Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem.indb

by Nick S. Thomas; Arthur C. Doyle

  A sharp crack resounded and we turned to see a mass of evil, a horde of the walking dead stumbling towards us, barely visible, but moonlight reflecting intermittently

  across their clothing as they marched in a disorganised rabble.

  “Whatever that sound in the distance is it can only be humans engaged in manly pursuits, that may be our safest option in this situation,” Holmes quickly spouted. We turned, heading for the sound of clashing metal, knowing the limited ammunition we had would likely not win against this new mass of enemies. A light jog was all that was needed to gain distance upon these monsters that seemed never to develop beyond a meaningful stagger. Upon reaching the sight of the sounds we were heading towards, it was clear that the pleasant sound of the clash of cold steel was emitting from what was an inn, an elegant and large one. Holmes had already accurately speculated what was before us before we entered and saw with our own eyes.

  The inn’s gentlemen’s room was awash with the local men of stature watching a display of arms. In the centre of the room were two men in substantial padded armour

  and clashing with large renaissance swords, the like of which would never be normally seen except upon walls of the wealthy or in museums. At this time I understood what Holmes had already devised, this was a display of old swordsmanship from the only man and his friends that would pursue such an interest in this developing age Mr. Hutton.

  Without a moment to speak a word, Holmes lifted his shotgun and let a round free upon the roof, echoing wildly across the well filled room and causing all, including those

  clashing with blades, to freeze.

  “Just moments down that road a horde of creatures the likes you have never witnessed are approaching these fine premises, with the bodies of humans and yet the

  aggression of wild beasts.”

  The only man I knew in the room, and only through reputation not acquaintance, Mr. Alfred Hutton, removed his fencing mask and looked at us with an odd expression,

  sweat dripping from his brow. He wiped across his face with his cuff and then strolled a few paces closer, measuring us up before finally speaking, and the rest of

  the room still silent.

  “And who dares interrupt such a gathering of fine men, sir?”

  “Sherlock Holmes,” a strong and confident reply sounded from my associate and friend. The men of the room gasped faintly, now paying slightly more heed to our words, but still quite reserved. It would be no easy task to explain to such a fine body of

  men the burden we had now placed upon them. “Your reputation precedes you my dear sir, and yet your story does not carry such weight,” he said.

  “It is not a story I ever expected to be telling to anyone but children sir, but that does not deter from the true facts of the horde which is now bearing down upon this place,”

  Holmes replied.

  “I am sorry to say sir that I find it hard to believe a tall tale such as this in this place and time, I must ask, how much have you had to drink?”

  As Hutton said this he was closely examining our clothes and weapons. Blood speckles ran up our trouser legs and cuffs, powder stains on our shoulders and with stained faces and hands, my rifle showing powder residue.

  I could see Hutton’s expression turn from insult and outrage to genuine interest and concern, for he knew the tell tale signs of serious combat just as we did.

  As the bold Hutton’s words rang out a resounding crash rang out as something beat against the door, again and again, it got loader, beyond what one man could do. The men of the room fell silent, half in surprise and half in fright, not knowing whether we spoke the truth or coincidence had played a part. A man near the door edged closer, whilst all others stood frozen, heart beats pounding, not wanting to believe our story, but also now worried about the possibility of its truthfulness. The man’s hand reached for the handle of the door, slowly, shaking. His hand finally reached the handle and releasing it he was launched backwards as the door struck him hard and what was now a familiar frenzied human resembling thing stumbled through the open doorway. The foe immediately fell upon the unfortunate man and with all energy tried to kill him.

  At this stage, we were only lucky to have entered a room with men experienced in the world and quick to establish the story behind a situation. They may not know everything we did, but they knew what was best for all.

  Hutton and his assistant ran towards the assailant, but the beast struck hard, nearly breaking the man’s jaw. Hutton, still wielding a sword as tall as a man, stormed towards

  the creature and struck him with all force to the collar, knocking his foe to the ground, creating a gapping whole in the villain’s shoulder, but not killing him. Hutton stuck

  his tall leather boot in to the man’s face at high speed, and then used the leverage to pull his sword from his collar, before grasping the sword in a wide two handed grip and

  driving the point into the beast’s heart as it lay on the floor. “Close the doors!” bellowed from Hutton’s mouth. Men from all sides stormed to the entrance and attempted to force the door shut against the strength of those pushing against it, and finally managed to get them shut as Holmes beat against the arms of those trying to breach it. The doors would evidently only hold for a limited time, but that was a consolation, knowing we could educate a number of fine strong men before going into combat with the enemy they were to face.

  Holmes explained to Hutton the grave situation which we faced in as few succinct words that only Holmes could use, of which the great celebrity handled in the fashion in

  which his reputation would suggest.

  “Gather any weapons you can and be prepared for the defence,” barked Hutton to the crowd.

  The men of the room sprung in to action, a number taking up swords from Hutton’s bags, others drawing personal handguns, some even breaking off table legs as a desperate measure. These men had not seen the enemy, but it was a warming feeling to know that our fellow Englishman could handle such a situation with the cool confidence that we are so famed for. The door buckled back and forth as the mass of enemies hammered against it.

  “My good man,” Holmes pressed Hutton.

  “As much as I do not want to rob you of men to defend this fine establishment, a war is upon us and for reasons I cannot abruptly outline, we two must make it to France at

  any cost, do you offer us any solutions?”

  Hutton looked shocked but quickly took in what Holmes had said and understood in a vague sense the state of the situation.

  “I can think of but one, wild, but potential route which may take you safely from this place and across the Channel. Two miles north of here a man is preparing a balloon flight to leave shortly, a fine gentleman, but also one that will require much persuasion,” Hutton answered. This news was truly music to our ears, already picturing

  the dashing escape we could make. Although my feet had never left the ground higher than a horse could provide, the thought of dangling above the earth was unsettling. “I suggest you use the kitchen door out the back and move swiftly to your destination. The man you seek is called Fogg, of which you may remember from the papers in the seventies, tell him I sent you and he is to do your bidding,” Hutton explained.

  The door finally buckled and cracked, bursting open, the first creature stumbling through the entrance. Hutton rushed forwards from the crescent of men, none wanting

  to make the first attack. Hutton’s two handed sword, about six feet tall and with broad blade descended upon the neck of the beast and hewed down to the lung, dropping the beast to the ground with immense force. The gaping wound opened as the creature’s body twisted down, releasing the pressure on the embedded blade and allowing blood to gush across what was a beautifully polished wooden floor.

  “Go!” Hutton shouted back at us.

  We turned tail, both struggling with the thought of leaving the fine gentleman of the inn two men short, but knowing what had to be done. We had to make some distance between us an
d this combat, as who knows how long it could take to have the balloon ready to fly. We looked back just once more before leaving the room to see Hutton and the other patrons fighting ferociously. Holmes tore the rear door open and the empty plain before us was a nice sight. Gun shots rang out behind us along with an almighty ambience of the clash of men, metal and furniture.

  As we exited though the door our peripheral vision quickly eluded us to the danger beside us. Two creatures to each of our sides, just ten yards away, however, it could

  have been far worse.

  “Shut the door!” cried Holmes.

  I slammed the door behind us, as it would quickly lead to Hutton and his men being enveloped, before quickly turning and shouldering my Marlin. Holmes shotgun rang out as he fired at the first target, the right side of its head exploding in a disgusting fashion. I took aim at the nearest creature on the other side of Holmes and fired a shot directly through its eye socket. The clean wound barely showed in this light, but it had been enough to send the beast lifelessly toppling to the dirt. The next creature was upon me before I could cock the rifle so I twisted the rifle stock around into an uppercut to its jaw, a solid and positive strike. The blow made a satisfying crunch as the jaw was broken and the force sent the beast tumbling backwards onto its back. I followed a few paces whilst racking the lever of the Marlin and quickly reshouldering it. Shooting a man on the ground was akin to an assassination, but knowing what these were, it left me with no qualms at all, I squeezed the trigger and its skull fractured. Holmes’ shotgun rang out for a second time behind me. The four beasts were now finished and we were free to move.

  Getting up the pace, we could perhaps gain fifteen minutes on the horde, which would presumably continue to swarm past the inn. We could only hope that Hutton and those fine men could either break out or hold up.

  In the distance we could see the light haze and loose silhouette of a balloon shape, good old Hutton! Trotting up the footpath to the premises that housed the flying machine, panting from the quick rate we had kept up, we could see the silhouette of a man sitting casually in one of the rooms of the house before us. Holmes beat enthusiastically on the door, and yet, the man not shocked or startled, took a final sip from his cup before casually strolling to the door.

  The shabby and rough old door swayed open and before us stood a distinguished and yet roughly clothed man, but clearly a well educated one.

  “Mr Fogg?” Holmes blurted out, not giving the gentleman time to enquire about our presence. “At your service gentleman, why would you trouble me at these hours and with such armaments?” The man responded in a plucky and well spoken voice.

  Holmes, as he had with Hutton, explained as quickly as he possibly could, tagging Hutton’s name and order on to the end of his words.

  “I have travelled the world and seen plenty, this story seems farfetched to say the least my man, but that does not change the responsibility I owe Hutton and now to you.”

  Holmes informed him in no uncertain terms that we had to head for Switzerland without delay.

  “That does not change the fact my fine men that until my man returns with further supplies of coal, we will not get further than the coastline.”

  “Damn it man, have you no way to get this balloon in the air sooner?” snapped Holmes in a rather ungentle and rude fashion, of which I quite understood considering the

  impending situation, but was not endearing us to the man nonetheless.

  “I will have you know sir that this is no balloon, this is a dirigible, and we will leave the moment we have coal. Now, calm yourself and let us enjoy a pleasant cup of tea before taking to the air.”

  We were both unsure as to whether this odd gentleman understood the severity of the situation, but despite that, a cup of tea was music to our ears after the events of the

  last day. Tea was a comforting beverage at any time, and always gave such a feeling of home and sense of norm, no matter the chaos around oneself. As Mr Fogg settled down in his rocking chair and we planted ourselves nearby, Holmes piped up in a rather abrupt fashion, though not startling the gent.

  “Do you have any weapons about the premises?” “My valet has a coaching gun kept in the outhouse, but nothing else,” Mr Fogg replied.

  “Then I rather suggest you place your hands on it and have it duly prepared with as much urgency as the coal for your dirigible,” Holmes explained.

  The rather odd old gentleman rocked forward on his chair and rose from it, clearly now understanding that grave deeds were afoot and our haste and concern was not a small matter. With a straightening of his back he set out of the room with purpose. For all his oddities, this was clearly a sensible and quick thinking man, and Holmes

  evidently saw through to that conclusion quickly. Mr. Fogg strolled back into the room clutching a blunderbuss, handing it to me with a powder flask and case of shot, looking at me rather sheepishly.

  “Well I don’t know what to do with it!” he proclaimed. I took the gun in hand, it was old, I hadn’t handled a gun like this since my school days, it was clearly at least

  several decades old. Despite this, it was a well made and an exquisite piece with a brass barrel, octagonal for the first half. This was well looked after and treasured, the

  percussion mechanism had clearly been converted from the earlier flintlock design that the gun had fitted when new. Its stock was well oiled regularly and a folding bayonet ran along the top of the fourteen inch fluted barrel, retained by a tan leather strap with brass buckle. This was owned and kept by a man with respect and knowledge of arms, a man that we could only hope would arrive in time to provide our escape route.

  Holmes nodded to me, clearly showing he wanted to speak with Mr. Fogg privately whilst I prepared the blunderbuss. Holmes took Fogg’s arm and walked out of

  the room, I knew he was rooting for more information whilst ensuring our safe journey in as pleasant words as possible.

  I had never personally had need to use a weapon such as this, but it was essentially identical to the earlier muzzle loading Enfield’s I had experienced, before the days of the

  breech loading mechanisms, only requiring a proportional increase in all consumable components. I poured powder from the flask in quantities which would be obscene for

  any other weapon that didn’t require a carriage. I had shot, but no wadding, I suppose cartridges were not considered necessary for this weapon, as rate of fire was of no

  concern. I reached for Mr. Fogg’s newspaper, a terrible thing to do to a gentleman, but I knew we would not be in England long enough for him to know. Tearing the paper

  I stuffed it down the barrel, and using the ramrod, drove it home, quickly followed by shot and more wadding. With a new cap fitted, this cannon was ready to go, a one shot

  wonder, but well worth its weight in gold at a time in need. I had never travelled in a balloon, or dirigible as Mr. Fogg lovingly referred to it, and in all honesty I had no

  faith in such devices. It was simply not natural for men to be travelling like the birds. Travel by sea would always be natural to men, for we naturally float and swim, and many materials we work with have natural buoyancy, but no man or solid material naturally rises into the air.

  These balloons had existed for some time, but I had read of a number of accidents, which did not endear me to what I already had a dislike of. Sadly, despite all of my opinions and fears, we now had no alternative route, whilst an army was bearing down upon us. Mr. Fogg had travelled the world in such a device, and we therefore had

  to trust his knowledge and skills.A clattering sound appeared in the distance that was getting quickly louder, the sound of wheels and horses became clearer as Fogg’s valet roared towards the house, all three of us rushing to greet him. I wondered if he would ever appear, as these beasts appeared to be attacking all manner of locations. The valet was clearly a practical man, a little quirky certainly, but more in tune with the sane people among us than Mr. Fogg.

  “Passepartout
, these gentleman will be joining us, load the coal speedily as we take to the air in just a few moments.”

  I rushed to the cart and began to lift sacks off to help the valet, to my surprise so did Holmes, who would never normally stoop to such acts of physical labour. ‘Thank you, sirs,” the plucky valet responded. “You will shortly realise that you are the saviour of the evening sir, thank you,” Holmes responded.

  “My pleasure sir,” said Passepartout.

  Taking two sacks from the cart we followed Fogg to his wondrous flying machine and loaded them onto the basket whilst Mr. Fogg made the final preparations. We made a second trip but on our third trip to the cart we came to a quick halt, as we saw the glimmer of just fifty yards away, a mass of movement. All of us remained frozen, desperately trying to make out the reason for the movement, Holmes and I fearing the worst, as the valet was clearly surprised to see anyone at this time and place. The enemy was upon us, casually stumbling along, with the moaning sound which can only be comparable to a field hospital after a battle, a most uncomfortable ambience. “Fogg! Get us in the air!” barked Holmes. Lugging a sack of coal over our shoulders we ran through the front door, snapping up my rifle and Holmes’ shotgun whilst barely stopping and immediately out the back door towards the flying machine. Mr. Fogg was frantically untying the ropes and throwing off the sandbags which kept the device on the ground.

  “I have never had the requirement of taking to the air with such urgency gentleman and are therefore ill prepared for the condition,” Fogg said, panting from the quick work.

  I threw my rifle into the basket and hauled myself aboard, the others quickly following me. Passepartout was hastily throwing the mass of sandbags out of the basket as Fogg was shoveling coal in and stoking the fire with a bellows. The horde was now just thirty yards away and we had not left the ground. Taking my Marlin in hand, it felt entirely inadequate, when a rifle with such outstanding qualities had at times seemed necessary in previous years.