Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (7 page)

It only struck us as we were now in flight that in the rush to leave Mr. Fogg’s residence we had left my roll bag behind which contained our swords, a foolish mistake, but
a minor one in the scheme of things. With any luck my good friend in Brussels was just the right man to replace them with weapons of at least equal quality. In fact, I would gladly replace my sword for something with a better cutting edge at a time like this. My sword had always been average at best for the tasks it was required, though it was
the issued pattern and therefore what I carried. It really saddened me to have lost such a sentimental item, though survival was far more important, and should we survive
this adventure, I knew well where to return to find it.

Despite the drama and suspense of the day we had made our way over French soil. It was truly miraculous that we had escaped the war zone that was now England, and equally astonishing that after hundreds of years of peaceful land, war should be upon us without just cause or reason.

“Put us down at the first opportunity sir, we must make our way on land from this stage,” Holmes said.
Holmes knew that Moriarty would expect him to follow his foe to the ends of the earth in order to end his life of crime, hence the open war along the English coast, a mere precaution against Holmes crossing the Channel. Mr. Fogg got to work in lowering our altitude, we were safely over the Channel but with no means to communicate with England, or with any realistic chance of having any in the near future.
Over the last twenty minutes Holmes had contemplated how Moriarty had borne such a force down upon us in such a short space of time. He did not believe that it could have been hidden secretly away for this occasion, but more created in a time of need. The theory certainly seemed to fit the problem, and speaking purely as a doctor, this appeared to have spread like disease, and yet, that would not give our enemy any control over these beasts. If this was the case, then we now potentially faced a risk to humanity beyond any man had seen in our existence, for these beasts could truly lead to the destruction of the human race. I could only hope that the police and militias were quick in both understanding and controlling the situation.
The actions of this day would rather suggest that the foul beasts were attacking indiscriminately, which they likely were, but what of the previous night’s events. Those creatures knew who to attack and when, not alerting the authorities to any problemby the larger public disturbance that they now presented. The question remained, were those creatures the night before shepherded in our direction, or were they working from a kind of directive or control?
Clearly we needed a lot more information, but we had one strong element in our arsenal, we had Moriarty in the dark. For all his intelligence, he clearly was very concerned about what Holmes could either know or do. For all of Moriarty’s strengths, he was evidently worried enough to leave England in order to protect whatever assets he may have abroad, which were evidently vital to his operations.
I was glad Holmes had some skeleton idea of a plan, for the one thing that bounced around my brain was the sheer lack of firepower we now held. What occurred to me at this stage was my old friend in Brussels, he was an avid firearms collector and we would be passing within a short distance of his home on our route to Switzerland. Should we find him at home, he would provide a worthy ally.
We were descending at a slow but steady pace now, the open fields being a welcome sight after the horde infested streets and plains of the England we had left. A metal bracket next to me pinged as if under pressure, not a pleasant experience when we were dangling from the sky at heights which would inevitably lead to our deaths should we drop. We looked around for what had caused it, before we could speculate on the issue, a second sound rang out, something struck the frame of the basket and ricocheted across the interior around us. At this point we realised the harsh reality that our latest plight was not mechanical malfunction, but gunfire deliberately made against us.
Already on the way to the ground, we had no choice but to get to land and move on from there, as the dirigible could easily be pursued at the slow speeds it travelled. Every few seconds a bullet struck the basket, we all lay low on the floor, just hoping to remain uninjured. Nine shots had struck out, waiting upon the tenth and likely last, we all remained motionless. The shot rang out, it whistled and pierced the basket, striking the arm of Passepartout, who barely made a sound. I could see the rip of his jacket and blood just visible beneath the fabric. Moving over to the valet I checked his arm, the bullet had skimmed the flesh of his arm, causing nothing more than a painful flesh wound, a lucky turn.
We were just seconds now from impact to the ground, coming down slightly harder than would be ideal, bracing for the impact we took hold of the frame of the basket. We struck the farmland hard and one corner of the basket buckled, causing part of the frame to break, we were thrown about and tumbled eventually to a halt.
“Out!” shouted Holmes.
We were made, with little ammo and the further disadvantage of not knowing our location or terrain. The only conciliation in this regard was that the sparse population and open fields had shown us that the surrounding area was void of the hordes of beasts that had caused us so much trouble in England.
Stumbling out of the wreckage of what was an outstandingly created and treasured device of science; we knew that we had to cover distance quickly if we were to stay free and clear of whoever was now hunting us, likely Moriarty or a henchman of his. Leaving the Marlin behind as it was now useless, we began to move carrying nothing more than our handguns, as they were all we now had left besides the clothes on our backs.
“Mr Holmes,” Fogg spoke in a surprisingly relaxed tone.
“This villain has no quarrel with us, in fact, he owes me a sound apology. You continue with your task and leave this concern to me,” the eccentric Fogg explained.
Holmes quickly evaluated the situation, and understood. Fogg was no threat to Moriarty, and to spend any more time in his company would be a disservice to two men that had already done us a good turn. Fogg being the odd fellow he was may well talk his way out of Moriarty’s grasp, as no man could think he was guilty of anything but silliness.
“Good luck my fine man, stay out of England until you hear word it is safe, and find some better means of defence,” Holmes replied.
We had only just met, and yet a great friendship was already made, despite the weight we had placed upon their heads. Fogg was a sharp man and Passepartout an eminently capable fellow when push came to shove, we didn’t feel too distressed to be leaving them to talk their way out of a bind.
Our clothes were now grubby, covered in a mixture of coal dust, dirt, black powder residue and dried blood, not a pleasant sight at all, though it bothered me a lot more than it did Holmes, who never really fretted over grimy surroundings. We were fortunately lucky enough to remain unharmed, though exhaustion was taking its toll, the adrenaline rush of the recent drama and risk of death being the only thing keeping us active. We desperately needed rest. Fogg and his recently ruined flying machine would occupy Moriarty’s attentions for long enough, we needed to cover some ground quickly and find shelter. Getting moving we picked up the pace, though both knowing it could not be kept for long.
After just a few minutes at a jogging speed we came across signs for Rouen, this was a small stroke of luck in an otherwise day of pain and suffering. In Rouen we could blend in and rest without serious risk of discovery. We slowed to a walk, we had to keep moving but could not keep any serious progress for a moment longer. After an hour of walking we were staggering with all the drive and dedication to keep going, but with little strength left to do so, it was another hour of such a struggle until we reached Rouen.
It was a sad fact that we could not enter the first inn that we saw, as it would also be Moriarty’s first port of call to find us, a pity, as it looked to be a fine establishment.
“Our cunning foe will investigate the first three inns on this road and then travel to the other side of the town to investigate, and therefore, we will stay in the fourth on the road,” said Holmes.
This sort of talk sounded like an educated gamble, but we both knew that no better option existed. We were now among a country with fewer friends and allies whilst being hunted like dogs. Despite this, knowing we could rest just one night was the most comforting thought either of us had known in years. All this time in the detective service had evidently given me an easy time of things, with war being a distant memory, but now it was hitting back harder than ever. The fact that we had few allies in the area was only made easier to accept when Holmes’ pointed out that Moriarty sat in the same boat.
Finally reaching the door of our intended inn, we stumbled through it, far from the fit and healthy men we used to be. Holmes was looking paler and more distraught than ever and seeing that I had not pursued the physical pursuits of my youth and military service, we were bedraggled to say the least. Entering the hall of the inn, Holmes asked for two rooms and the direction to the bar, not necessarily the best choice, but by far the most appealing one, our sanity was as important to our performance as our weapons were.
Being directed through to a small, low ceilinged room, with just a handful of tables, we slumped into the chairs surrounding a small candle lit table. There was no selection of drink in this place, we were simply seated and served what they had, red wine any civilised drink would be suitable at this stage.
A bottle of wine was placed between us, but the server did not offer a taste nor even pour the bottle, just handed us glasses. Filling both glasses near to the brim, Holmes slammed the bottle down on the table, took hold of his overly filled glass and held it up for a toast, neither of us knowing what to toast. We clashed glasses and drunk at the rate which would be better suited to ale.
What truly astonished me at this stage was that despite the horrors and physical pressures of the last forty eight hours, Holmes showed no reduction in resolve. We quickly topped off the bottle of red wine and gladly headed up to the less than luxurious accommodation, not that it really mattered. Within moments of me reaching my new home for the night I was out of consciousness and firmly into a dream world. The sleep was long but continually disrupted by images of what I had seen from the last two days, it took its toll and I awoke only half recovered from the day before.
Despite the uncomfortable night in Rouen waking up with just half my typical rest, I felt a world apart from the day before and happy to be still walking. Holmes looked as bedraggled as I, both our clothes were dirty and worn, not the way gentlemen should present themselves, and this memorable feature was not an image we wanted seen when secrecy was of the utmost importance in many of our movements.
Brussels was our next port of call, it was a necessary part of our journey, a fact that our enemy would likely know. But setting off from the inn, we knew that this was still the best option, Moriarty must think we were heading to Switzerland with intent and not just on loose information and speculation. With no time to waste we boarded the first train available to Brussels, it was at least a relaxing journey despite the ongoing risk of detection.
We arrived in Brussels that night and immediately travelled to my old friend’s residence on the banks of the Senne. Cyril Matthey had been a friend of mine since my army days, where we were in regular contact in Afghanistan. Cyril was a man who truly appreciated the technical advancements being made in military science on a yearly basis. As much as he loved and respected all manner of weapons that came before us, he was quick to acquire anything new and exciting, a forward thinking man, exactly the sort of chap we needed at this hour practical, capable and well armed.
Traipsing through the quiet night, we eventually reached the home we were looking for, glad to have remembered the route from my visit to my friend some years earlier. Brussels was a lovely placeto be travelling through, though the thought of the destruction currently bearing down upon England was constantly in our thoughts. Seeing lights on in Cyril’s house I knew we were in luck, a man such as this would never refuse a friend in need. We could hear the voices of pleasant conversation taking place in the premises as I knocked on the door, and then knocked again after no response.
A chair could be heard shifting back and footsteps towards the door. With a heave it flew open and Cyril stood before us, a fine cigar between his teeth and whisky tumbler in his hand, his shirt was untidy and waistcoat open, tie undone around his neck he was clearly enjoying a good night in the company of friends. Despite the years that had passed, our ragged state and his inebriated one, Cyril recognised me immediately.
“You are improperly dressed for this fine evening, Mr Watson,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry to bother you sir, but I am Mr Holmes, and we are in need of your assistance,” Holmes butted in.
Cyril swung the door fully open and stood up proudly, inviting us through.
“Then this must indeed be a time of emergency, just the sort of excitement that this evening was lacking Sir,” Matthey shouted.
He was a sarcastic but joyful man, usually a little tipsy, but always a friend and gentleman. We were fortunate to have such a contact within our route, and Holmes clearly understood this stroke of luck for what it was. Passing through the door into better light, Cyril further looked us top to bottom with as much curiosity as shock towards our rough and bloodied attire. This was far from the respectable image I would ever choose to present myself into a friend’s home at any time of the day.
Walking past Cyril and towards the sound of talk and laughter, we passed walls of fine swords, Cyril had clearly kept up his interest in all matters military. Entering the lounge we stood before a table with four men sat around playing cards, with a fifth chair empty where Cyril had clearly sat. All of the men were of a similar age and manner to Cyril, clearly hardy and capable. The room was lit lowly, in keeping with their game, lavishly decorated with smoke wafting across the room. Cyril had evidently done well for himself, this was not the lodgings of a humble Captain.
“Gentlemen, this is Jacob, John, Egerton and Berty, fellow comrades in arms and alcohol. Boys, this is John Watson, and his friend who I am not yet acquainted.”
“Sherlock Holmes, and thank you for welcoming us in to your home,” he gracefully responded.
The room of men perked up upon the name, clearly recognising it, Cyril himself turned and offered his hand to Holmes.
“I am honoured to have such a fine gentleman in my home sir!” Cyril said excitedly.
“And I thank you sir for your hospitality, however I must abruptly stop you and explain our purpose here, for it cannot wait,” Holmes replied.
“Then go on sir, for you have our full attention,” Cyril said confidently.
“England is currently under attack from a foe the likes none of us have seen before, nor would believe the existence of without seeing it with our own eyes. I therefore beg of you to take what we say under the strictest consideration and act accordingly, for proof will soon follow in a fashion which is most hideous.”