“This is out of mercy,” he said.
He was right, becoming a creature such as those was a fate I would not wish of any man, and the risk they presented to the rest of us was equally as important. The rest of the soldiers looked at him, shocked and in horror, but not confronting him, they were quickly learning the state of affairs.
Each of the men reached around for more ammunition, now truly appreciating their rifles more than any other item in the world. Looking out across the road at the carnage we had created, it was a devilish sight, two hundred yards of blood and devastation. Had we just killed people that could have been saved from this horrible curse? We may never know, but it was a moot point, for we must survive, and they were a barrier to that purpose.
“Finish off any that are still living, but conserve your ammunition,” said Holmes.
Walking among the dead and dying was not a new experience to me, but doing so to finish off survivors was wholly unsettling. The men spread out, five yards between each, and scoured the bodies for survivors. A matter of minutes later, all were silenced by steel. The group strolled back to the carts, shoulders were low, morale was low but unwavering, as all knew that only two options were present, fight or die.
“What now?” asked Jacques.
“We must move on to Meirengen,” replied Holmes.
“But what of Interlaken and the school?”
“We would never have left by choice, but continuing on is likely the only way this horrible war can be brought to a close,” replied Holmes.
“And what if you end it, what good will that be if so few survive to see it?”
It was a good point, and I know Holmes shared my feelings for the men that we had left behind. We had no way of telling if they even survived, but knowing the capabilities of those brave few, my heart told me they fought and lived on.
“What do you suggest?” asked Holmes.
“The road is cleared, you have a path to Meirengen, and we have a responsibility to our town,” Jacques replied.
“To divide our forces in a time like this is not a wise decision,” replied Holmes.
“Let us not forget our humanity now when faced with such horrors, it is what makes us strong,” I said.
Silence again fell upon the area whilst Holmes pondered the situation. It was clear that these men had the greatest respect for us, and would likely follow us if we required it, but their hearts were not in our mission, but of their home town.
“Very well, then please send my regards to the defenders of the school. If you can make it out alive, we are heading to Meirengen, I hope to see you there in the coming days, good luck.”
Holmes offered out his hand to Jacques, who gladly accepted it. This was an honourable man, one who had done us a good turn, and we had been able to help in doing so, a good ally. It was not a comforting thought to part with well equipped and capable fighters at a time like this, but it was necessary to maintain the sanity of all. The men began climbing onto the wagons and simply left the Gatling where is stood, amongst the trail of bodies.
“Good luck to you, gentleman, and thank you.”
We nodded in acknowledgement to our new found friend, both thankful of the mutual assistance we were able to provide. We walked back over to the site of the carnage to salvage what we could. Holmes picked up his Webley and stood reloading it. My rifle was still on the ground at the previous position that we had found the Gatling, it was evident I needed more ammunition for it. Walking over to the bodies of the two fallen soldiers where we had fought in close combat, I took what I could in ammunition from their shoulder bags.
I could see the gleam of Holmes’ shotgun between the bodies of two of the dead, we would be needing that. Strolling over to where it lay I leant down to pick it up. Without warning one of the bodies next to me turned over and pulled at my arm, taking me off my feet. I was now flat on the floor trying to keep him at arm’s length. With all my strength I held him back with my left arm, reaching for my second Adams. I drew the gun, and with the creature outreached, put the barrel under the chin and squeezed the trigger. The powerful round shot through the entire skull and set blood spurting upwards. Throwing the body aside, Holmes offered me his hand.
“It is time we moved on,” he said.
I couldn’t agree more. I finally reached down the shotgun and passed it on to Holmes, who began to reload it. I moved back to pick up my rifle before joining Holmes once more. It truly was time we moved on.
Seeing the devastation on the Swiss soldiers we were both wondering how our own people would be handling the same situation back home. We had better training and experienced soldiers than these, but many were abroad, it would be some time before they could be rallied to the fight.
For so many years the Royal Navy had protected us against every foe who dared endanger our fine lands, and yet now, they proved completely useless. The large number of men at sea and aboard could well be brought to bear in the future upon England, which meant all was not lost, it would only be a question of how many survivors they would find when landing there.
CHAPTER NINE
It had been a long and arduous journey over these last few days, we were physically and mentally exhausted. Our guns were caked in powder residue, our blades coated in congealed blood and our clothes stained by blood and powder. We were in a sorry state, but we pressed on.
In the homely Alpine villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell by Holmes’ quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every place we passed, that he was well convinced that walk where we would, we could not walk ourselves clear of the danger which was dogging our footsteps.
Once, I remember as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along the border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had been dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and roared into the lake behind us. In an instant Holmes had raced up onto the ridge and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every direction. It was in vain and I assured him that a fall of stones was a common chance in the springtime at that spot. He said nothing, but he smiled at me with the air of a man who sees the fulfilment of that which he had expected.
And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.
“I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain,” he remarked.
“If my record were closed tonight I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial state of society is responsible. Your memoirs will draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.”
I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me to tell. It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell, and yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.
It was on the 3rd of May when we reached the little town of Meiringen, It was an odd place, far from the busied and panicked streets of Interlaken, it was empty, peaceful, but eerily so. Wewandered the streets for several minutes looking for some sign of life, but our first find was only blood, a small quantity on the ground of the main street, but with no evidence of a body, survivor or zombi. Holmes as ever was quicker to devise an answer to this question than I.
“The army we faced in the valley was at least part of the populace of this place,” said Holmes.
The very thought sent shivers down my spine, the likely possibility that we had just butchered a large part of such a beautiful and innocent town. Both of us stood still, contemplating that possi
bility and looking around at the tranquilly that our guns had brought.
As we passed a bend we could see more trails of blood, and a shotgun lying on the ground perhaps thirty yards from the beginning of the trail. Following it, shotgun casings littered the path along the line of gore, until finally we reached the gun. It was blood stained also, lying near a wall. Blood ran up the wall, about four feet, an unpleasant sight, especially as no body lay in evidence of the event. The double barrelled hammer gun was locked open, with spent casings still in the chambers.
“What happened here?” I asked.
“I would say it is quite clear, my dear Watson. An injured man with a gun fought whilst trying to retreat from many oncoming foes, until finally he was overcome by the creatures, either from surprise, or from a reduction in strength and speed from his wounds. At which time he joined the ranks of the damned, a shame, for he was a hard fighter, a man we could have used in the future,” said Holmes.
He was right, then clearly at least somebody fought back here, which rather suggested others did also, we could only hope. A mild wind blew through the town, causing signs to creek on their hinges and further dust to imbed in our clothes and skin. What occurred to meat this stage was truly depressing. This was the final location in our journey, the end of Holmes’ knowledge of Moriarty’s plans, and yet we found nothing of note. Had we come all this way for nothing when we could have defended our home country?
If we found no further leads I do not know what we would have done, for we were in foreign lands, with war all around us and little ammunition or allies left to continue the fight.
“What now?” I asked.
“We continue on, there must surely be some survivors somewhere, we need information, and only the living can now provide that for us.”
Holmes was rather optimistic, but I suppose that was the only way to be, for the other alternative was to lay down and die. If we could survive this, surely so could others? We hoped so. We carried on until finally we saw a number of bodies surrounding a building in the distance. We approached the scene with extreme caution, but also hope. It was an inn called the Englicsher Hof. The lower windows were barricaded with many parts of the glass broken, the door firmly shut and no movement inside. With our weapons now brought to high port in readiness, we edged towards the building.
Reaching the edge of the inn we could now see the bodies more closely, we could see that they were zombis. Holmes kicked one over onto their front, revealing several large gunshot wounds, one to the chest, one to the head. I more closely examined another body, it had been struck down at the collarbone with a large cleaving action, something stronger than a sword, perhaps a farm implement of some sort. Somebody had fought back here, likely more than one individual. There was no sign of any creatures in the town, except the dead that littered the ground beneath us, surely then those who were responsible were still here?
Holmes moved up to the door of the inn and struck it three times with his shotgun stock. There was no response, but we would not believe that no one inhabited the inn. All the windows and doors were firmly secure so there must be someone inside. Holmes struck the door again several times, and on the third strike a vision slit was quickly wrenched back at the top of the door, revealing the eyes of a man, perhaps in middle age, and still human.
“Wer sind Sie?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” Holmes replied.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
The man spoke with excellent English but was not particularly inviting, it was perhaps understandable seeing the desolation around him.
“Mr Holmes, this is my colleague Mr Watson? said Holmes.
“Have you been bitten?” he asked.
“Most definitely not sir, but we are tired and weary, in need of food and rest, we have been fighting these foul creatures for several days from England to here.”
“Then what are you doing here?” the man asked.
“We are following the path to the root of this evil to bring an end to it,” Holmes replied.
“Will you do us the pleasure of entering your house?”
The man looked weary, but slowly began unbolting the door, he was most likely glad to just see more humans. Three bolts rang out and the door swung open. The man that stood before us was tall, with a sizeable round belly protruding over his grey trousers and covered in a dirty white shirt and braces. He had a bushy moustache, a revolver stuffed in his trousers and a shotgun in his hands. This was a practical man, the shotgun was firmly aimed at us.
“Turn around!”
“Excuse me?” said Holmes.
“I am sorry, gentleman, but these are desperate times. We will let you in once you have proven you have not been bitten, now turn around, slowly, let us see your necks, and pull up your sleeves, I cannot take the word of a stranger,” he said.
It was fair enough really, this man had likely just had to butcher what were until recently his neighbours, and was now being asked to trust foreign strangers. We propped our long guns against the doorway and did as the man asked, until he was finally satisfied that we were not infected. The man finally relaxed slightly and lowered his shotgun to one hand beside him.
“Thank you gentleman, I am so sorry to have to be a poor host, but these are wicked times, and I have no choice, you are the first normal people we have seen all day.”
“It is no problem, sir. And thank you, your thoroughness is to be commended, may we come in and offer some explanation of these events, and perhaps trouble you for some information,” said Holmes.
“Of course, welcome to the Englischer Hof, I am Peter Steiler the elder, the landlord,” the man said.
The landlord was an intelligent man, having served for three years as a waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London. He had done well to barricade and defend this place so effectively. We thankfully accepted his welcome and entered, it truly was a wonderful thing to be invited into a place of safety among survivors.
“Do you have any more survivors here?” I asked.
“Four, my son and three patrons.”
“You have done well to survive here,” I responded.
“Perhaps, but yesterday there were six more people lodging here,” he replied.
It was a sad turn of events, but anyone surviving an outbreak such as this was impressive. Peter led us through to the kitchen where the rest of the three guests were sat, along with his son. They were drinking tea, but not in the relaxed fashion you would expect of such a relaxing drink. The whole table was shocked, quiet and dulled.
“Are there any more survivors in the town?” I asked.
“I honestly cannot tell you gentleman, since this began we have remained firmly locked in here, as it was the only way to stay safe. We have made as little noise as possible and dealt withanyone thathas tried to break in,” he replied.
Peter muttered a few words at the group in German mentioning our names, but received no response. The kitchen table had a selection of weapons laid upon it. A bolt action rifle lay at the centre, a Vetterli M1881, a precursor to the Schmidt-Rubin I was carrying. Another shotgun lay beside it as well as two revolvers. A number of rudimentary weapons such as knives and axes also littered the table, the axe still had evidence of blood on its tip. These people had evidently fought desperately to survive, and the landlord being the linchpin.
“I do hope you can provide us with some information and answers Mr Holmes, for we have just become locked in our own home, having to defend ourselves from our neighbours,” said Peter.
“This disaster has struck across Europe, from England where we started this journey to this place we now find ourselves,” replied Holmes.
“Are you not bringing this problem with you?”
“No, we are following the head of it to bring an end to these dark days,” said Holmes.
“Then can you explain to us why our neighbours have become savages?”
“To some extent, yes.”
“Then do tell,” Peter insisted.
“Anyone one of us can become one of those beasts, which I have been reliably informed are known as zombis, upon sharing of their bodily fluids, most commonly through a bite. The bitten subject dies within a few hours, less through extreme blood loss, and quickly re-animates as a foul creature,” said Holmes.
The landlord look aghast, they were hard words to accept, and not something you would expect to hear except perhaps in old tales. Peter slumped slightly and laid his shotgun to rest against a wall. Rubbing his brow, both weary and highly distressed, he looked up at us.
“And there is no cure for this?”
“Not as far as we know, and the survivors are too busy trying to remain alive to spend even a moment’s time considering the possibility, though my guess would be no. Everything we have seen suggests that you must first die in order to become a zombi, and no man can be brought back from the dead,” said Holmes.
Peter sat down at the tablewith the drink he had left and contemplating the even worse news he had just received.
“Will you stay with us?” he asked.
“If we could have a bed for the night, that would be most appreciated, but beyond that we must pursue our mission.”
“Of course, can we be of any assistance in that regard?” Peter asked.
“Information would be valuable, we are looking for a man who would pass near here often,” said Holmes.
“I meet many people who travel here, so please, ask what you will of me.”
“The man we seek is a tall Englishman, thin, slightly hunched, with thinned hair and a sharp face. He would likely appear rude to you and would never travel without aides, who would be tough characters, always attending his will.”
The landlord straightened in his posture, the character profile clearly provoking a response.
“You know of who I speak?” asked Holmes.
“I do, but he never appeared as anything but pleasant and civil to us, his name is John Wilkinson.”
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