Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem.indb

by Nick S. Thomas; Arthur C. Doyle

  Despite the uncomfortable night in Rouen waking up with just half my typical rest, I felt a world apart from the day before and happy to be still walking. Holmes looked as bedraggled as I, both our clothes were dirty and worn, not the way gentlemen should present themselves, and this memorable feature was not an image we wanted seen when secrecy was of the utmost importance in many of our movements.

  Brussels was our next port of call, it was a necessary part of our journey, a fact that our enemy would likely know. But setting off from the inn, we knew that this was still the best option, Moriarty must think we were heading to Switzerland with intent and not just on loose information and speculation. With no time to waste we boarded the first train available to Brussels, it was at least a relaxing journey despite the ongoing risk of detection.

  We arrived in Brussels that night and immediately travelled to my old friend’s residence on the banks of the Senne. Cyril Matthey had been a friend of mine since my army days, where we were in regular contact in Afghanistan. Cyril was a man who truly appreciated the technical advancements being made in military science on a yearly basis. As much as he loved and respected all manner of weapons that came before us, he was quick to acquire anything new and exciting, a forward thinking man, exactly the sort of chap we needed at this hour practical, capable and well armed.

  Traipsing through the quiet night, we eventually reached the home we were looking for, glad to have remembered the route from my visit to my friend some years earlier. Brussels was a lovely placeto be travelling through, though the thought of the destruction currently bearing down upon England was constantly in our thoughts. Seeing lights on in Cyril’s house I knew we were in luck, a man such as this would never refuse a friend in need. We could hear the voices of pleasant conversation taking place in the premises as I knocked on the door, and then knocked again after no response.

  A chair could be heard shifting back and footsteps towards the door. With a heave it flew open and Cyril stood before us, a fine cigar between his teeth and whisky tumbler in his hand, his shirt was untidy and waistcoat open, tie undone around his neck he was clearly enjoying a good night in the company of friends. Despite the years that had passed, our ragged state and his inebriated one, Cyril recognised me immediately.

  “You are improperly dressed for this fine evening, Mr Watson,” he exclaimed.

  “Sorry to bother you sir, but I am Mr Holmes, and we are in need of your assistance,” Holmes butted in.

  Cyril swung the door fully open and stood up proudly, inviting us through.

  “Then this must indeed be a time of emergency, just the sort of excitement that this evening was lacking Sir,” Matthey shouted.

  He was a sarcastic but joyful man, usually a little tipsy, but always a friend and gentleman. We were fortunate to have such a contact within our route, and Holmes clearly understood this stroke of luck for what it was. Passing through the door into better light, Cyril further looked us top to bottom with as much curiosity as shock towards our rough and bloodied attire. This was far from the respectable image I would ever choose to present myself into a friend’s home at any time of the day.

  Walking past Cyril and towards the sound of talk and laughter, we passed walls of fine swords, Cyril had clearly kept up his interest in all matters military. Entering the lounge we stood before a table with four men sat around playing cards, with a fifth chair empty where Cyril had clearly sat. All of the men were of a similar age and manner to Cyril, clearly hardy and capable. The room was lit lowly, in keeping with their game, lavishly decorated with smoke wafting across the room. Cyril had evidently done well for himself, this was not the lodgings of a humble Captain.

  “Gentlemen, this is Jacob, John, Egerton and Berty, fellow comrades in arms and alcohol. Boys, this is John Watson, and his friend who I am not yet acquainted.”

  “Sherlock Holmes, and thank you for welcoming us in to your home,” he gracefully responded.

  The room of men perked up upon the name, clearly recognising it, Cyril himself turned and offered his hand to Holmes.

  “I am honoured to have such a fine gentleman in my home sir!” Cyril said excitedly.

  “And I thank you sir for your hospitality, however I must abruptly stop you and explain our purpose here, for it cannot wait,” Holmes replied.

  “Then go on sir, for you have our full attention,” Cyril said confidently.

  “England is currently under attack from a foe the likes none of us have seen before, nor would believe the existence of without seeing it with our own eyes. I therefore beg of you to take what we say under the strictest consideration and act accordingly, for proof will soon follow in a fashion which is most hideous.”

  One of the men at the table, Jacob, spoke up.

  “What possible threat could spark up that the militias and army could not suppress in such a short period and with ease?”

  “I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at this moment in time to enter into long and complex explanations. This matter is much more urgent that you can appreciate, as you could well have a battle on your hands by morning,” Holmes said.

  “Then be brief and speak up,” said Cyril.

  Holmes explained as best he could, for articulating such a scenario which would both be understandable and believable at the same time would was no easy feat. Both Holmes and I believed that somehow, the villain Moriarty was turning the population against itself, turning average citizens in to blood thirsty monsters, we just did not know how.

  What was quite clear was that the rapid increase in monsters suggested that new subjects were being created at a fairly regular basis. Moriarty was not in England to be doing this work and was using a scattergun approach with his use of the beasts. This pointed to the fact that the monsters themselves were somehow transforming humans into their kind, whether intentionally or not.

  We had little evidence to support this theory, but it was the best we currently had. The incident on the platform in Newhaven rather did suggest that those who had been bitten by the creatures become them, or were they for some reason already becoming the beasts?

  Holmes explained our journey to Switzerland and the purpose for it, whilst the card players listened intently, not knowing whether to laugh or gasp at the events being explained.

  “I am rather sorry sir, but despite your fine reputation, I am finding it hard to fathom the situation, and am at odds between believing an upstanding gentleman and wondering whether you have gone quite mad,” Berty said.

  Before either of us could respond to the man’s understandable questioning of our credibility, Cyril leapt in on our defence.

  “As farfetched as this may sound to you and me, I would not ever doubt my friend Watson, who has never been anything but the most honest and

  practical gentleman you can expect to find in this world. If he fully supports Holmes’ story, then so do I,” Cyril said.

  This was exactly the sort of support I was hoping for; for few other men in the world would accept or believe the harsh realities we now faced without seeing them first hand.

  “John, Holmes, you have my support, boys, who will rise to the occasion in this time of need?”

  He looked around the table, all fine men, all contemplating the situation. Clearly the support of their natural leader and host was giving them cause for thought. Finally, Egerton spoke up.

  “These are crazy and unbelievable events, but if you thoroughly believe what you are saying and have the support of Matthey, so shall you have mine,” he said.

  Finally, Cyril was providing the anchor of support that we needed to convince such practical gentleman that we spoke the truth.

  “All those willing to raise arms in support of these men and follow them, say aye,” Cyril said, as he gazed around the room, pointing his tumbler at each man in turn.

  Each man, still slightly hesitantly spoke up, all agreed.

  “Then let us lift one last glass to this new alliance before we must sober up and rise
to the occasion!”

  The men all stood, tumblers raised.

  “For England and the Queen, may we be victorious!”

  Glasses clashed and were as quickly emptied. Cyril thumped his glass to the table, becoming instantly more serious and determined.

  “Gentleman, join me upstairs in the armoury.”

  Cyril had always been a collector of all things military and had a love of both weapons past and present. We could not have hoped for a better colleague when far from home. Trundling upstairs with anticipation of not just seeing the fine collection but re-equipping, something we had desperately needed to do since leaving England. The band of us seven were walking with purpose, even if most of them were not in a fit state for war, only time could cure that. Still, I would rather have the support of drunken capable men than sober fools.

  Cyril led us across the landing of his home and into a large room, bigger than the lounge we had left behind, and with a ceiling that must have been twelve feet high. Deep glass cabinets lined every wall, the glimmer of well kept wood and metal was clear for all to see. This was a man who was not just fond of his weapons, but obsessed with them. As we wandered around the room, browsing each cabinet, it was clear that a great deal of time had gone into the purchase, presentation and preservation of these fine implements, each displayed better than most museums.

  At the bottom of each cabinet lay foot high drawers containing large quantitiesof ammunition for all weapons, a warming fact to the two of us that had faced the evil which these men were yet to experience.

  Amongst the rather large and outstanding collection of firearms, one immediately caught my eye, a rifle I had read about but was yet to see or handle in person, the Schmidt-Rubin 1889. This was a rifle only months into military service. I was shocked to even see one in a private collection, though I should not have been, knowing the man who owned it. Noticing my interest in the fine piece Cyril moved over to open the cabinet.

  “It is nice to see that you still have fine taste John,” Cyril happily said.

  Opening the cabinet he handed me the Swiss repeating rifle, a truly magnificent feat of design and engineering. It was a long rifle, not really graceful, but beautiful in its concept and function, an engineering marvel. The large twelve round magazine was superior in capacity to almost every other weapon of its kind in the world. The straight pull mechanism made for rapid reloading in a mannerwhich was more natural than my British made Lee-Metford. The wood was unmarked from the factory and well polished, this was more like handling a piece of art than a weapon. Cyril handed me a box of ammunition for the rifle from the cabinet, opening it I saw the further magnificence that I had read about, copper jacketed rounds, revolutionary. The 7.5 x 53.5mm round with paper patch over the bullet was intriguing; this was a weapon that I could not resist using. Yet, I felt rude, for this was clearly a prized possession of my friend.

  “Keep it, for if what you speak is true, you will have great need for that rifle, and I would rather see it in your capable hands than any other man I know,” Cyril said.

  With a smile I could not hide, I thanked my friend, this was the first time I had properly relaxed and felt at all comfortable in a couple of days. This would be a fine replacement for my beloved Marlin.

  “That goes for all of you, equip yourselves in as best way possible, and be sure to fill your pockets with plenty of ammunition,” Cyril said to the room.

  As the men began equipping with a selection of weapons from the cabinets, Holmes wandered, unsure of what to choose. Despite having a great knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, the detective had never had an intent and enthusiastic knowledge of ranged weaponry like I did. Besides his Webley Bulldog and the typical range of common scatter guns, he had no further firearms experience. As with many subjects, Holmes was ignorant to those he considered unnecessary for the task he undertook, and whilst I doubted he would ever change, firearms now became a subject he was all too keen to develop. Cyril had clearly noticed Holmes’ indecision on the subject and went to his aid.

  “What sort of firearm are you most comfortable and effective with Mr Holmes, for I will choose something appropriate?” Cyril asked, glad to be of help on his favourite subject.

  “One with the most power at close range and little concern of accuracy,” he replied.

  Cyril chuckled.

  “Then I know exactly what you need Mr. Holmes!”

  Crossing the room, Cyril opened a cabinet and pulled out a weapon that looked like a shotgun, though not like one I had ever seen. Crossing back to us with a large smile and a box of ammunition that he placed down on the table beside us, he took the weapon in both hands.

  “Gentleman, this is the Spencer & Roper 1882, a repeating shotgun.”

  In awe, this truly was a weapon built for Holmes. Cyril showed how it worked, with a racking foregrip which caused the spent shell to eject and a new shell to be loaded. In the close encounters we had already faced, this weapon would have been a godsend.

  The men of the room were quickly gathering a selection of rifles and shotguns and the ammunition for them, clearly all capable folk, likely military men from their efficient and determined will with weaponry. Cyril pointed us to a large wardrobe at the far end of the room, opening it we discovered it was full of all manner and means of carrying weapons and ammunition.

  Taking a large leather satchel I filled it with stripper clips for my newly acquired rifle. Holmes took a large leather bandolier and began placing as many shotgun shells in to it as he could. Each of the men took out as much load bearing equipment as they could carry. Next would be sidearms.

  What became evident throughout combat of the last two days was that one weapon was never enough, two being barely adequate at best.

  “Mr. Matthey, we need handguns, and close quarter weapons,” Holmes said.

  “You really feel that will be necessary?” he replied.

  “Without a doubt,” Holmes answered.

  Matthey was shocked by the fact that seven men equipped with rifles and shotguns, and enough ammunition for a regiment, would not be well armed enough for the battles we faced. Yet he was rather pleased to be asked for further weaponry. Walking to the centre of the room, where a large table stood draped in a velvet cloth, he took hold of the cover and tugged it off. The eyes of every man glistened at what we knew it beheld. The table was almost entirely glass on top, showing a large array of handguns on display underneath in pull out drawers. This was not storage, this was a magnificent display.

  “Take what you need from here, I will get us some cold steel,” said Matthey.

  As he left the room, Holmes pulled on the closest drawer, which must have been four feet wide, and looking in amazement at the wonders before him. Holmes had never been a firearm enthusiast, but his recent necessity for their usage appeared to have changed that.

  I walked over to the large wardrobe of equipment and looked for holsters. Rifling through the items, hung along the top I saw a handy looking device. Taking it off the rack I could see that it was a type of leather shoulder harness with two holsters. Taking off my jacket I pulled this rig on and it sat comfortably. The holsters fitted at my front, in parallel just above my belt line, this was much better than using my jacket pockets and jacket liner.

  Walking back over to the table, Holmes had in hand a large revolver, an 1879 model Reichs Revolver, an elegant and robust piece in its huge frame, though far from modern in design. The gun was a nuisance to reload and could only fire by single action, but it was incredibly solid, reliable and packed an almighty punch, not a bad tool to have.

  Holmes fondled the gun, clearly becoming rather attached to it. It was not worth explaining how there were far better guns to choose, in any respect, it suited him. Walking over to the wardrobe he pulled out an American low slung belt holster. Filling the cartridge belt with as many of the large calibre rounds as he could, Holmes fitted the gun belt around him, becoming a strange hybrid of English gentleman and American gunslinger. Over this went the
shotgun bandolier, he looked happy with himself, and certainly confident.

  Holmes as ever, seeing quantity being preferable to quality of firearms, also reloaded his Bulldog, placing it back into his jacket pocket. Additionally he reloaded the Webley .455 I had given him and picked up a matching model to it from Cyril’s collection stuffed both into a shoulder pack that he threw over himself.

  Seeing another Adams Revolver in the drawer that used the same cartridge as mine, it made sense to pair it with my old faithful companion in this paired holster I now wore. As I slung the cartridge satchel over my shoulder Cyril strolled back in to the room grasping a mass of military sabres. This was a welcome sight. For the thought of running out of ammunition again in front of such frightful odds was a fearful one, cold steel had been the saviour of many men for thousands of years, why should we be any different? Despite all the advances in technology, a sword was still a reliable friend in a time of crisis.

  The swords varied massively in age, ranging from the period of Bonaparte to modern day. Holmes, being a modern fencer opted for the most modern British sword he could see and recognise, an 1853 pattern Cavalry Trooper’s sword, a simple three bar hilt design with pinned grip and almost straight blade. This sword offered a good mix between cut and thrust with a rather long blade, but its reputation was mixed from my knowledge. I instantly saw the weapon I would have to choose, a 1796 pattern Light Cavalry sword, one of the wonders of British sword design. This heavily curved sword, with a simple stirrup hilt, offered little hand protection but astonishing cutting ability. It was by far best suited to the task. This beautiful butcher’s blade looked a lot heavier than it was, its wide fuller doing wonders to keep the balance in check. All the men donned swords using the sword belts that Cyril had kindly provided; few men would have been able to equip such a force from his own home.