Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (6 page)

impending situation, but was not endearing us to the man nonetheless.
“I will have you know sir that this is no balloon, this is a dirigible, and we will leave the moment we have coal. Now, calm yourself and let us enjoy a pleasant cup of tea before taking to the air.”
We were both unsure as to whether this odd gentleman understood the severity of the situation, but despite that, a cup of tea was music to our ears after the events of the
last day. Tea was a comforting beverage at any time, and always gave such a feeling of home and sense of norm, no matter the chaos around oneself. As Mr Fogg settled down in his rocking chair and we planted ourselves nearby, Holmes piped up in a rather abrupt fashion, though not startling the gent.
“Do you have any weapons about the premises?” “My valet has a coaching gun kept in the outhouse, but nothing else,” Mr Fogg replied.
“Then I rather suggest you place your hands on it and have it duly prepared with as much urgency as the coal for your dirigible,” Holmes explained.
The rather odd old gentleman rocked forward on his chair and rose from it, clearly now understanding that grave deeds were afoot and our haste and concern was not a small matter. With a straightening of his back he set out of the room with purpose. For all his oddities, this was clearly a sensible and quick thinking man, and Holmes
evidently saw through to that conclusion quickly. Mr. Fogg strolled back into the room clutching a blunderbuss, handing it to me with a powder flask and case of shot, looking at me rather sheepishly.
“Well I don’t know what to do with it!” he proclaimed. I took the gun in hand, it was old, I hadn’t handled a gun like this since my school days, it was clearly at least
several decades old. Despite this, it was a well made and an exquisite piece with a brass barrel, octagonal for the first half. This was well looked after and treasured, the
percussion mechanism had clearly been converted from the earlier flintlock design that the gun had fitted when new. Its stock was well oiled regularly and a folding bayonet ran along the top of the fourteen inch fluted barrel, retained by a tan leather strap with brass buckle. This was owned and kept by a man with respect and knowledge of arms, a man that we could only hope would arrive in time to provide our escape route.
Holmes nodded to me, clearly showing he wanted to speak with Mr. Fogg privately whilst I prepared the blunderbuss. Holmes took Fogg’s arm and walked out of
the room, I knew he was rooting for more information whilst ensuring our safe journey in as pleasant words as possible.
I had never personally had need to use a weapon such as this, but it was essentially identical to the earlier muzzle loading Enfield’s I had experienced, before the days of the
breech loading mechanisms, only requiring a proportional increase in all consumable components. I poured powder from the flask in quantities which would be obscene for
any other weapon that didn’t require a carriage. I had shot, but no wadding, I suppose cartridges were not considered necessary for this weapon, as rate of fire was of no
concern. I reached for Mr. Fogg’s newspaper, a terrible thing to do to a gentleman, but I knew we would not be in England long enough for him to know. Tearing the paper
I stuffed it down the barrel, and using the ramrod, drove it home, quickly followed by shot and more wadding. With a new cap fitted, this cannon was ready to go, a one shot
wonder, but well worth its weight in gold at a time in need. I had never travelled in a balloon, or dirigible as Mr. Fogg lovingly referred to it, and in all honesty I had no
faith in such devices. It was simply not natural for men to be travelling like the birds. Travel by sea would always be natural to men, for we naturally float and swim, and many materials we work with have natural buoyancy, but no man or solid material naturally rises into the air.
These balloons had existed for some time, but I had read of a number of accidents, which did not endear me to what I already had a dislike of. Sadly, despite all of my opinions and fears, we now had no alternative route, whilst an army was bearing down upon us. Mr. Fogg had travelled the world in such a device, and we therefore had
to trust his knowledge and skills.A clattering sound appeared in the distance that was getting quickly louder, the sound of wheels and horses became clearer as Fogg’s valet roared towards the house, all three of us rushing to greet him. I wondered if he would ever appear, as these beasts appeared to be attacking all manner of locations. The valet was clearly a practical man, a little quirky certainly, but more in tune with the sane people among us than Mr. Fogg.
“Passepartout, these gentleman will be joining us, load the coal speedily as we take to the air in just a few moments.”
I rushed to the cart and began to lift sacks off to help the valet, to my surprise so did Holmes, who would never normally stoop to such acts of physical labour. ‘Thank you, sirs,” the plucky valet responded. “You will shortly realise that you are the saviour of the evening sir, thank you,” Holmes responded.
“My pleasure sir,” said Passepartout.
Taking two sacks from the cart we followed Fogg to his wondrous flying machine and loaded them onto the basket whilst Mr. Fogg made the final preparations. We made a second trip but on our third trip to the cart we came to a quick halt, as we saw the glimmer of just fifty yards away, a mass of movement. All of us remained frozen, desperately trying to make out the reason for the movement, Holmes and I fearing the worst, as the valet was clearly surprised to see anyone at this time and place. The enemy was upon us, casually stumbling along, with the moaning sound which can only be comparable to a field hospital after a battle, a most uncomfortable ambience. “Fogg! Get us in the air!” barked Holmes. Lugging a sack of coal over our shoulders we ran through the front door, snapping up my rifle and Holmes’ shotgun whilst barely stopping and immediately out the back door towards the flying machine. Mr. Fogg was frantically untying the ropes and throwing off the sandbags which kept the device on the ground.
“I have never had the requirement of taking to the air with such urgency gentleman and are therefore ill prepared for the condition,” Fogg said, panting from the quick work.
I threw my rifle into the basket and hauled myself aboard, the others quickly following me. Passepartout was hastily throwing the mass of sandbags out of the basket as Fogg was shoveling coal in and stoking the fire with a bellows. The horde was now just thirty yards away and we had not left the ground. Taking my Marlin in hand, it felt entirely inadequate, when a rifle with such outstanding qualities had at times seemed necessary in previous years.
I could not help but wish I had acquired a Gatling for my collection, not that I could have carried it of course. Taking aim, I loosed off the first round, entirely missing, the nerves of this tense situation caused me to lose all train of rational thought and practice. Annoyed with myself for making such a beginner’s mistake in such a time of need, the lever clicked back and fore and I quickly took aim at the opponent I should have struck with my first shot. Squeezing the trigger, the round echoed around the field, striking the forehead of my target, blood spurting upwards, silhouetted against the lights still on in the house behind the now backlit mass.
The panic and stress of the situation got the better of me, as well as the lack of experience in facing such overwhelming numbers at close range. I began firing at a
rate of fire which compromised my accuracy, reminiscent of Holmes’ manner with firearms. With quick consecutive firing the third shot hit one in the chest, the fourth the shoulder. The fifth round hit the creature dead on the nose, destroying all that protruded from its face in a bloody mess, and yet, not stopping the assailant in its tracks. Cocking the rifle again, I took better aim, putting a round directing into the top of the skull, part of the scalp separating from the head and hanging brain matter visible,
he was done.
Taking aim with the seventh shot, I would not make the same mistake again, accurately aimed, I squeezed the trigger and a deafening sound rang out as the round ignited
in the breech as I momentarily blacked out. Just seconds later my vision began to return, I was lying on the deck of the basket, head resting against the sidewall. Looking
up I could just see through a blurred vision that Holmes was aiming his shotgun. A shot rang out, the flash being obvious, but I heard no sound, still deaf from the misfire. Holmes suddenly keeled forward as if being wrenched, the shotgun being pulled out of his hands, they were upon us, and we were still on the ground. Holmes threw back
his jacket and drew out the two Webley revolvers he was carrying, without time or thought to aim he opened up, firing repeatedly over the wall of the basket.
Arms reached over the basket towards Holmes, I could not see how much damage he was inflicting, but it was clearly not enough. His revolvers were out within seconds. A head of one of the creatures appeared over the rim of the basket, Holmes reversed the Webley Mk1 and mauled the foul thing continually until it sprawled over the edge, blood dripping into the basket. The ground below us felt light, we were beginning to lift.
“These things are keeping us down, we must get them off the basket!” Fogg yelled.
“Get down!” shouted Passepartout.
The immaculately kept blunderbuss was lifted above me facing the horde over the basket, the valet pulled the trigger and even with my still ringing ears I could hear the
thunder of it ring out. The whole basket was shrouded in powder smoke it had worked! The craft slowly took to the sky, but it was fast enough, a wondrous site that neither of us had ever experienced. We were free and clear for the first time all day.
My vision was clearing, but hearing still fuzzy. Holmes offered his hand to assist me to my feet, still shaky from the malfunction, we were now a hundred feet off the ground. I could feel my face burning where small shards of metal from the rifle had embedded in my cheek, an insignificant injury considering what we had survived. Turning to see the state of our friends, Fogg was grinning wildly at me, clearly quite pleased with himself.
As I looked at him, reaching out to shake his hand in gratitude, a hand from outside the basket reached from behind and grabbed at the gent and pulled him to the rim, trying to get better hold of him, its head drawing near, clearly we had an undesirable aboard. Before I coulddraw a handgun, Passepartout released the bayonet forwards on the fine blunderbuss and drove it forward into the eye socket of the beast. The triangular profiled and hollow ground long blade penetrated the eye socket and drove through the head and out the skull with no hesitation, soaring blood into the open air. The arms of the creature went limp and the body slumped, only being held to the basket by the bayonet through its brain. Passepartout stood looking at his victim for a moment, blood seeping over the barrel of the weapon which had driven all the way to the head. Admiring his handiwork, the sharp thinking valet took a pace forward for leverage and then drew the weapon back, the bayonet cleanly sliding back out from the eye socket. The beast slipped straight from the basket and dropped off to freefall back to the ground. Holmes patted the valet on the back, with almost no briefing he had risen to the task and saved all our lives. It was nice to know I had judged his character accurately, and equally comforting that I had loaded the weapon correctly, as it just saved all of our lives.
“We are heading for Switzerland, but our foe will suspect this as our mode of transport from the moment he sees it, being intelligent enough to know that coincidence is
worthy of investigation,” Holmes said to Fogg. Holmes’ plan was to put down in France and continue this adventure through more common modes of transport, as to not attract unnecessary attention. A balloon could and would easily be followed, and we must set down
eventually.
Mr. Fogg was busy shovelling further coal and getting the propeller going, putting us on course for the north of France. It would not be a quick journey, but at least a safe
and relaxed one, or as safe as dangling from the heavens could be This relative and short lived safety was of little comfort when we sat down to take stock of the weapons
and ammunition we had left. Holmes’ shotgun was gone, the Marlin was at least inoperable without major repair, if ever it could be saved, and the rounds for the pistols
were thin on the ground, they would likely not last another fight.
As we were whisked across the channel, Mr Fogg wanted all the facts, something that Holmes gladly gave up. The information we possessed was vital to the survival of our
great nation and perhaps the world, we needed reputable men to pass that information on. Finally having time to rest and consider the events of the day, we took stock of all information gathered and came to some potential theories.
What we knew so far was that Moriarty, upon fear of arrest and complete destruction of him and all his associates, had let loose an evil upon England. These creatures resembled humans in bodily shape, but moved in part like inebriated thugs and part like cattle. They felt no fear or morale and appeared to not notice pain or injury. At first it appeared that they could not be hurt in the same way a man could, and yet, their lack of emotion and fear of death only made it appear that they were more resilient to injury.
The real unanswered questions about these horrible foes, is what is their goal and purpose, what creates them and how, if any, are they controlled? Was this a virus which led to an uncontrolled wild animal, or were they being commanded by a greater force? The last question of which was a real concern, was that it appeared that all of these beasts used to be human. Therefore, could they infect others to make more like them?
Clearly there was plenty more to learn in this situation, hard questions which would inevitably provide even more difficult to accept answers. Holmes knew that whatever
Moriarty’s scheme was, a large part of it revolved around a location in Switzerland, and that the threat to that location was enough to provoke a war. We did not know the
location nor reason for the importance of Switzerland, but Holmes was adamant that continuing to travel towards the country would be enough a bluff to goad Moriarty in
to giving up more information than he realised. Having left instructions with the police earlier that day, we could only hope that the authorities would arrest Moriarty before he could board a vessel. Unfortunately, we would not know the result of this mission until we could reach land and a wire operator.