Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (9 page)

Upon arriving in Strasburg on the Monday morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police, and in the evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel. Holmes tore it open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.

“The south of England, beyond London has fallen.” “All of it?”
“The authorities have established a perimeter around

the south of central London and called the militias and Yeomanry to arms. I think that you had better return to England, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because you will find me a dangerous companion now,” said Holmes.
“Whilst I live, this man’s occupation is gone. He is lost if he returns to London. If I read his character right he will devote all his energies to revenging himself upon me. He said as much in our short interview, and I fancy that he meant it. I should certainly recommend you to return to England with the knowledge you have and do your best to defend our homeland.”
It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an old campaigner as well as an old friend. We sat in the Strasburg salle-à-manger drinking tea, whilst I calculated a way to stay with Holmes, for as dangerous as it was to stay with him it was far more dangerous for him to be without me.
“I am sure our countrymen will discover the facts as we did soon enough, sooner than I can deliver such information to them. You are on a mission which potentially the world’s existence relies upon, and with only seven men in total, you cannot afford to lose a single one,” I said.
We sat arguing the point for twenty minutes before Holmes finally accepted that I posed a better asset to our country here with him than I did at home. All of Moriarty’s efforts were clearly being placed into ending Holmes’ life, whilst Holmes was the only man who possessed the knowledge of the villain we faced and therefore the capability to end him.
The seven of us sat quietly now around the table drinking tea, still armed for war, no man daring to ask our purpose. The group was clearly uneasy as a day had passed with no evidence of the danger and horrors that we had spoken of. Clearly John and Jacob began to question the situation and the others felt it, though nobody spoke of it.
It was a sad state of affairs when war was at our own country’s door. Despite the telegram the men remained uneasy about accepting our account of events, not at all concerned for the fears that lay ahead because they had yet to see them with their own eyes. Finishing his drink, Holmes spoke up.
“It is time to move on gentlemen, to Geneva.”
“And what of England, would you leave our country to burn?” snarled Jacob.
It was clear he had been festering on this situation for some time, and it was understandable, all common sense would suggest we head home, but Holmes and I knew otherwise.
“I takeoffence by your tone sir, and yet fully understand your reasoning,” said Holmes.
“Then why continue on?” asked Jacob.
“Because going home will only lead to a battle which ultimately cannot be won, going forwards to the root of the cause and ending it is the only solution.” Holmes said.
“And you are sure of this?”
“As sure as any man has ever been of any course of action in war,” I said.
Jacob fell silent, he was winning no support from his friends, despite all of them sharing his concerns. Fortunately, they all supported Cyril, and he continued to support us, a fortunate fact for all of us.
The men finished up, bored of the inaction and glad to be getting onto something. As we began to get up from our chairs, screaming rang out from just a few hundred yards down the fairly busy street. All of our company leapt from our positions, rifles in hand. The sound of screaming people was likely to mean only one thing, we now had a fight on our hands.
Civilians were running in our direction in panic, this could not be coincidence. Being the only people heading towards the centre of the troubles we had to drive through panicked masses. Despite not wanting a fight upon our hands, it was perhaps the best answer in securing the loyalty and trust of the men.
Getting a hundred yards through the crowd Cyril, who was at the front of our band came to an abrupt halt, clearly shocked by what lay before him. A hoard of bodies was ambling towards us, recognisable as enemies to us and to Cyril from our descriptions. The now familiar drone or hum of the horde, blood dripping from their disgusting jaws and congealed blood staining their clothes, was upon us. In the light of day it was clear to all that these beasts were not human and meant us only grievous harm, that much was evident by their current actions, none now hesitated.
One of the villains at the front was attacking a policeman on the floor who was desperately trying to fight back with his truncheon. Not wasting any further time to assess the situation, Cyril took aim with his rather excellent new Mosin Nagant 1891 model, a rifle which like the SchmidtRubin I had read great things about but not experienced firsthand. Before he could take his first shot the creature lunged at the man on the floor and bit into his neck, wrenching out a chunk of flesh. The truncheon fell from the man’s grasp as his hands cupped his throat, trying to stop the inevitable death that would ensue.
Not hesitating any further, Cyril let off the first round, aiming for the head as we had informed all of the men to do so. It struck perfectly at the skull, bursting out through the back of the head and causing the creature to immediately go limp and topple over the dying policeman.
“Form on me!” barked Matthey.
The band of gentleman resembling a militia lined up and immediately took aim as Matthey racked the bolt of his Mosin Nagant with perfect precision and timing.
“Fire at will!”
The group opened fire in perfect time, releasing a volley in to the ensuing mass of creatures, powder smoke swept across the street and the arid smell of sulphur surrounded us. Two of the creatures were immediately struck through the skull. One shot pierced an eye socket, whilst another skimmed a skull, revealing it to the fresh air but causing no severe damage. The two shotgun rounds created a bloody mess of the faces they hit, ripping flesh from the skulls, though one kept moving forwards. For a moment Cyril’s group paused to see the effects of our fire, but not Holmes and I. We immediately cocked and racked our weapons, releasing the next shot whilst they still gazed in astonishment. The volley had knocked just three creatures to the ground, whilst the horde was unaffected by the fire, an experience that is fearful for any soldier.
The other men soon followed our example and fired repeatedly, as fast as any trained man could and still strike his target. The horde was perhaps thirty foes, but thestress of the situation and powder smoke obscuring our vision was resulting in a less than perfect performance. We had all emptied our primary weapons entirely and look briefly upon the result of our work. We had put about half of the enemy on the ground, a number of them now sported serious injuries to the head or neck, but not enough to stop them coming at us.
A number of the men began reloading, but we knew better. Holmes and I immediately dropped these weapons to the floor and drew the next ones in our arsenal. Holmes took out his two Webley .455 revolvers and the Adams for me, again the others quickly following suit when they realised the extent of the situation.
In Holmes’ typically characteristic fashion, he fired quickly and wildly, a fact I had never understood when he showed such precision and discipline to his fencing and boxing. Still in a disciplined line, as only Englishmen could keep in a time of extreme pressure, each man drew one or two handguns and proceeded to give our foes a mouthful of lead. The ensuing hail of bullets would have destroyed and demoralised the most heroic of soldiers. Bullets smashed into the bodies of the creatures, fragments of clothing and blood spurted out and their bodies spasmed as the rounds struck bones and fractured various parts of their bodies. The creatures were now just ten yards from us and three were still standing and driving forwards. Holmes was the first to empty his two handguns and, whilst I was still taking aim with what was left in the chambers of my Adams guns, he whipped the Reichs revolver from his low slung belt holster. The huge revolver rang out, the enormous rounds it fired breaking everything in their path.
The German military revolver was in all honesty far behind the times, firing only with single action and not even having any form of ejector for the spent casings. It was however, powerful and reliable, and it did force Holmes to slow his rate of fire and concentrate more on the quality of his shots, which could only be a good thing.
The bodies of the creatures still driving towards us twitched and spasmed as bullets hit them in every part of their body, until finally all of the rounds in our guns were empty. Cyril who was at the centre of our line, without pause, dropped his handgun and before it had even struck the floor had his hand on the hilt of his sword, drawing it from the leather campaign scabbard. It was an 1827 pattern rifle officer’s sword, characterised by its blackened steel hilt, as opposed to the brass that I was more familiar with. He stepped swiftly and confidently forwards and whilst still in mid stride quickly made a moulinet over his head and struck a strong horizontal cut to the final creature’s neck, taking the head clean off with quite a momentum. The head toppled from the body and crashed to the ground, bouncing slightly before it rolled to a halt. The body slowly swayed and collapsed lifeless to the ground. Cyril yanked a handkerchief from his jacket and ran his sword through it, not wanting to let the blood have time to corrode the blade, a sensible act, but one he would soon grow tired of as the body count increased and fatigue set in. The street before us was littered with bodies, blood gushing across the hard ground, a horrible mess to witness. Such a scene would shock any man, but to the battle hardened company we were in, the only thought that occurred was to reload.
“You can be sure that these are not the only enemies now in this city, we must be on our way immediately.” Holmes said.
“Let’s go!” shouted Matthey.
The group began forwards to pass through the mass of bodies towards the station we needed, each man reloading their weapons on the move. It was an unpleasant thing, to walk among this much blood, knowing that these may well have been upstanding citizens at one time in the not so distant past. We stepped through our victims cautiously. As we got to the end of bodies a cry rang out from behind, looking back Jacob was on the floor being attacked by one of the creatures that was still alive. Blood was pouring from the wounds of the creature onto Jacob’s suit. I aimed my rifle but the creature was underneath him, trying to pull him close. Holmes ran towards the desperate situation.
Jacob, without reach of his weapon struck the creature to the face several times until it took hold of his arm and bit hard through the cuff of his jacket. He screamed out in agony as Holmes reached him, immediately stamping on the monster’s head. The shock of Holmes’ boot caused the beast to release its hold of Jacob. Holmes immediately proceeded to smash his shotgun stock onto the beast’s skull before reversing it and firing at point blank range. The skull exploded, sending blood and gore across the pavement and his boots. In disgust, Holmes shook off the brain matter from his once gleaming footwear. He stood looking at the destruction he had caused, not shocked, he appeared to be deep in thought. Egerton walked over and offered his hand to Jacob, pulling him to his feet. The man was still in shock, cradling his bitten arm.
“Forget the pain, you’ll live, take up your rifle, we must move on!”
It was a short walk to the station, one we made at a steady pace with a constantly alert and cautious movement, the accident with Jacob was a careless mistake, and we could ill afford such reckless actions. Walking on to the station, we at least now had a team of capable fellows who truly understood the frightful enemies we faced, and were as ready as any man could ever be to fight them. We were at the station just ten minutes after the fight, it had been quiet, the streets clear after the panic earlier.
Getting to the platform, Holmes and I were thoroughly exhausted, slumping upon the benches to await the train. Cyril posted a guard, twenty feet either side of us, whilst he and the rest joined us. We sat, fatigued from the physical and mental strain, the men still shocked that our story was as real as described. Cyril pulled out a hip flask from his jacket, taking a sip from it before passing it to me. It was clearly a well made piece, but tarnished and old, dented in several places, I recognised it from many years before, this was a treasured possession. I took a sip, a lovely scotch which was warm and soothing. I passed the flask on to Holmes, who took a sizeable swig from it, alcohol may not be the answer to our problems, but it helped.
Holmes enquired about Jacob’s condition, an unusual nicety from my friend, who was rarely so warm and caring. He showed remarkable attention to the wounded man, it was quite touching, perhaps some good would come of this disaster.
The shock of what we had faced was setting into our new allies, whilst Holmes and I were no longer shocked, just thoroughly exhausted. For ten minutes or so everyone sat silently, either thinking about what had happened, or off in a dream world, as to not have to think about it. All of us just prayed that we would remain safe until the train we needed arrived. Finally, Cyril spoke up.
“How widespread is this fighting?”
I looked at him, not truly knowing myself, though knowing for sure it had clearly spread. Did Moriarty know our location and send those creatures to attack us, or had the disease spread from England this far? I didn’t know how to answer him, though honesty seemed the best solution to a friend that had assisted so effectively in a time of need.
“I truly do not know Cyril, this attack could be an isolated incident on the Continent, it could have spread from England, or Moriarty could have released the condition on a scatter approach to the whole area.”
Cyril sat back, clearly wishing he hadn’t asked and not known the potential reality that he faced. Ignorance was less stressful, but knowledge far safer.
“Thank you John, for being straight with me. As much as I wouldn’t wish this mess on anyone, I am glad to have been forewarned and be at the front of the fight withyou.”
Friendship was the only strength we had left in the world, and it could be our saving grace. Moriarty had his brainless monsters, but we upstanding Englishmen had our honour, duty, respect and decency, and that strength had kept our country and countrymen safe for hundreds of years. It would hold strong against a devious scoundrel, no matter how intelligent.
In the distance we could hear our train roaring towards us, it would be a long journey to Geneva, time for rest, to regain our strength, in body and mind. The train came into sight, but we did not move from the bench, expelling any energy unnecessarily was the last of our desires, laziness not even being a consideration in these circumstances.