Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem (3 page)

In the morning I obeyed Holmes’ instructions to the letter. A hansom was procured with such precaution as would prevent its being one which was placed ready for us, and I drove immediately after breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top of my speed. A brougham was waiting with a very massive driver wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had stepped in, whipped up the horse and rattled off to Victoria Station. On my alighting there he turned the carriage, and dashed away again without so much as a look in my direction.

So far all had gone admirably. My luggage was waiting for me, and I had no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had indicated, the less so as it was the only one in the train which was marked “Engaged.” My only source of anxiety now was the non-appearance of Holmes. The station clock marked only seven minutes from the time when we were due to start. In vain I searched among the groups of travellers and leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend. There was no sign of him. I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who was endeavouring to make a porter understand, in his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to Paris. Then, having taken another look round, I returned to my carriage, where I found that the porter, in spite of the ticket, had given me my decrepit Italian friend as a travelling companion. It was useless for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion, for my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged my shoulders resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my friend. A chill of fear had come over me, as I thought that his absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the night. Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown, when…..

“My dear Watson,” said a voice, “you have not even condescended to say good morning.”
I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles were smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude and the mouth to mumble. The dull eyes regained their fire and the drooping figure expanded. The next moment the whole frame collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he had come.
“Good heavens!” I cried; “how you startled me!”
“Every precaution is still necessary,” he whispered. “I have reason to think that they are hot upon our trail. Ah, there is Moriarty himself.”
The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke. Glancing back, I saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the crowd, surrounded by a number of tough and rugged men, and waving his hand as if he desired to have the train stopped. It was too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum, and an instant later had shot clear of the station.
“With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,” said Holmes, laughing.
He rose, and throwing off the black cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in a hand-bag.
“Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?” Holmes asked.
“No.”
“You haven’t seen about Baker Street, then?”
“Baker Street?”
“They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! This is intolerable.”
“Though at least they sterilised your rooms.”
“True,” I replied.
“They must have lost my track completely after we disposed of his ruffians last night. Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had returned to my rooms. They have evidently taken the precaution of watching you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to Victoria. You could not have made any slip in coming?”
“I did exactly what you advised,” I said.
“Did you find your brougham?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, it was waiting.”
“Did you recognise your coachman?”
“No,” I replied.
“It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in such a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence. But we must plan what we are to do about Moriarty now. So far today has played out in order, we know without doubt that no one has betrayed our trust, and we know without question that Moriarty is carefully trailing you in order to discover me. Having the aid of family and old friends is indeed a valuable asset, but they will be few and far between the further we travel across the continent,” Holmes explained.
“As this is an express and the boat runs in connection with it, I should think we have shaken him off very effectively,” I said.
“My dear Watson, you evidently did not realise my meaning when I said that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual plane as myself. You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle. Why then, should you think so meanly of him?”
“What will he do?”
“What I should do.”
“What would you do, then, Holmes?”
“Engage a special.”
“But it must be too late.”
“By no means. This train stops at Canterbury and there is always at least a quarter of an hour’s delay at the boat. He will catch us there.”
“One would think that we were the criminals. Let us have him arrested on his arrival.”
“It would be to ruin the work of three months, at which time Moriarty would be free to dispose of us and continue with his evil will. We should get the big fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the net. On Monday we should have them all. No, an arrest is inadmissible, it would only lead to further crime and bloodshed.”
“What then, Holmes?”
“We shall get out at Canterbury.”
“And then?”
“Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He will get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two days at the depot. In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpetbags, encourage the manufacturers of the countries through which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and Basle.”
At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we should have to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.
I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly disappearing luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, glad to at least to have held on to my gun roll, when Holmes pulled my sleeve and pointed up the line.
“Already, you see,” said he.
Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of smoke. A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying along the open curve leading to the station. We had hardly time to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our faces.
“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and rock over the points.
“There are limits, you see, to our friend’s intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-maitre had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”
“And what would he have done had he had caught up with us?”
“There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous attack upon me. It is, however, a game at which two may play. The question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven.”
“To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces, sadly we may presently choose between hunger and impending death,” said Holmes.
Having decided to press on to Newhaven and go hungry, we were making good headway and Holmes’ plan was shaping up nicely, despite his shabby and gaunt look since I saw him the year before. His mind was as sharp as ever, sadly, there was one element of Moriarty’s plan which Holmes had not predicted was that he had contingency plans just as Holmes did, and having predicted a slip from his sharp thinking foe, had put a drastic and wicked strategy in to effect.
Passing through the countryside in pleasant weather, we both were contemplating the recent turn of events. Never had we faced such a risk to our own lives, nor had such an important task at hand. Moriarty had now lost our track, at least accurately, though he was clearly well aware that we were heading to the coast to head on to France.
Upon approaching the platform at Newhaven, a ruckus had clearly begun just moments before, the likes of which we had not ever witnessed and were about to face with horrific effect. A handful of people lay bleeding on the deck of the platform and others were fighting desperately around them. This sight was clearly out of the ordinary, and not anything you would ever see among fine British citizens, this was the work of a desperate madman. As I found out rather later on the next day, Moriarty had set two hundred ruffians lose upon all of the port towns along the southern coast, as a defence against both a slip from us and/ or assistance we called in from the authorities. You may ask what good two hundred scoundrels could do against the British police force, but those two hundred rapidly increased in number, for reasons that only became clear to us at a much later date. At the centre of the fighting were men who we now recognised as the crazed henchman of our foe, and we could do nothing but prepare for a battle.
Just twenty seconds from arriving in the middle of combat, I was glad of what I packed last night and now held close. I grabbed the tall duffel bag I had carried on my shoulder, a custom piece I had made a few years back with side opening and leather belts to create a roll bag. Throwing it on the table I released the clips and launched it forward like you would shake out a blanket, unveiling all my favourite firearms in a glorious display of technology. Holmes was a man who never cared much for weapons, carrying a Bulldog out of need rather than desire, but even he had the look of a man who’d just been served a free pint of ale.
I grabbed for my Marlin, this time fully loaded in readiness. I threw Holmes my double barrel hammer gun, knowing full well it was the best suited to his talents, as he stuffed a box of ammunition in to his jacket pocket. Reloading weapons was clearly a risky proposal against these foes, a fact we were both too familiar with, though no time to attach sword belts for the cold steel that also lined the bag, we each grabbed one of the matching pair of Webley Mk1 .455 service revolvers and stuffed them into our belts.
“Clear the doors,” Holmes cried as worried passengers began to panic, seeing our arsenal they quickly moved aside.
We had no intention of going onto that platform if at all possible, the narrow door of the carriage provided a natural bottleneck defence that we were rather grateful of, we faced perhaps ten enemies that we could see. The train came to a halt and those who manifested the violence stopped and looked at us, the same cold hatred that we had seen the day prior.
I took aim with my rifle at the first towards the heart, lightly squeezing the trigger the bullet ripped through the man’s chest, causing him to drop to one knee, and yet astonishingly he got back up and drove forwards. These ruffians did not have speed, barely more than shambling towards us, yet with drive and dedication. Whatever these foes were, they were not prone to the same incapacitating strikes that any human would be. Remembering the fight in my office the day before, I took aim at the same attacker’s head, my second shot rang out and my foe was utterly vanquished, spreading blood across his accomplices behind him and collapsing like a sack of potatoes upon the floor.
Holmes’ shotgun rang out as he shot the next assailant square in the chest, stopping him in his tracks, but barely altering his posture. Before I could call out to inform my friend of the manner in which these beasts could be felled, he had evidently already reached the same conclusion.
The hammer gun’s barrel raised whilst the man was just five feet away, the scattergun let loose its second and final content, striking its target just above the left eye, taking half the man’s head off in a less than clean fashion. Brain matter from the bleeding victims spread across the floor below the beasts and the second fell before us.
Holmes, not even considering reloading had already thrown his shotgun to the floor whilst it was still smoking, drawing the .455 Webley and continuing the action. I took aim at my next opponent, but as I pulled the trigger his head jolted slightly to one side and his body swayed, the bullet struck his chin, the right side of his jaw completely detached from his face and the other side only stayed attached to the body by the skin of his face, blood spewed from his open jaw and yet nothing stopped him coming at us.
I let off a further five rounds to the heads of those attacking us, killing three, but their frantic movement in an attempt to get on board made accuracy difficult. One of the attackers smashed the window of the door and grabbed hold of the frame. Holmes, who stood in front of it, put out his Webley and let off three rounds one after another into the attacker’s face until he dropped as a bloody mess upon the platform, sliding down the side of the carriage. Another attacker beside him reached in for Holmes, knocking his weapon from his hand, and grabbing hold of the door, wrenching it open.
I leapt to Holmes’ side and fired the final three shots in the Marlin at the next two monsters, killing both, but now out of ammunition. I stumbled back towards the opposing side of the carriage as I reached for my Webley but Holmes had already opened up with his Bulldog.
Despite Holmes’ methodical approach to crime, his illogical wild use of firearms was always a puzzle to me, much like his attitude to cleanliness I suppose. Before I had even taken aim with my Webley my friend had emptied his Bulldog, killing only one foe with five rounds, putting his fourth round through the eye socket of the closest, and yet firing his fifth and final round in to the same foe, piercing the neck. As I fired my first round of the Webley, Holmes by my side reached under my jacket, drawing the Beaumont Adams. Side by side we now had five rounds each and had no time for careful accuracy, being rushed by four blood thirsty monsters.
We fired withno rest until all ten rounds were expended and the carriage was thick with smoke. The last of our foes was vanquished and we sighed with relief, powder residue clinging to our faces and sulphur being the overwhelming smell now clinging to our nostrils, thankfully blocking the stench of the dead.
This adventure had become more than solving a criminal caseand had developed into a war that threatened the country at large. Holmes quickly speculated that this could not have been an isolated incident, and his hypothesis later proved to be unfortunately accurate. The British Isles were at war from an enemy already on its soil, and made up from its own citizens, a civil war without the political conflict required to create opposing sides.
We turned to walk back to our bags, to see a boy, probably not even eighteen years old yet, but stood steadfast and confident, holding a rifle from my bag, the Lee Metford Cavalry Carbine. I feared he would shoot us, and yet, Holmes saw the situation for what it was, his hand met my shoulder and pulled us both down. A shot rang out from the powerful .303Metford. One of the creatures from the attack yet had life in him, and had arisen to strike at us, this lad hit him square in the head, dropping the monster with admirable precision.
Getting up from the floor, we looked back at the fallen beast, just a yard behind us and now totally lifeless, surrounded by his comrades’ bodies. Holmes strolled over to the lad.
“What is your name boy?”
“Churchill sir, Winston Churchill,” the lad replied, in a confident and prideful manner.
“We are in your debt good man, you are destined for great things, keep the rifle, and get back to your home as quickly as you can, lock your doors, protect your family and do not leave the house until you run out of food and water.”
The boy looked ecstatic, I walked up to him, he held the rifle as a trophy and showed little signs of ever giving it up. I purchased that rifle just six months ago, weeks before the Marlin. It was a pleasure to own such a great weapon issued to the men of our fine armies, and yet this boy deserved it as well as any soldier. I picked up the box of thirty .303 rounds from my luggage and passed it to the young Winston, feeling comfort in the knowledge that he would use that weapon to defend this great country well.