at me to carry on the conversation.
“The last incident like this, the man had just a few hours left, but it now seems it can be much less.”
“Is there no cure?”
“None that we know of, and every minute that an infected man stays among friends is another minute that he puts those friends in danger,” replied Holmes.
Yet again, Holmes did not soften the blow, but he was right. Jacob has turned within a few hours, and all of our other experiences had shown that was typical of the time between infection and change.
“Then please end me now, before I can cause any harm.”
An honourable man no doubt, not many would be as quick thinking and willing to accept death for his friends. But before either of us could answer, another soldier jumped in on the conversation, clearly having some authority among them.
“This is outrageous, I will not stand by and let you kill one of my men while he still lives, breathes and fights alongside us!” the man shouted.
“This must be done and you know it!” the wounded soldier replied.
The enraged man turned towards us now furious.
“How can we begin to trust you, when you ask to kill one of our own?”
“It is not an act I would ever choose to partake in,” I insisted.
Holmes was about to join the argument when the wounded shoulder reached down to the body of the dead officer, drew his pistol from his holster, cocked the hammer back and drove the barrel in to this mouth.
“No!” the angry man yelled.
But it was too late, a shot rang out and blood soared into the air as the man’s eyes went lifeless and his body fell to the ground on top of the dead officer. This was a terrible turn of events, far from the best way to solve the problem; these men’s morale would be heavily hit. The group fell silent, all as shocked and saddened as each other, it was not a pleasant atmosphere.
“Sirs!”
One of the men had called out to us, in light of losing their officer. We looked up at him and wondered what had been the reason for the rushed interruption at a time of silence. The man pointed along the road which we had been travelling towards and our hearts sunk further, hordes of creatures were ambling their way towards us, blocking our path. They were perhaps five hundred yards away up the road. The previously angry man looked at us, fear in his eyes and expression.
“You clearly have more experience of this new enemy than any of us, please lead us in this new battle.”
“Interlaken has fallen, but we have left comrades there in defence. We can either stand and fight here, or run, and face even greater combined odds at a later date, additionally, we two must make it to Meirengen,” said Holmes.
“Interlaken has fallen?” the man asked.
“Yes, three of our friends defend the school and its inhabitants, but we did not see or hear of any more survivors there,” said Holmes.
The soldiers all gasped in surprise.
“What were you doing out here?” I asked.
“We had heard news of attacks of some sort breaking out across the country and were ordered to gather all capable men to form a militia at Interlaken. There are many capable farmers out in these parts, we must get back there to save what is left of our families,” said the man.
“And so you shall, but first, let us fight this battle together, so we may continue on the road, and you may return to aid the school without the threat of this army behind you,” said Holmes.
“Thank you.”
“Now, gather as much ammunition as you can from your wagons and form up on me,” said Holmes.
“Yes sir.”
“Have you any more ammunition for the Gatling?” I asked.
“Yes, on the cart to the rear, I shall gather it for you.”
That was good news, it was a fine weapon and could be a godsend when facing such an enemy as this, and in such great number. We had a little time until our foe could cover the ground between us and we, as well as the men, used the time in the best way possible. Holmes and I collected up our weapons from the ground. The horses had bolted as we had not time to tie them up, but it didn’t matter anymore.
Holmes was flicking cartridges into his shotgun, an outstanding wonder of technology, whilst I reloaded my Adams revolvers. Our swords were coated in congealed blood that was causing corrosion in places, a sad reality of the urgency of our times. Cleaning would have to wait, perhaps many more days, perhaps forever, if we could not survive this nightmare. Just ten soldiers remained now as well as Holmes and myself, all of us preparing for the onslaught in the most professional manner possible. The few brave men were moving with intent, it was an honour to be among them. The previously angry soldier that had spoken to us ran to our position holding box magazines for the Gatling.
“Your ammunition, sir,” the man said.
“Thank you my man, what is your name?” I asked.
“Jacques.”
“Thank you, will you let us lead you?”
“Until this fight is over, yes.”
“Then ready your men, ensure ammunition is at the ready and bayonets remain fixed, we will be with you in just a few moments,” I replied.
The man moved off with great speed. Holmes and I moved over to the Gatling, it was no longer steaming. We wheeled it forward into a good line of sight with our foes and I locked a new magazine on top of the gun.
The soldiers around us were rushing to re-arm themselves, a rather odd thing when the enemy was at such a close distance, and yet an action which was allowed by their lack of firearms and speed. Jacques ran back to us holding two box magazines and handed them to me, it was much appreciated.
“Watson, get that gun in line and I will form the men up upon it,” said Holmes.
I moved the Gatling, it was still warm, and ran it on its wheels forward a few feet past the bodies. I ripped the empty magazine from the top of the weapon and threw it to the ground, locking in a new one.
“Form up!” Holmes barked at the men.
They were a little surprised to be shouted at by a foreign civilian, but after the display of ferocity seen before them, did not hesitate to obey.
They were just ten men, all armed with bolt action rifles, each of their shoulder ammunition bags stuffed to the brim or overflowing, a wise move. Actions were clicking as stripper clips were loaded and weapons cocked. Each man carried the same SchmidtRubin model 1889 that Cyril had so kindly given me, a fine rifle. We were now lined up, ten soldiers, bayonets still fitted, a Gatling at their flank manned by myself, and Holmes on their left flank. Holmes had not picked up his shotgun, but chosen to remain in command, perhaps to maintain the morale of the men, or perhaps because he relied on their ability to get the job done. He now stood upright and confidently, his 1853 trooper’s sword in hand and resting on his shoulder, Webley in his left hand.
The men now stood at port, waiting. This was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable times in a fight, as once the battle begun the training and practicality of survival took over, but just before the fight, nerves ran high and heart beats pounded. The men were uneasy, unsurprisingly, they had just watched a number of their friends die in the most horrific means, by such savages no soldier had ever expected to face.
The beasts were perhaps now three hundred yards away. With rifles as capable as these we would normally have been firing well before this distance, but the necessity of headshots diminished our effective range drastically. We were all waiting impatiently and uncomfortably, sweat dripped from my brow as I sat behind the carriage of the Gatling. Fear was in the air, I did not need to see the soldiers to feel the hellish effect on their morale. The next hundred yard shamble of our foes was unbearable. Finally, two hundred yards, and we were ready for revenge.
“At two hundred yards, present!”
The rifles shouldered in perfect harmony, we now commanded more firepower than any previous point during this affair, but equally as large a foe.
“Pick your targets carefully and aim for the head only, fire!”
A volley ripped out and struck the oncoming horde. The crisp sound of rifles ringing out in harmony was a unique sound, one that should drive fear into your opponents, but not these beasts. Twelve rifles seemed woefully inadequate against these odds. Just four zombis dropped from this round of fire, and one of those stumbled back to their feet to continue on. The men quickly reloaded their weapons with the hugely quick and efficient straight pull design of their rifles.
“Fire!” shouted Holmes.
Four more zombis dropped to the dirt and all stayed there this time, it was my turn. Finally after sitting there uncomfortably for so long I took the Gatling crank in hand, and began to rotate it. The slow but repetitive fire of the Gatling was a mellowing sound that always warmed my heart.
Bullets ripped through the oncoming zombis, blood spurting out and bodies spasmed as bone structures were smashed. Bits of clothing ripped off as the Gatling continued to roar. I could just hear Holmes shout out from the other side of the infantryman.
“Fire at will!”
The guns were ringing out beside me as the bloody mess ensued before my eyes. We had now killed perhaps forty of the foul creatures, but those behind them simply stepped over their bodies and kept going. The Gatling ran dry, a horrible feeling in such a time of need. I took hold of the magazine but it was stuck, sending a chill down my spine. I stood up from my position pulling harder on it, but nothing.
“Watson, get that damn gun firing!” shouted Holmes.
The riflemen’s last shots rang out before me. The field was now eerily quiet as all the men loaded new stripper clips and I continued to fight with the Gatling magazine. Finally in a fit of anger I kicked the damned thing with my boot and knocked it loose. Wrenching it from the gun I took hold of the second and last magazine and slotted it on to the gun, we were back in business!
Rifle bolts locked as the men again shouldered their weapons, but before they could fire I had the crank in motion and the Gatling once again spurted out what was music to our ears. The rifles beside me rang out in sequence. The beasts were now just fifty yards away, daunting, but making our weapons that much more effective. There were now perhaps just three dozen creatures left and our guns were yet again running dry.
A head exploded as the last bullets of the Gatling rang out and the men fired off the last rounds in their rifles, we had done fine work, perhaps enough to facilitate our survival at close quarters. Seeing Holmes’ shotgun lying on the floor nearby I jumped from the Gatling position to take it in hand. It was heavy for a shotgun, but what a fine piece of engineering. I took a few paces closer to our advancing foe and then fired, hitting just off centre of the left eye of the closest creature, the side of its head vanishing from the blast and its eye socket now only half intact, it was done.
Before the beast had even dropped to the ground I was racking the pump action of the gun and fired as quickly as it was ready. The second shot hit the windpipe of a zombi, blowing out its thorax, it was as good as a decapitation. I racked and fired repeatedly with devastating effect upon my enemies at such a short range. Gore and blood was everywhere to be seen and yet more came at us. Holmes’ Webley rang out, riddling their right flank with bullets. As he emptied his first Webley he dropped it immediately to the floor and drew the second one from his belt.
“Charge!” shouted Holmes.
I quickly drew one of the Adams guns from its holster to my left hand and sabre in the right. The soldiers who had been waiting at port with their bayoneted weapons now edged forward at a steady pace with Holmes slightly ahead of them on the flank. Bayonets ran into the bodies of the oncoming zombis, a mistake that was only the result of their disciplined military training. The first man to have lunged his bayonet through a zombi was immediately overcome by the beast running down the length of his weapon and ripping the side of his throat out with its jaw. The other men quickly adapted to the situation, using their blade bayonets to strike down upon the heads or drive the points through eyes sockets.