Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem

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 possibility 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.”

Holmes shot a look at me, this was the first lead we had received since Holmes had first come to me with this information, and Holmes had lead us directly here, it was a positive step.

“Does this Wilkinson live in this area?” asked Holmes.

“I truly cannot say, but he is here often and is a great lover of the local scenery, so I can only imagine that he has some regular accommodation nearby.”

“Would you have any idea where we could find this man?”

“He has on occasion made more than a few mentions of the hamlet of Rosenlaui, and the falls of Reichenbach, of which he was a great admirer, and said he spent much time basking in their beauty,” said Peter.

“Thank you friend, this is the best information we have received in days, and gives us a direction for tomorrow.”

“Do you believe that Wilkinson is at the heart of this wickedness?” Peter asked.

“If he is the very same man I described, then I know without a doubt that he is,” replied Holmes.

“These are more than sad days, when we must fight and kill our neighbours, defend our homes with our lives and find that what friendly acquaintances we may have left here are villains,” said Peter.

“Indeed, but I have no more comforting information for you, other than my promise, that we will do all in our power to stop this. If it were not for our weariness from travel and combat, we would continue on immediately,” said Holmes.

“Then please, sit, let us share a good meal and forget the wolves at our door for just a few hours,” said Peter.

“Thank you, I wish there was some way we could pay you, but we have nothing to give,” I said.

“You have done and continue to do what is best for all of us, now let us forget money and such nonsense, and enjoy the company we have,” said Peter.

It was an offer that we could not accept quickly enough. The two of us propped our long guns up in a corner, and placed our satchels of ammunition beside them, but kept our gun belts and holsters on, this was a time where to be unarmed at any point in the day was suicide. We took seats at the table in the kitchen whilst Peter was moving the weapons from the table onto another top.

“How safe is this place from attack?” Holmes asked.

“The doors are strong and secure, and what few windows we have on the ground floor are barricaded, it has held so far,” said Peter.

The landlord, tired but eager to provide for us all, took four bottles of wine from a nearby cupboard and placed them in the centre of the table, quickly joined by glasses. It was a kind gesture, and one we could hardly refuse.

“This is not my usual standard for the inn, please accept my apologies, I must now prepare some food.”

The humble and kind man, who just ten minutes before had been a hardened defender of his home, was now scurrying around the kitchen that we sat in, preparing a meal for us. We sat for quite some time, all silent, watching Peter cook, it was the most pleasing thing to do. Peter’s son, Henry, neatly set the table before us as we sipped back on the wine. Eventually food was served, Leberkäse and Rösti, a sort of mashed and baked meat with ground potato, a basic and crude meal, but exactly what our stomachs needed.

Within a few minutes all of the plates were clean, we had all witnessed horrible events, but none of it had ruined our appetites, thankfully, because we two were on the limits of our energy. When we had finished up, Peter and his boy began clearing away, and just for that short time in the inn, we had truly relaxed.

“We must set watches for the night,” said Holmes.

“Indeed, but you are tired. I will take the first, my guests will cycle every hour, this will give you four hours rest before I call one of you to take over,” said Peter.

A wise plan, the barricades appeared well prepared by the landlord, but we still could only speculate at the enemy’s strength and capability, we would all sleep better knowing someone was on watch.

When all was done, Peter showed us upstairs to our rooms, where we were sure to take all of our weapons and ammunition before settling down, he then left us for the night. I removed my jacket and placed it upon the dresser, shortly followed by my shoulder holsters. Sitting down on my new bed, I took off my shoes and socks and sat in bliss at the relative comfort I now possessed, at least for a short while. The room was truly a wonderful place to be, and certainly the calm before the storm, it was decorated with lovely wood furniture, maintained and cleaned to such exceptional standards, this was a proud landlord.

Holmes strolled into my room and sat down on the chair beside the bed, sitting back comfortably in it, experiencing the same relief that I had. He had clearly been doing some hard thinking about our current position, for we were momentarily safe, but I knew, before long, we must set off to end this matter once and for all.

“This new information could lead to the final leg of our journey tomorrow, for whether either of these two locations lead to Moriarty, we will likely find some conclusion before the day is out,” said Holmes.

“You mean either we or him will die?” I replied.

“Indeed.”

“There are no more precautions to take, no more plans to make, we can only step into the mouth of the lion and give him hell,” said Holmes.

We did indeed face the possibility of our deaths tomorrow, but how would that make tomorrow any different than today, or yesterday? I for one would be glad to see an end to this adventure, for I was weary in every way. Our ammunition drew thin, our bodies were worn and our minds at their wits end.

“Do you believe Peter and his patrons can hold this inn?” I asked.

“No, not for more than a few hours, or against large odds,” said Holmes.

“Is there nothing we can do for them?” I asked

“Yes, we can soldier on and complete our task,” Holmes replied.

It was indeed true, the two of us could only extend the length of a potential siege, that was no good to anyone. We had left many people behind since this journey had begun, it never felt any easier, but it did re-enforce our resolve to end this villain quickly and completely.

“Let us at least get some sleep tonight, for we shall likely need all the strength we can summon tomorrow,” said Holmes.

This was music to my ears. Sleep had been all too few and far between recently, and in less than desirable settings. Now we could lay down in what at least was still internally, a lovely inn. Holmes rose to his feet and left my room for his. We both had watch duty tonight, but a few quiet hours would be wondrous. I lay down on the bed, with my shoes removed but fully dressed, I had laid my pistols on the dresser, but kept the holsters on, we could not risk being caught unawares if a fight came to us. It was just a few short moments until I was comfortably asleep.

Hours had passed of soothing sleep, when I was abruptly awoken by multiple loud gunshots. I leapt from my bed and snatched up my two Adams guns, rushing to the stairs, still barefoot. A breech in the perimeter or worse, a horde attack at this time of night was about the worst timing that could be. I reached the top of the stairs; all was silent and motionless, this was unsettling.

I stepped carefully and cautiously down each step, both revolvers held ready to fire. Reaching the bottom of the stairs I took the turn into the hallway and a pulsing light caught my eye, it was Holmes’ tobacco pipe. He stood casually looking at me, lighting his pipe in a triumphant manner. Peering behind him I could see a window smashed, its barricade half destroyed and a zombi slumped on the window sill, its blood dripping down the wall to the floor. The gaping hole that the shotgun had caused at such close range had left a whole larger than a cricket ball in the beast’s head, and you could simply peer in and see the bloodied remains of its brain.

“Any more?” I asked.

Holmes drew back on his pipe, before finally looking up at me.

“No, these were simply stragglers.”

“Then we were lucky.”

“Without a doubt, we can only hope that there are not more within hearing distance of the shots already fired.”

That was not a desirable thought in that we had to simply wait to find out whether an army bore down upon us or whether we were still safe for the night. Both of us took chairs and sat down, I holstered my Adams guns whilst Holmes casually drew back on his pipe, shotgun propped against the wall. We dared not make a sound. The sound of people storming down the stairs above us was all too late and now the last of our desires. Peter stormed into the room, stopping at the sight of the slumped body.

“Shhhh!” said Holmes.

The landlord and guests stood silent at the command of Holmes. Shocked at the sight, but willing to follow his word. Holmes then whispered to them.

“The gunshots may draw more, so be silent and ready.”

“Are these beasts drawn by sound?” asked Peter.

“We do not know for sure and can only rely on what we have seen. They appear to be drawn by sight and sound, just as we are, their senses likely being just as effective as ours, seeing as they inhabit the same bodies as we do,” said Holmes.

Peter nodded in response and stood like a statue, waiting for the unwelcome sound of further beasts. We waited for five minutes, the only movement being Holmes’ pipe smoke wafting across the room. We could only hope that we were now safe, for many of our weapons and ammunition lay upstairs, and I had no desire to fight for my life with no shoes. However we saw or heard nothing more. Finally Holmes broke the silence.

“Peter, get this window secured and then let us get the further rest we need.”

“This must be my watch,” I said.

Holmes nodded, and watched as Peter pushed the dead creature from his window with a broom and began to stack chairs and other furniture up in the hole that now breeched the building. We had just an hour till light, and it was my turn, I was glad of the few hours sleep I had gotten. The broken window was now as secure as it could be.

“Go and get what rest you can before dawn, I will keep watch,” I said.

Holmes, Peter and the others returned upstairs without argument. The last moments of the night went without incident as I sat casually in the kitchen area.

In just a few hours we would be setting off, two men, with limited ammunition, it was woefully inadequate for the foes we face. Watching the sun rise was one of the few beautiful sights that I had witnessed in the last few days, but it made me long to be home in England, free of the zombis of course.

As the light hit the inn, Peter was already making his way quickly down the stairs to me, whilst Holmes was firmly asleep. He would only awaken if someone made him, though Peter made to preparing breakfast, and the smell of food soon got him moving.

As Peter busied himself in making breakfast I began stripping my guns down to clean them with cloths and oil that the landlord had kindly provided. All of the weapons I carried were now dry and caked in residue, jams and misfires were becoming ever more likely if this maintenance was not done. I never liked putting a gun away dirty, but hard times called for such mistreatment.

Over breakfast Peter explained our pending journey to us, though he could not provide any more information on the person who we suspected to be Moriarty, and was evidently sceptical about our assumptions. Our day’s journey would be a beautiful one, only marred by the knowledge that it would likely end in a significant battle, perhaps our last.

At Peter’s advice, on the afternoon of the 4th we set off together with the intention of crossing the hills and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. However, making a small detour to the falls of Reichenbach, which are about halfway up the hill on our route. In all honesty, not even the great detective had any idea what to expect, if anything, at either location, only that both were of some relevance to our villain’s travels and were therefore our only leads.

Despite this feeling of impending doom, we managed to stay surprisingly sprightly along the paths, admiring the rolling mountains, rocky and craggy terrain, lakes and rivers, it really was a fascinating country. Eventually we came across the sign for Rosenlaui, and the turning that Peter had told us about to the Reichenbach. Following the path he had explained the massive falls eventually came in to view.

It was indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunged into a tremendous abyss from which the spray rolled up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurled itself was an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth which brimmed over shooting the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of water roared forever down and the thick flickering curtain of spray hissed forever upward. It would turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and clamour. We stood near the edge peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against the black rocks, and listening to the half human shout which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

The path has been cut halfway round the fall to afford a complete view, but it ended abruptly, and the traveller had to return as he came. We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of the inn which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord. I already did not like the look of this, for Peter would never have despatched his lad into this war torn land to find us without a very good reason.

The letter had been written quickly and abruptly. It appeared that just a short while after leaving, they had come under attack by a few dozen zombis and their number continued to rise. The lower floor had fallen quite quickly. The inhabitants had safely barricaded the stairway to the upper floors and were holding out with just the few guns and ammunition they had, not enough to survive for long. The boy had escaped via rope and covering fire to safety to alert us. The letter requested my urgent assistance as a former soldier and good soul. Here was a tough choice before me, for our mission was more important than anything in the world now, but the thought of those who had assisted us now fighting for their lives was not a good feeling.

The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible to refuse the request of innocent and decent folk. Yet I had my scruples about leaving Holmes. It was finally agreed, however, that he should retain the young Swiss boy with him as guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen. My friend would stay some little time at the fall, as bait to the villain, and would then intend to walk slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui. Should conflict and victory ensue, I was to rejoin him there in the evening. As I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock and his arms folded, clearly deep in thought and planning the next conflict, gazing down at the rush of the waters. It was the last that I was ever destined to see of him in this world.

When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back. It was impossible from that position to see the fall, but I could see the curving path which wound over the shoulder of the hill and lead to it.

Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly. I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green behind him. I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but he passed from my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.