The Outsiders

by Neil Jackson

  It feared.

  As quickly as the attack began, it ended. The rat was no more. Nothing. Totally consumed...save for the small amount of liquid residue that remained.

  The insects returned to the walls. The light faded to darkness.

  Silence reigned.

  The heavy warehouse doors opened and four silhouettes formed in the mist, with three lanterns illuminating the area as the men stepped deeper into the building. The room was empty save for a collection of small cages, each no more than twelve inches long and six inches wide and high...and the smell of dead fish and smoke kippers.

  There was a collection of microscopes of varying sizes, glass slides and six boxes that contained something experimental from the army. Holmes took a good look at the equipment and turned to Private Alten.

  “Private Alten.”

  The soldier looked up from his own examination of the cages and gizmos.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Could you arrange to get these instruments onto tables and the contents of those six boxes opened and hung up, ready to use.”

  “And the cages, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Take those down to the ship and leave them by the walkway, if you would be so kind. And we shall return at first light.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Watson turned to Jephson.

  “Something tells me that this ship is something of a personal crusade, Doctor.”

  The American smiled.

  “Crusade? You could say that, Dr. Watson. My father was one of three passengers that vanished. Wasn’t part of the ship’s original manifest, so there is another part to the mystery. He did leave a journal, but it’s been proved that this was nothing more than a hoax. Something akin to a writer’s fantasy to earn a few shillings, as I think you British would say.”

  “Are you hoping to find, Dr. Jephson?”

  “Clue to what actually happened. The truth is out there and I want to be there when Holmes finds it.”

  Holmes turned toward the two gentlemen.

  “That is what we will do, Dr. Jephson. But first we need to plan. There is much to do.”

  “I want to get back to the lodgings and eat, Mister Holmes.”

  Watson turns back to Jephson.

  “And you must try the fruit crumble. For a small village on the side of nowhere, the chef is a genius.”

  “Crumble, Dr. Watson? What is crumble?”

  “A little slice of British heaven, my friend.”

  The warehouse doors slammed shut, leaving the soldier to set up the equipment for the next day.

  The morning broke with a cool breeze and no sign of the fog that shrouded the harbour the previous night. Four guards now stood close by to walkway of the ship and the other two stood guard on the warehouse and Holmes’ equipment. The ship looked less imposing in daylight, almost benign.

  At first glance, who would even consider that there was such a mysterious past connected with such a wonderful feet of engineering?

  At the bottom of the walkway were the small cages; twelve of them, each of them now with an occupant.

  A rat.

  The warehouse door opened and out stepped three men dressed in strange, heavyweight rubber suits. The suits were ochre and topped off with small versions of the deep sea diving helmet, yet the complete outfit was much more manoeuvrable. Each helmet had an experimental lamp atop, freeing up a hand that would have been carrying a lantern that gave the same amount of illumination.

  In the suits were, Sergeant Merry, Dr, Jephson and Holmes.

  The three made the short walk to the ship and each picked up four of the rat-cages.

  Holmes turned to his colleagues and unclipped his faceplate.

  “Gentlemen, here we go. Phase One. Don’t linger, don’t stop, don’t do anything that we did not discuss last night. If I am right, you do not want to be down there longer than need be. Do you understand?”

  The two men nodded.

  Watson stepped forward toward his friend.

  “I hope you heard your own rules, Holmes.”

  “Anything more than thirty minutes, you know what to do.”

  “Just don’t take longer than thirty minutes.”

  They each entered the Celeste amidships. No words passed between them, not that they would have heard each other through their heavy suits.

  Sergeant Merry moved toward the bow of the ship, Holmes to the stern and Jephson, at his his request, moved to the holds. Each of the cages was laid on the floor, in accordance with Holmes’ instructions.

  Merry had set down his four cages in a matter of a few minutes, five at the very most, as per his orders. He was soon out of the ship, helmet off and breathing in cool, clean air again.

  “That didn’t take as long as I thought, Dr. Watson.”

  “The others?”

  “You knew the plan, sir. Different areas for each.”

  Holmes began to lay his cages, but the longer he was on board, the more his desire to understand the underlying mystery. For him, a desire: for the man in the holds, an obsession.

  Holmes took a close look at one of the planks off the internal hull. Something was compelled him to take a sample...a need for answers...or questions that could lead to the right answers. He was able to pull a small sample of wood away from an area of hull that had a slight buckle in it. He placed it into a sample bag that was made of the same heavy-duty material as his suit.

  The fourth of Holmes’ cages was set down and he prepared to leave, as per his own directive. So much more he wanted to do, but this was not the time. He moved toward the exit and as he passed one of the stairwells to the lower deck, he could have sworn that he saw, for a moment a light that burned like a magnesium flare. He stood and peered into the impenetrable darkness.

  There was a light. But no movement attached to it.

  Jephson was in trouble.

  Holmes abandoned his own plan, or was about to, when he found himself being held back. Sergeant Merry pushed Holmes back and descended the stairwell himself.

  Holmes lay Jephson’s suit on one of the examination tables in the warehouse, that now served as a small laboratory.

  “That’s all I found, Mr. Holmes. That and his helmet.” said the Sergeant.

  “I knew he didn’t want to wear the suit, but would he be foolish enough to take it off? I doubt it.” replied Holmes.

  “So where is Dr. Jephson?” asked Watson.

  “He has to still be on there?” Merry snapped back.

  “I don’t think so, Sergeant.”

  Holmes cut a small section of Jephson’s suit and placed it under the most powerful of the three microscopes. He placed his right eye to the ocular lens and adjusted the focus.

  “Watson, take a look at this and tell me what you see.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Just tell me what you see.”

  Watson was indignant at Holmes’ tone but did as he was instructed.

  Watson always did what he was asked.

  “Did you see anything else, Sergeant?”

  “Even with the lamps it was dark. You couldn’t see much at all.”

  He adjusted the eyepiece to suit his own vision and examined the sample.

  You could have heard a pin drop in the room as Watson studied, adjusted, and studied again. After what seemed like hours, the physician raised his head, looked at Holmes, then to Merry, and back to Holmes.

  “Holes. Hundreds of tiny holes.”

  Merry reached for his kitbag and pulled out a hip flask. He took a much needed drink, then turned to the others.

  “So is he down there, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I have one more thing to check, before I can give you anything close to an answer.”

  Holmes removed the piece of wood from his sample bag and cut a small piece from it. Using the same microscope, he studied the sliver with the same searching endeavour. No answers again. More questions.

  The detective wiped the sliver of wood with a finger and checked it a
gain.

  He raised his head just enough to garner Watson’s attention.

  “I need to go back on board. I think I know what has happened. In fact, it’s still happening.”

  “You can’t be serious, Holmes. We’ve already lost one man. What good would it serve to risk another” Watson asked.

  “I have to find out if my theories are right. And if I am, we’re going to be fine for some time.”

  There was an air of uncanny familiarity about this scenario. Holmes would insist. Watson would question. Holmes would do what he thought was the right path to traverse. Such was the order of things.

  Merry had almost finished the contents of the hip-flask when Holmes turned towards him

  “I need two volunteers, Sergeant Merry.”

  “Just one more, Mr. Holmes. I’m coming...after I’ve had another medicinal tot.”

  “Be ready in thirty minutes, please Sergeant.”

  “Why not now, Mr. Holmes?” asked the soldier.

  “I still have a couple of tests to perform. And I need you sober, so not too much medicine.”

  It was still only mid-morning as the grey storm clouds began to gather above Mallaig. Along with the storm clouds came the people, the watchers, all keen to see the ‘men in the funny suits’ and the great detective Sherlock Holmes. There were others who wanted the soldiers, Watson and Holmes gone...and that ship.

  Some of the fisherman had heard the rumours of the ghost ship. Others had heard that it was a former plague ship that had been bought cheaply but still carried the illness and that they were all doomed to die in a spread of seeping boils and agony. Dr. Watson and the ten soldiers were all now pressed in duty, were charged with ensuring that there would be no explosion of rage. No reacting to those who live in the quicksands of ignorance. Hold your steel, gentlemen. You are professionals.

  Young Alten had taken the position of second volunteer and like Merry before him, went about the task of checking the four cages that his Sergeant had set down. All still housed their single occupants, much to his relief.

  Within a few minutes, he was back on the harbour-side, with the rats in the warehouse.

  “Doctor Watson, sir.”

  “Yes, Private Alten?”

  “Being as Mr. Jephson is missing, don’t you think it would be a good idea if I went back aboard and helped with the search. Many hands making light work and all.”

  “We both have our orders, Private Alten.”

  A number of the watching group were becoming more vocal in their protestation, unable to contain their unfounded fears and bias.

  “We don’t want that ship in here. It’s a devil-ship.” shouted one local, McGraw, sinewy man, all muck and muscle and a twenty-five year veteran of the sea with a visage that looked as if another twenty had taken their toll.

  “We have important business here, now go about your business, you men.” came the reply from Watson, who now had one of the soldiers at his side.

  “Take it out and burn it. Send it back to the hell that spawned it. If you don’t, we will.” McGraw continued.

  The group, now numbering at least fifty, edged closer to the soldiers and Watson, finding bravery in their numbers.

  “There are more of us than you. Now stand aside and no harm will come to you. This is our harbour. Our livelihood.” McGraw revealed a cosh in his hand and his eyes gave no doubt that he was being goaded on by his sense of strange importance and would use every means at his disposal to carry out his desires.

  The group edged closer as the soldiers drew back to protect the civilian with them and the walkway.

  “I advise you to stand back, there.” Watson said. How he wished for Holmes’ presence at this moment. He would act rather than react as was Watson’s lifelong action plan.

  “We ain’t taking any orders from your kind.” Dissatisfaction had settled on McGraw’s mind like a shadow. He acted...and led the rush.

  The air was suddenly penetrated by a single report from a standard issue, Martini-Henry, rifle.

  Everyone at the harbour-side turned toward the collection of barrels close to the warehouses and smoke houses. Private Scott stood, impassive on the fish oil-barrels, still looking down the hot barrel of his rifle that he called ‘Agnes’. A small plume of white smoke lazily left the black steel tube.

  “My word!” exclaimed a rather nervous Watson as one of the soldiers whispered to him.

  “Scott...sharpshooter...one of the regiments best, sir.”

  “He shot me. He bloody shot me.”

  McGraw was kneeling on the ground, his cosh alongside him, clutching at his right forearm. Blood dripped on the cobbled stones.

  The group had begun to draw back to a more manageable distance.

  Two others came to McGraw’s aid and helped raise him to his feet. Private Scott’s barrel was trained on McGraw’s every move. The eager soldier was almost wishing for the fisherman to give him an excuse to squeeze the release.

  Less than two minutes later, only a few remained. A last defiant act or something to help pass boredom. No one cared.

  “Excellent shot, Private Scott. Thank you.”

  “I was aiming for his thigh, sir. I haven’t aligned this sight properly.” said the private.

  A look of mild discomfort and relief appeared on Watson’s face like a mask.

  Dr. Watson turned on his heels when he realised that that something...someone...was missing.

  “Where is Private Alten?”

  All he got in reply was blank looks and the shrugging of shoulders. Watson glanced up at the Celeste.

  “Damned fool.”

  Holmes’ movements were as cautious as a cat and, despite the heavyweight suit, were as deft. Down in the holds an anxiety hung in air like a dark impenetrable cloud. The silence, due to the helmets, was the one sense that Holmes sorely wished was at his avail.

  He reached the first cage...empty.

  The second...empty.

  The deeper he moved into the belly of the ship, the greater his trepidation, regardless of his reputation. At the back of his mind was the missing, presumed dead, Dr. Jephson. But that drive for a definitive solution was too great...and he continued on.

  On the deck above, Merry’s own search revealed two cages empty and two with their occupants very much alive. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, a light rushing down one of the stairwells to the holds. The Sergeant moved toward one of the hatchways that led to the lower deck, to see what or who was responsible for the light. The big man knelt down and peered into the darkness. He then experienced the sudden pain of something sharp being stuck into the back of his hand. He pulled it back from the edge and took a close look.

  Nothing.

  A pain in the other hand...and another...and more

  The man stood and saw them, fine gossamer that emanated from the walls and buried themselves in his hands and forearms. The pain was growing...and the feeling in his limbs fading. He saw the glowing and the walls begin to pulse.

  He prepared himself for something inhuman and found himself being dragged across the damp, wooden deck. All he could see was the passing of the struts and flooring of the top deck. Seconds felt like hours until he was aware that he was being propped up against a supporting pillar. His eyelids were paralysed open and saw Holmes’ face staring at him. He couldn’t hear a thing, but could just about understand what Holmes was trying to relay to him.

  Holmes’ slim stature belied the man’s strength. He was able to hoist the soldier to his feet and put him over his shoulder. Less than a minute later and Merry was staring at a greying sky...and Holmes. Watson saw Holmes appear and with two soldiers in support, hurried up the walkway.

  Merry’s helmet was removed to aid his breathing which had become shallow.

  Holmes’ took off his own headgear and looked up at Watson who was now standing over the pair of them.

  “Watson, take him down and give him a shot of adrenalin. You’ll find a supply i
n the warehouse in a small, black leather pouch. I prepared the measures in advance. But hurry, before he goes into shock. And then strip him down and wash him. C’mon man, time is of the essence.”

  “We have one problem Holmes.”

  “Problem, what problem, speak man.”

  “Private Alten.”

  “What of him?”

  “He returned back to the ship. To help you...speed things up.”

  “The ignorance of youth. Alright, bring up buckets of water, that pouch I mentioned and your personal medical kit. I’ll go and get him.”

  “Can any of us help?”

  “No...I think the Sergeant may have helped save the Private. Have two men at the stern hatchway...and do whatever you have to do to get it open. And wait for my signal.”

  Holmes replaced his helmet and re-entered the darkness.

  The first of the tendrils went unfelt by Alten but within a matter of no more than several seconds, more of the fine hairs pierced his suit sending their dose of poison coursing through his veins. The digestive enzyme and poison mix began to go to work almost immediately. The tendrils held him in a standing position; in some kind of grotesque crucifix.

  Larger tendrils appeared, tightening on his suit. Still, the man would not fall. Would not cede to anyone or thing.

  The pain in his calf was different. Not like the sense of stinging from the first tendrils. This was deeper. It was as if the tendrils knew that they had a larger, unwilling prey and had to resort to more violent methods. Alten tried to pull away his right leg from the binding fronds and then felt clear. His leg had been cut away mid-calf. The pain in his left forearm grew and moments later the limb was literally stripped from the elbow.

  The agony was unbearable but the helmet silenced any screams.

  His body hung there, held up by the tendrils.

  Then the walls began to glow.

  Holmes found Alten in the midships, close to the stairwell that led to the upper deck astern.