Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London

by Stephen Mertz

  "But why should you go there?" said Mycroft. "What if Moriarty is setting a trap for you?"

  Holmes chuckled without humor. "I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. But I’m the only man in London to match wits with that fiend until a force can be mobilized and dispatched to seize control of the airfield in the face of what is likely to be heavy resistance. Moriarty’s looters will be well armed, and the zombies ... can be unstoppable."

  Mycroft said, "I can’t work miracles. A squad of bobbies on such short notice, yes—"

  I grimaced. "Our civilian police force wouldn’t last a minute. We need the military."

  Mycroft said, "I’ll contact headquarters and order up troops but even that will take time."

  I couldn’t believe hearing my own voice say, "What about your ... street friends?"

  Holmes nodded. "Mycroft, you must dispatch an agent without delay to Waterloo Station. A newsboy. Wiggins. Inform the boy what Watson and I are up to. Tell him exactly what we’re going up against. He’ll know what to do. And let us not forget Nappy McGuire."

  For Mycroft’s benefit, I added, "A bouncer at The Empire Theater in Leicester Square."

  Holmes said, "Tell Nappy the same as Wiggins. Stress urgency to both."

  Mycroft duly jotted down these instructions.

  "The Empire? Those ragamuffin street urchins? Rather an unsavory lot, what?"

  "True enough," said Holmes. "But they could be instrumental in saving this blessed city from a hideous fate. Come, Watson. It’s time for the showdown with Professor Moriarty."

  Chapter 24

  A forested perimeter surrounded the "deserted" industrial complex.

  The hint of a false dawn drew its thin gray line along the eastern horizon, like light escaping from beneath a closed door. Faint city sounds carried from the distance. London awakening to a new day. But in this remote corner of the city, Holmes and I had what remained of the night to ourselves.

  We advanced through the forest, guided only by illumination refracted from scudding clouds. We reached a ten-foot-high brick wall. Vague activity could be discerned from somewhere beyond. Tall trees lined the outside of the wall.

  I said, "Getting in should be easy enough."

  He nodded. "Getting out, on the other hand, could prove to be a sticky wicket. Are you sure you’re in this with me all the way, Watson? We are at the point of no return."

  I did not dignify that with a response. Without further comment, I started scaling the nearest tree. Holmes matched his actions to mine. We each found a sturdy branch overhanging the wall.

  The strangest thought passed through my mind. Here I was, a physician who should be treating patients during the day and enjoying a cozy family life with a fine specimen of womanhood during his leisure hours. Mary had unselfishly given unto me her heart. So what the hell was I doing, climbing over a stone wall with a .44 like a schoolboy at play? And yet the .44 was loaded. And the danger was real.

  There was my friendship with Holmes. He and I had taken enemy fire together before and no doubt would again if we survived this. But there was another reason I chose to tread upon this dangerous, unknown ground.

  I felt alive! Heartbeat pounding in my ears. Excitement racing through my veins. A terrific feeling! I was born a man of action, and I was ready to face my adversaries.

  We made it easily over the brick wall, remaining engulfed in shadows at the inside base of the wall.

  Smokestacks towered against the gloomy sky like giant tombstones. There were train tracks; a spur line hosting a row of abandoned coal cars.

  And above it all loomed the Blackhawk!

  The long, ominous shape of the magnificent dirigible was tethered to a tower before the largest of a line of hangars. Hovering there, its black fabric making it almost indistinguishable from the velvet mantle of the night sky, the military’s state-of-the-art airship reminded me more than ever of a giant behemoth transported from some far planet or another dimension. Its oversized gondola, at ground level, was blocked from our view by the line of coal cars. Activity buzzed around the dirigible.

  A sudden pounding of cadenced bootfalls, magnified by the predawn stillness, was coming in our direction! A sentry patrol!

  Holmes and I darted toward the nearest coal car. We dodged around it. Crouching.

  A six-man patrol marched past in military formation, rifles uniformly slung over their shoulders. Their bootfalls seemed deafening as they marched past, within an arm’s length of us.

  I held my breath. The possibility of being caught and dying with a bullet through my head suddenly lent great appeal to the notion of lying in a warm bed at home, safe with Mary in my arms.

  Then the sentries were past, their bootfalls receding.

  Holmes nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.

  "Break’s over. Let’s take a look at what’s going on and what we can do about it."

  We flitted from shadow to shadow. Not possessing my friend’s skill in the martial arts, the pistol felt comfortable in my hand. Holmes led us in a direction that I at first thought was taking us away from the airship until I realized that he was bringing us in from their blind side. We crouched behind a small hangar next to the huge one before which the Blackhawk hovered.

  It was a sight that will be forever engraved upon my memory.

  The atmosphere buzzed and clanked with movement. Men were boarding canvas-covered wagons with military precision. My gut tightened with anger. It would make sense for Moriarty to recruit from the ranks of rotten apples who had been kicked out of the service or perhaps even good soldiers, unemployed and grown restless in civilian society. Either way, the armed men boarding those wagons were no untrained ruffians.

  I whispered, "Moriarty’s army of looters."

  "Counting the drivers, that’s at least fifty men. And look, Watson. Over there."

  I followed his gaze to the tarmac in front of the main hangar.

  "My God ..."

  A single file line of zombies was filing aboard the airship!

  Riflemen stood by while others wielded whips, herding the zombies.

  They staggered up the boarding ramp with blank stares. Herky-jerky movements. But not docile. Arms cocked before them. Fingers bent like grasping claws. Lusting to destroy. Fiery madness burned in their eyes. The zombie’s heads had been uniformly shaved bald so that, wearing shapeless gray garb, it was impossible to distinguish them by gender. They snarled and glared their way aboard the airship.

  Meanwhile, the wagons carrying the looters drew into a straight line. The rear flaps were drawn. The wagons, lettered with commercial markings, would not draw attention as they convoyed through the city.

  From our concealment, Holmes pointed again.

  "There."

  Dwarfed by its sheer size, a solitary figure stood before the large hangar, observing.

  I uttered his name as a curse.

  "Moriarty."

  Holmes spoke in a restrained voice. "Now it’s up to Nappy and friends and our Baker Street Irregulars. Or we take on this bunch on our own."

  "What about Commander Standish? Where is he?"

  From behind us, the Commander’s voice said, "I’m right here. Freeze, both of you."

  A lantern flared on, its brilliant beam pinning us.

  We turned carefully, each raising a forearm to shield our eyes from the direct light of the lantern.

  Standish stood there with a pistol in one hand, aimed at us, and the lantern in the other.

  I confess that it took me a startled moment to comprehend.

  I said, "Commander, there must be some mistake—"

  Holmes said, "There’s no mistake. The Commander is Moriarty’s man, and we are now their prisoners."

  Chapter 25

  Holmes raised his hands. I set my pistol on the ground, cursing myself for being caught off-guard. The same response would be racing through Holmes, though we both did a decent enough job of reacting stoically.

  The sounds of what we’d been observing—parading
zombies and wagonloads of hard-bitten mercenaries—had covered Standish’s cat-like approach.

  He retrieved my pistol, keeping us pinned in that circle of light from his lantern. He placed his own gun in a holster under his tunic. He maintained enough distance between us so that neither Holmes nor I had sufficient opportunity to rush him.

  He said, "Raise your hands too, Dr. Watson. No businesses from either of you or you’re dead. Now, march. The Professor is expecting you."

  I noted a small smile on Holmes’ face.

  I said, "What in the world can you find amusing at a time like this?"

  "Timing, Watson. Timing is everything."

  Standish said, "Shut up, both of you."

  Moriarty smirked when the four of us grouped beneath the looming Blackhawk.

  "Ah, my worthy adversary. Holmes, you are a difficult man to kill."

  "I should hope so."

  "And yet here you are. This time I have succeeded, no small thanks to Commander Standish. Per my instructions, he planted the seed tonight that led you here."

  "You are persistent, I’ll give you that."

  I could not help but vent my emotions at Standish, who wore a mild sneer.

  I said, "You, sir, are a traitor of the worst stripe. You betrayed your country for greed? From one military man to another, Standish, may your soul rot in eternal hellfire." I turned to Holmes, the truth still dawning within me. "When the Blackhawk flew us to that assault on Moriarty’s castle, Standish was delivering us into a trap, and he knew it."

  Moriarty responded before Holmes could:

  "That is quite correct. I wanted to witness your death, Holmes. And yours, Doctor. I owe you both for the times you’ve thwarted my plans. I knew I would have to deal with the both of you when I learned that you’d picked up the scent of Lady Fairfax’s fop nephew who so wanted to be a spy. You would learn of my plans and try to stop me, thus I chose to avoid that by removing you entirely. You thought you were following clues. You were lured to my castle with the unwitting assistance of dear Count Kleinhart who, you may be interest to know, has been eliminated for his efforts."

  Holmes said, "Apparently it’s not healthy for foe or friend to associate with you, eh, Professor? At your castle when we proved hard to kill, you countered with a nice touch by instructing Standish to lead a ground charge to our rescue. You sacrificed a few of your death machines, having Standish’s crew blow them apart so as to strengthen our faith and trust in him."

  Moriarty smiled. "Holmes, I’d sacrifice anything to get you where I have you right now. You and Dr. Watson are not only at my mercy, but you are about to witness one of the most spectacular feats in the history of crime. Commander Standish will glide the Blackhawk silently over London at rooftop level, releasing the zombies, resulting in widespread panic as you can well imagine ... and evacuation." Moriarty indicated the line of wagons. "My men will then move in and stack those wagons with everything of value they can carry, after which they will meld into the city amid the panic and confusion. A brilliant plan, is it not?"

  "Audacious, though the Commander’s villainy comes as no surprise to me."

  Standish’s sneer grew wider and meaner.

  "More deductions from the master detective."

  "Not deduction this time," said Holmes. "Reason. Logic. You were involved from the beginning, Commander, and yet with all of the resources at your command, you never seemed to make progress. Your link to Moriarty? Elementary. After Watson and I were involved in that firefight atop The Empire with one of his zombie flying machines, it caused quite a stir in Leicester Square and quite a mess. You claimed credit for having your men swoop in and clean away the mess even before Inspector Lestrade got there. Reason dictates then that if Moriarty’s force was in place and ready to so promptly arrive in their machines to rescue Danielle and try to eliminate us, and your people were simultaneously in place, despite the fact that you claimed they’d lost track of Danielle after the serum first disappeared, it had to be orchestrated. That meant that your people were working with Moriarty’s people. You were a part of it. You’d sold out."

  I said, "The information Standish supplied us with, such as Danielle being the one who stole the serum or the attack on the crossroads community, we would have acquired anyway through Mycroft."

  Holmes said, "You’ve got it, Watson. The Commander thus gained our trust and reported our progress to the Professor."

  With the zombies aboard the dirigible, the whip-handlers and riflemen started dispersing toward the smaller hangars. Three of the riflemen strode in our direction.

  Moriarty said, "I must say, Holmes, you are extremely confident for a man about to die."

  "Perhaps I am winning this chess game you’re so intent on us playing."

  Moriarty laughed. "Chess? Winning? You’re about to die, Holmes. That is not winning. I’m about to order the Commander here to put a bullet through your brilliant head. That constitutes winning. Why on earth have you put yourself and Dr. Watson in this position?"

  I said, "Uh, not to be contrary, Holmes, but right about now I’m sort of wondering the same thing."

  Holmes said, "Knowing is one thing but there is no solid evidence to prove what I know to be true. Thus, the only way to prove your guilt, Moriarty, is to catch you in the act."

  Standish said, "I overheard something about Nappy McGuire and the Baker Street Irregulars."

  Moriarty laughed again.

  "That scurvy rabble of orphans and a nightclub bouncer? Enough! Commander, I order you to fire a bullet into the head of the great Sherlock Holmes. Do it now!""

  Chapter 26

  The knuckle of Standish’s trigger finger whitened as he started to squeeze the trigger.

  I bunched my muscles, about to hurl myself at him in this last desperate moment.

  Then a section of the brick wall, over which Holmes and I had gained entry, blew apart in an explosive thunderclap of brick and mortar! Echoes of the explosion surrendered to the battle cries of howling attackers who swept in through the breech. The assault force had acquired dynamite from somewhere and knew how to use it! Nappy McGuire’s underworld connections apparently were extensive indeed.

  For one second, our attention flickered in that direction.

  Except for Holmes!

  His right leg swung up, fast. The tip of his boot struck Standish’s wrist with an audible, bone-crunching snap!

  Standish yelped in pain. The pistol (the .44 that I’d been carrying!) slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Stunned, he could not resist when Holmes swooped in and then swiftly drew back with the Commander’s holstered pistol in his hand.

  Moriarty shouted at the approaching riflemen. He pointed at us.

  "Kill them!"

  The riflemen unslung their weapons, tracking them in our direction.

  I retrieved the dropped .44. Holmes and I reacted like we’d rehearsed the maneuver, pitching ourselves forward to the ground. I took aim at the rifleman on our right who, like his mates, was caught off-guard and was in the process of tracking his weapon downward. I plugged him twice through the chest. My bullets knocked him off his feet and he did not move. Holmes placed a slug through the forehead of each of the other two.

  We picked ourselves up. Dusted ourselves off.

  Moriarty and Standish were nowhere to be seen.

  The line that tethered the Blackhawk to its tower fell away!

  The human tide that had blown its way in through the hole in the wall swarmed in while Moriarty’s mercenaries poured from the wagons to engage them.

  I recognized Nappy, the ugly, redheaded giant from the Empire, at the front of the attackers. To his right stormed freckle-faced, pug-nosed Wiggins. To Nappy’s left, little, thin but determined Timmy. Behind them charged dozens of street denizens of every age. Underworld street toughs recruited by Nappy, and just as many young ruffians including Baker Street Irregulars. The hastily assembled assault force was largely unarmed, unlike the mercenaries, yet the attackers had the
advantage of total surprise, and a sort of rabid fervor fueling them, descending on the mercenaries with clubs and fists in a melee of hand-to-hand combat.

  The massive engines that powered the dirigible hammered, drowning out the sounds of fighting. The ominous, streamlined airship became a formidable, almost invisible presence in the remaining pre-dawn gloom of the sky. The engines mounted in the cowlings gave a first burst that initiated forward thrust. Then the pilot shut off the engines.

  Holmes snarled like an oracle cursing the gods.

  "Moriarty and Standish are likely onboard that airship to oversee their handiwork. They’re getting away!"

  The silent, gradual withdrawal of the black shape of the zeppelin was a ghost-like sigh that sent shivers down my spine.

  Then another sound!

  A whompa!-whompa!whompa! that I’d heard only once before, when Holmes and I were under attack by Moriarty's death ray flying machine at Leicester Square!

  A weird, shiny black metal gyro craft, identical to that one, shot out from one of the small hangars as if fired from a cannon. It quickly lifted to hover over the hand-to-hand fighting that raged around the wagons.

  This left, from the direction of another of the hangars:

  Whompa!-whompa-chug!-whompa!

  Whompa!-whompa!-chug!-whompa!

  I said, "How many of those machines from hell does Moriarty possess?"

  "At least one of them is having problems."

  We dashed, fast as our running legs would take us, to the open front of the remaining hangar.

  And there it sat. Another of the death ray flying machines. A pilot in the cockpit. His gunner outside the craft, fiddling with piping that led from the steam engine. The fury of the steam engine’s racket shook the confines of the hangar.

  Whompa!-whompa!-chug!-whompa!

  Then they saw us.

  The pilot sprung erect. He held a handgun that spat orange-red flame in our direction. The other man drew a handgun. Holmes and I each fired without slowing. The pilot sat back down. His chin tilted forward onto his chest. The other man pitched onto the ground, lifeless.