The name he gave the locals was Wallace MacLane, and he was one of six elite lawmen assigned by the King of England to patrol the country and fight crime, the Runners. Although vampires were not actually listed in their original charter, MacLane felt the supernatural killer was covered purely by default.
Cocking both of the curved hammers, MacLane double-checked to make sure the copper percussion caps were firmly in place. Now was no time for a deadly misfire. As a duly empowered agent of the crown, it was his task to see that the inhuman beast who had plagued this peaceful Scottish valley for so long, must never again be allowed to kill man, woman, child. Or even somebody from France! Hopefully, the silver and wood balls in his primed guns would send the bleeding monster up a treat, good and proper.
Although led by resolute MacLane, the brave British posse stopped dead in their tracks as the flickering light of the torches clearly illuminated the interior. It was like something from Hell, or the infamous American city of New York.
The ceiling of the mining tunnel was completely covered with fat chattering bats, thousands of the noisy beasts flapping their leathery wings and foam dripping from their cruel mouths. The hard stone ground was solid with a living carpet of snarling rats. Millions of beady eyes stared at the humans and the villagers could feel the tangible cloud of their living hate and hunger. Even the one barrister in the crowd felt faint.
Suddenly, a cold wind blew from deep within the old coal shaft, carrying with it a smell of newly turned earth, death and mint leaves. MacLane frowned. As always before, that was when the torches sputtered out. But now, bits of hot oakum were used to ignite dozens of whale oil bulls-eye lanterns, the glass flumes protecting the delicate flames within and brilliant white cones of light brightly illuminated the rocky passage.
The beams bobbed about in frantic search and soon converged on the source of the wind. At the rear of the mine, a dimly seen figure smirked at them and stuck out its long forked tongue. Standing brazenly at the rear of the mine entrance, protected by the slavering army of night hunters, was a humanoid creature dressed in a double-breasted Duke Street coat, ruffled shirt, Beau Brummel breeches, roll top boots, and wrapped in a long flowing Spitfields silk cape. Very nice, indeed. However, his skin was deathly pale, his eyes glowing red and his teeth a dentist's nightmare.
"So you silly kilt wearing fools actually did manage to find me," hissed the vampire, exposing every inch of his long white fangs. "Amazing. Bloody incredible."
Incensed, the tartan-clad Scots cursed in anger and started forward, but the bats and rats hissed in dire unison stopping the invasion faster than it had begun. With the entire population of the remote village outnumbered thousands to one, even the alcoholic mayor and the junkyard dog wondered if it was time to try diplomacy? Immediately, the secret band of Freemasons in the group started writing a petition.
"It's a rum deal, my culleys," sneered the inhuman beast in a really bad Rookery accent. "Enter, and my servants will tear you to shreds! Oh, some may live to combat me, but will there be enough?" A truly devilish eyebrow raised in contempt and, self-consciously, he tucked the medical marvel of the recently invented Pierre Fuachard toothbrush deeper into a vest pocket. His personal hygiene was none of their damn business.
"I'm ready for battle!" he panted breathlessly. "Are you?"
In hot reply, MacLane fired both of his Colliers, the silver ball smacking the vampire directly in the chest. This triggered a barrage of blunderbusses, four-barreled "duck foot" fowlers, horse pistols and muzzleloading rifles from the attending crowd, the strident discharges filled the mine with thunder and flame and boiling clouds of acrid black powder smoke.
Wasting no time on a reload, the Bow Street Runner dropped his spent Colliers, and pulled two squat .66 Newarks from the voluminous pockets of his great coat and fired again. He dropped those and drew from his boots a matched pair of double-barreled Manton conversions. Deadly little barkers, without a doubt.
Another volley sounded from their blunderbusses and muskets. The assorted fusillade of rounds wildly ricocheted off the back wall and blasted the expensive clothing of the vampire to pieces.
Contemptuously, the man-beast brushed some imaginary lint off a riddled lapel, took a bit of snuff from his gold Nathaniel Mills box, sneezed and smiled toothily at them.
"Ouch," he chuckled.
The angry crowd made some more angry crowd noises, but much less sure of themselves this time. His flowing white beard bristling in fury, a determined piper doffed his tam o'shanter and started playing the bagpipes at full volume, but even that vicious attack seemed to have no dilatory effect on the man-demon. Deciding this was the appropriate moment to act, the barrister promptly took a huge swig of pure quill laudanum and fainted dead away. The priest began a lengthy exorcism.
Unexpectedly, a flurry of wooden arrows twanged across the mine entrance. The shafts impacted everywhere except into the half-naked body of the muscular monster. At the rear of the mob, a doddering old groundskeeper glared hostility at his impressed gang of apprentice archers. Britons who couldn't fire a long bow? What was the empire coming to? In return, the clerks, cooks and coopers looked incredibly embarrassed. Well, at least they hadn't shot themselves in the foot again.
Inside the mine shaft, the laughing vampire twirled the remains of a bedraggled Spitfield cape about himself and was gone from sight.
"Goodbye, fools!" cackled the darkness, the words echoing strangely. "Within minutes I will be safely hidden within the endless natural catacombs beneath this mud hole of a city. A thousand men in a thousand years could never find me again!"
An elderly dairy farmer gave a juicy raspberry and the village tout shouted out a virulent oath that even made the blustering navies blanch at its raw vulgarity. Hot haggis, that was a good 'un!
"And I will return to tap the claret of these fools," continued a whispery voice fading at every moment, the dire words invoking ghastly images of rivers of human blood. "Next year, on this very day, I shall come back to reap my revenge, for I will use the secret second sleep of a vampire. During the coming seasons I will rest, arising for but a single day one year from now. Three hundred and sixty five times stronger than I am now!"
Fading rapidly, the words repeated in snarling fury. "Three hundred and sixty five timesstronger! How will you stop me then, you dirt-eating peasants? Seal the mine with iron plate, and I shall break free through the granite with my bare hands. Run, and I shall track you each down across the whole world!"
The bats and rats screamed in victory and the pale highlanders began retreating into the forest. Across the whole world? Even as unimaginably far away as Edinburgh? Bloody hell! Maybe this hunt hadn't been such a swell idea after all.
Tucking away his last charged pistol, Wallace MacLane started reloading his dropped weapons as quickly as possible. 'Struth, what would Sir Henry Fielding, the heroic founder of the Runners do in this rum job? There was no Bow Street manual for vampires, and the man was unsure of his next move. Read the beast the Riot Act? Call in the Dragoons? Offer a stash of blunt as a bribe? Get royally pissed on a dog's nose at a dollyshop? Suddenly, the imperial baton in his belt seemed to weigh a thousand stone and hinder his every step.
"I win," whispered the cold wind in the rustling trees.
Sullen and frightened, the villagers and the grim Runner shuffled along the king's road winding through the heather carpeted forest. Just then, the sun crested the western mountains, the golden glorious dawn only horribly counterpointing the humans listless retreat to their lonely vulnerable homes.
"See you real soon....aha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." evilly murmured the disappearing shadows.
But with those word, the London lawman slowed and, ever so slightly, gave a sly smile like a 200 point man at Eton facing a particularly sticky wicket. The vampire was wrong; he would not be seeing them soon. The West End fop had truly missed the mark with that remark. Ever so thoughtfully, MacLane fingered the loudly ticking Breguer watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. Time
was on their side, and he had a full solar year in which to act. A fact which gave the new Runner a very dangerous idea that immensely appealed to his personal sense of justice. But would the chancy scheme work?
***
Three hundred a sixty four days later, the people of the isolated Scottish town were busy erecting colorful booths, gay banners and great canvas circus tents. Fresh fragrant flowers adorned every house, every barn and inn, while great iron cooking vats bubbled merrily away in the campsites, filling the air with rich pungent fumes of meaty stews and fancy French soufflés and zesty sauces.
Lean and grim, Wallace MacLane ignored the mountains of food and roamed the festivities like a panther, fresh pistols tucked into every pocket and boot, wooden knives hidden in his sleeves, a silver crucifix about his neck. There would be no mistakes this time. Hopefully.
Everywhere around the Runner, squealing mudlarks happily dug in the ground seeking dropped coins, while rouged whores lifted their skirts for patrons behind every bush, and scarred pugilists pounded each other in glorious drunken stupor.
Lounging about in false casualness, all six of the attending Bow Street Runners, including the right honorable Sir Fielding himself, did nothing to stop any of it, even though prize fighting had been illegal since 1750. The imperial lawmen merely sipped their blackjacks of hot gin and nutmeg, kept a close eye on their gold watches and ready hands on their loaded Collier and Manton pistols. Soon now, very soon.
During the daylight hours, dozens, hundreds, then literally thousands of people from London, Paris, Italy, Germany, and even distant America had responded to the invitation and swarmed into the tiny highland village, adding to and augmenting the tantalizing cloud of cooking aromas with their own culinary contributions. By twilight, a boisterous party was in full swing with four different bands playing, scores of dancers twirling, and a hundred whole oxen roasting in huge pits full of crackling logs, the juicy meat spewing endless volumes of tangy smoke towards the distant twinkling stars. The staggering array of beef personally donated to the endeavor by good Queen Caroline and Prince William. A very old King George had temporarily gone potty again, and currently believed himself to be an Etruscan vase full of live mice.
The feasting and festivities went on far into the night. The only disruption to the happy revelry occurring at exactly midnight when the dance music was momentarily interrupted by a small explosion from the direction of the old abandoned coal mine in the foothills, closely followed by a loud squeak of inhuman horror. Grinning widely, the Bow Street Runners raised their drinks and drank in victory.
Seconds later, a barely noticed handful of dry ash blew across the joyous folk celebrating the first international Royal Garlic Festival.
-THE END-
"A little addendum here," Nick said, taking a deep breath. "Established in 1749, during their short span of existence there were never more than six Bow Street Runners total to protect all of suburban London, a city with over a million inhabitants. More than mere law enforcement personnel, they each carried a baton bearing the Great Seal of England, which gave them the authority to go anywhere, question or arrest anybody with impunity, even to command the military."
There came a canned burst of 'ooh's and 'ah's.
"All of the Runners, with the sole exception of their founder, Sir Henry Fielding, were former master criminals themselves, caught and given the choice of death, or becoming a Runner and capturing other criminals. From this came the expression, 'set a thief to catch a thief'," Nick explained. "In 1829 they were replaced by Robert (bobbies) Peel's (peelers) organization of uniformed police officers whose jackets sported giant copper buttons used to easily identify each other at night, and in the fog. This unique decoration quickly gave them, and eventually all police, the permanent nickname of 'coppers'."
More canned laughter.
Slightly annoyed, Nick scowled at that, but kept going. "And while exceptionally efficient, the stalwart constables of the present day London Metropolitan Police Force and Scotland Yard have never quite managed to generate the excitement or the romance of... the incredible Bow Street Runners."
Canned applause.
"Okay, now its time to confess," Nick said, glancing around the studio. There seemed to be movements in the shadows below the craft table, but he could not be sure.
"I am a Sherlock Holmes fan, and belong to the totally unofficial and extremely unauthorized Baker Street Slightly Irregulars. We love the stories, but refuse to call them the Holy Canon," Nick ended with a laugh. "Heretics all!"
There was a noise. Spinning about fast, Nick saw nothing behind him, but there still was a prickly sensation on the back of his neck as if something unclean had brushed against it just for a moment.
"Anyway," he continued with a dry throat, "I have always been dissatisfied with how Dr. Watson was treated in the books. If Holmes took cocaine because he hated being bored, then why would he live with a bumbling idiot? Thus, this story was born...."
THE REALLY FINAL SOLUTION
Ebony cane in hand, Sherlock Holmes stared hatefully at Rupert Jameson, the mad Kensington bricklayer, across the swirling pool of acid in the basement of the old Hofnagel Mansion.
"So, Holmes," cackled the burly mason, cracking the scarred knuckles of his massive hands. "You entered my deathtrap, innocent as a newborn!" The murderer sported a Webley .455 and a Malaysian kris knife in his belt, but it was his inhumanly powerful hands the man had splayed to deal with this adversary.
Brandishing his cane, Holmes merely sneered in disdain. "Not a bit of it," he replied stoutly. "I was fully aware that the blind bookstore owner was from Belgium, and thus could have no possible knowledge of the gray-striped cat, or the woman with the scarf."
Jameson hissed through tobacco-stained teeth. "B-but when the bank telegram arrived, you had Lestrade pour the bucket of water out the window!"
"Into another empty bucket waiting on the ground," stated the sleuth triumphantly, pointing to the left. "Held and guarded by my close friend and companion, Doctor John Watson!"
From out of the shadows near the only door of the basement, stepped a powerful bulldog of a man, sporting a full Queen's regimental moustache and a small medical Gladstone bag.
The stony murderer gasped in astonishment. "But if he caught the water, then you knew -"
"Everything about the blueprints!"
"But when the little blonde girl asked for more-"
"We already had the mastiff tied and helpless!"
"So the carriage ride to the boathouse -"
"Was a sham! And therefore -"
"Enough!" bellowed an exasperated Watson. Drawing an Adams .32 pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat, the physician emptied the booming weapon into the criminal genius with surgical precision.
Clutching his chest, Jameson staggered backwards from the brutal impact of the soft-lead bullets, his bald head smacking against the stonework wall with an audible crack. Limply, the man slid to the floor, and toppling over he fell face first into the boiling laboratory vat as so many of his victims had before. With a sizzling hiss, his muscular form vanished in the swirling chemicals giving forth an odious cloud of steaming vapors.
Stepping away from the billowing fumes, Watson pocketed the Adams, snapped open his Gladstone and extracted a small glass bottle marked with a skull-and-crossbones. Uncorking the vial, he tossed the poison into the bubbling vat staining the concoction a viscous mottled green. Holmes darted away quickly as Watson then tossed in the bulls-eye lantern. With a loud whoof, the chemicals burst into flames; a roaring inferno that built in volume and power until filling the underground cellar with hellish heat and pungent smoke.
"I say Watson, was that really quite necessary?" demanded Holmes as they retreated from the basement, closing and locking the iron-bound oak behind them. Flickering lights from under the jamb played upon their Bow Street shoes. "I was about to make him admit to stealing the gold bullion from the one-legged Russian."
In proper military fashion, Wa
tson cracked apart his revolver, pocketed the spent shells and reloaded. "Irrelevant, old man," said the physician brusquely. "After that incredible debacle with Prof. Moriarty, did you actually believe that I would ever allow you to play dice with these master criminals again?"
Waving a tendril of reeking smoke away from his face, Holmes scowled. "But Watson it is for the intellectual conflict that I play this dangerous game!"
The physician snapped shut the revolver and tucked it away. "Not justice?"
Throwing open the disguised door to the secret stairwell, the consulting detective sullenly admitted that justice was a consideration in the matter. At least to some small degree.
As the companions exited the Hofnagel Mansion, Holmes paused on the paving stones near the street to light his calabash pipe, while Dr. Watson rummaged inside their Hansom cab and retrieved a small wooden box.
"Well," puffed the great detective, a cool breeze from the Thames ruffling his hair. "I suppose this sordid tale will make a fine addition to your literary monographs, old man."
"Most certainly. But only after we are finished," retorted Watson. Kneeling in the dewy grass, he searched under an elderberry bush and meticulously attached two wires to the screws atop the coal miner's tool and pulled the plunger fully upwards. "And although it is good reading, safety must always come first, and I will never again allow us to face a lunatic genius twice."
In sudden understanding, Sherlock Holmes gasped and dropped the clay pipe. "John, no!" he cried, reaching outward.
"Too late," said Watson flamboyantly ramming the plunger downward.
Invasion from Uranus Page 6
