Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London

by Stephen Mertz

  "Well, since you put it that way, and coming from a man of your class and experience, Doctor, uh, I suppose there’s no harm in it." The ferret eyes narrowed. "You wouldn’t know, Mr. Holmes, who it is that’s put the word out on you?"

  "We’re looking into that," said Holmes truthfully. "I shall notify you at once, Lestrade, when I acquire information that I think will be of value to you. Thank you for your time and concern."

  "Well then, I’ll take no more of your time, gentlemen. A pleasure to have met you, Commander."

  Standish acknowledged with a nod, "Inspector."

  Holmes walked Lestrade to the door.

  Lestrade said, "Were it not such a miserable day and were you not otherwise engaged, Mr. Holmes, I would invite you to accompany me. There’s been a disturbance in Leicester Square. I’m headed there now."

  "A disturbance?"

  "Gunfire. Strange motorized contraptions." The Inspector smirked. "Confidentially, I think we’re dealing with a case of mass hysteria and hallucination. Good day, gentlemen."

  Holmes closed the door after him.

  Standish said, "An uncomfortable coincidence, encountering the Inspector here like this."

  I said, "Lestrade will find plenty to keep him busy when he gets to Leicester Square."

  "Actually, Doctor, I’ve dispatched a special squad that I suspect had the Square cleared of debris and that ... thing on the roof most likely before you gentlemen traveled from there to here. The initial report I received by telephone of the crash debris and the body were enough for me to link this to what happened at Moriarty’s castle. Every trace of what happened at Leicester Square has been cleared away."

  "There were eye witnesses."

  Standish nodded. "Good, solid citizens who have been dispersed by my people. The police will hear different versions of what happened, depending on who they talk to but there’s nothing to worry about from a security standpoint. My Department operates with impunity and for now this business of zombies and flying machines is being kept strictly under wraps to avert arousing widespread panic among the populace. It has been deemed at this point that Scotland Yard does not need to be informed about it. Good men, every manjack of them, but when it comes to security amongst that many personnel, well, there can be more holes than a sieve."

  Holmes returned to his chair. He relit his pipe.

  "How much do you know, Commander?"

  Standish sighed. He closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids with the thumb and fingers of his right hand.

  "More than I wish to, and that is God’s truth. Doctor, I would trouble you for that drink now that the Inspector has gone. I didn’t think it proper for a policeman to see an officer of Her Majesty’s service drinking while on duty but, well, a brandy if you have it, please."

  "Of course."

  I promptly fulfilled his request.

  He downed the brandy.

  He said, "There is a widely held belief among Her Majesty’s military commanders and advisors that when the next war comes, it will be a mechanized war of the modern industrial age."

  Holmes said, "The flying machine I took down was equipped with a death ray."

  Standish exhaled deeply.

  "Before we contnue, I must swear both of you to absolute secrecy. Please do not take offense, as your credentials are beyond reproach, I know. But you do not possess the necessary official clearance. I am, however, in a position to waive that detail."

  "You have my word," said Holmes, "as an adviser to the crown and as an Englishman."

  I said, "The same for me."

  "Thank you both. Well then, it’s not pretty. Some damn fool unit, buried so deep in Accounting files that they’ll never be traced, until recently had been conducting scientific research, developing invisible gases and serums and the like and, yes, a death ray, for wartime use."

  Holmes set aside his pipe.

  "How did Moriarty obtain this technology?"

  "A woman named Danielle Kurvisa, a civilian worker in a civilian clerical support position attached to the unit. In fact, it was under civilian cover that the experiments were conducted."

  "Experiments?"

  Standish nodded. "She disappeared with research data and materials that were not discovered missing until after she was gone. Heads rolled, of course, but by then it was too late. My chaps had lost track of her ... until today when she’s part of an attempt on your life."

  Holmes left his armchair. He peered through the rain-bleared window at the street below.

  "She’s exactly the sort of woman Moriarty would use. Brilliant. Beautiful. A skilled actress. Yes, the Professor’s brand is on her."

  Standish said, "Missing with the young lady," said Standish, "was a serum that had only been administered once," he swallowed hard, "with disastrous results."

  "What kind of serum?"

  "I’m no scientist and more’s the pity since I cannot offer you a scientific answer or even, God help me, an educated one. I only know this. The aim was to develop a super soldier. To greatly enhance the size and abilities of infantrymen for when England finds Herself thrust into a mechanized war. It was never tested on soldiers. For the initial experiment on its effectiveness, denizens of the slums were cheaply recruited. They never returned to their haunts. In their work, little notice was taken. The research was immediately terminated when it was discovered that the serum had, er, unfortunate side effects."

  "And what would those side effects be?"

  Standish spoke slowly, with obvious reluctance. "Subjects of the serum experiment turned into, well, they turned into zombies. The word zombie is widely misused and misunderstood but in this case the terminology is appropriate. The walking dead. Blindly intent on a hideous craving for human flesh. Superhuman. Indestructible. And totally insane, craving only to destroy and devour. And here is the truly shameful and scandalous part that cannot yet be revealed, not even to Scotland Yard. It must be contained until we have full control of the situation. Three of the subjects who were administered the serum committed suicide ... but that leaves quite a few unaccounted for."

  I gasped. "How could they be unaccounted for? Surely, Commander, they were kept under lock and key—"

  "They were abducted from the facility where the experiments were being conducted. Hi-jacked. Whatever the term one uses when zombies have been spirited away. Three guards at the unit were killed by whoever engineered the breakout."

  Holmes turned from the window to face us.

  "The serum is what Moriarty was trying to interest Count Kleinhart in when we first caught wind of this at Lady Fairfax’s party. Moriarty was testing the waters."

  I finished the thought. "It wouldn’t be beyond the devil to sell that serum to both sides of a conflict."

  Standish rose from his chair.

  "Gentlemen, I must get back for there is much to be done in the aftermath of what has happened. But I do have one question for you, Holmes."

  "Anything, Commander."

  "Well... I am obliged to ask why you gentlemen went to The Empire Theater today."

  I held my breath, relieved that he had posed the question directly to Holmes and not to me.

  Holmes lied blithely.

  "Nothing pertinent, Commander. We stopped by for an afternoon libation and some light entertainment."

  Standish shrugged as if it weren’t important.

  "Well then, a fine day to you both. I’m sorry I was not the bearer of gladder tidings. I will keep you informed of any developments."

  When we were alone, I said to Holmes, "Do you believe him?"

  "About keeping us informed? I would hope so. But then we made the same promise to Lestrade."

  "Why your reticence in confiding in them about Wells and the missing Einstein boy?"

  "Ah, but what if Albert is missing on purpose, of his own free will?" He lifted an index finger, which he wagged to emphasize the point. "What if Albert does not wish to be found? With Moriarty lurking about, anything is possible."

  I sa
id, "The misdeeds of a philandering husband. A criminal mastermind. Futuristic weapons. A mysterious, elusive beauty. Zombies, and now some terrible serum. A missing boy genius ..."

  He returned to his chair and went about refilling his pipe.

  "Watson, are you game for a bit of undercover work? We need to gather intelligence and quickly, in places like The Surly Wench where even my Baker Street Irregulars cannot go unnoticed."

  "I don’t exactly have an overfull social agenda. And what will you be up to while I am so engaged?"

  "Among other things," said Holmes, "I shall endeavor to locate our client. I too remain most curious about Mr. Wells and his time machine."

  Chapter 15

  As a civilian physician, I have brought new life into the world. I have many times seen life slip away before my eyes. But nothing had prepared me for my tours of duty as a field surgeon with a front-line combat regiment in Afghanistan. Combat does things to a man. After my discharge, I became a man with one foot firmly planted in the respectable civilian life of medical practitioner, blessed with a woman who wished only to love and domesticate me and bear my children.

  A good life.

  And yet ...

  That other foot was equally rooted in a world of battle and hellfire where the naked sweat of fear and the savage thrill of survival thrived; it had swelled anew within me that night at Castle Moriarty, and those embers had now been reignited.

  No wonder Mary and Holmes were so often at odds, even in their most banal encounters. Each represented my foothold in each of those opposing worlds.

  The Surly Wench was a dreary little rat hole on a side street along the waterfront. Low ceiling. Rank with smoke and stale air. An atmosphere of quiet danger. A half-dozen patrons drinking, smoking. A couple of battered wooden tables, each occupied by working men conversing and sharing drinks with women whose frank manner labeled them as members of the world’s oldest profession. At either end of a bar sat a man hunched over his drink.

  I sat at the bar stool midway between the two men. In the long mirror behind the bar, the reflection of a scar running across the lower face of the man seated several empty stools to my left was clear enough.

  I had found Big Stan Auger.

  He came as advertised. A muscular fellow of size and proportions similar to Nappy McGuire but with none of Nappy’s roughneck good humor. Big Stan had about him an aura of brooding menace.

  This was not the first time I had undertaken the role of field investigator for Holmes, and my strategy generally varied depending on circumstance. There are those times when it’s best not to draw attention to oneself but rather to blend in and let the information come in piecemeal, overheard in snippets of conversation or in response to subtly phrased, innocent sounding queries. This job called for making things happen that could segue naturally into a conversation with Danielle’s boyfriend.

  The fact that my appearance was of a more upper class sort than those around me seemed like something that I could work with.

  A surly, mustached bartender wearing a dirty apron took his time about ambling over to me.

  "Name it."

  I affected my best Etonian accent.

  "I believe I’ll have a glass of seltzer water. Oh, and kindly add a twist of lemon to take out the bite."

  Snickers rippled around the tables behind me.

  The bartender sniggered.

  "Coming right up, princess."

  Movement from my right.

  The fellow, seated at the opposite end of the bar from Big Stan, left his bar stool. He ambled in my direction. Not quite as big as Big Stan but just as menacing because he held an ice pick. A foreign cast to his features. Thin pencil moustache. Eyes that held all the warmth of black marble. He swaggered up to stand beside me. Marble eyes glared into my eyes. I don’t know what he saw, but I saw the eyes of a cock of the walk who was out to prove to those in this dive exactly what a tough guy he could be, should a stranger have the misfortune of wandering onto his turf.

  He said, "You’re in the wrong place, mister." He spoke with an accent. He rammed the ice pick into the front of the bar with such force that the blade sank into the wood. "A fancy pants like you might not leave here alive."

  Apparently at this point I was supposed to shudder into a frightened puddle of gelatin at his feet. Instead, I eased sideways on the bar stool, allowing my coat to part in front so that, just for a moment, he caught sight of the big pistol in its concealed shoulder holster.

  The silence around us held that taut razor edge stillness right before violence explodes.

  Toffs weren’t supposed to pack concealed weapons. The fingers of my right hand lingered near the lapel of my jacket, near the grip of the .44.

  I said, "Ice pick against a .44?"

  His nostrils flared.

  Was I bluffing? Would I draw the gun and scatter the pub with his brains? I had already stuck this gun down the throat of a zombie and blown apart its head. I had that killing edge in me, but of course this lowlife could not know that. He only saw my eyes, and that was enough. Something in my eyes convinced him.

  He forgot about his ice pick. He ran away, out of The Surly Wench.

  The bartender brought me my seltzer water with its slice of lemon.

  The quiet lingered. A softer quiet. Conversations resumed. Street sounds again filtered in.

  Big Stan caught my reflection in the mirror.

  He said, "That was stupid."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "No need. You heard me. That was bloody stupid." His voice was raspy from a lifetime of cigarettes, whiskey and brawls.

  "What he did or what I did?"

  "Both. What he did was stupid. You carry yourself like a gent what can take care of himself. He shoulda seen that."

  "I defended myself. What’s stupid about that?"

  "He could have friends."

  "I’ll take my chances."

  "And what happened to the Eton accent?"

  He had me there.

  I’d used the upper crust act for the desired effect—here I was, conversing with Big Stan—so I’d dropped the put-on accent. None too wisely, it now appeared. But I could make this work.

  I said, "I wanted to start something. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m looking for someone down here on the docks who’s connected. I started things rolling, and here you are."

  His scarred face turned from the mirror to me study me.

  "You’re a strange one. What’s your story then?"

  "My story needn’t concern you. The point is that I need to get out of the country, fast."

  "Why? Did you kill someone with that gun?"

  "Let’s put it this way. I’ll kill anyone who tries to find out."

  "That bad, eh?"

  "Can you get me on a ship, preferably one setting sail tonight? It doesn’t matter where it’s bound."

  "They call me Big Stan, by the way."

  I waved a hand dismissively. "Names don’t matter to me. Can you help me and how much it will cost?"

  Conversation around us tapered off. Ears other than mine awaited his reply.

  He said, "A respectable looking gent. Travels armed. Knows how to handle himself. Done something so bad he'll kill to keep it from catching up with him." He considered this. "Interesting, and no mistake." Big Stan rose from the barstool. He reached into a pocket and placed a handful of coins upon the bar. "Unfortunately, it’s curiosity that drove me to inquire, not any desire to help. So go blow your nose, mate. Pull that gun on me and I’ll make you eat it. If you screw up the courage to come looking for me, I’m on the crew of a tug moored at Greenwich Pier."

  "I don’t want trouble," I said. "I can pay."

  Big Stan guffawed.

  He said, "Much obliged for the entertainment," and he sauntered out.

  I gave him a one minute start, and then followed him.

  Chapter 16

  The tug boat was a two-funneled, powerful looking vessel. Except for the lights that indicated she was moor
ed at Greenwich Pier, in the heart of the waterfront district, the boat was in darkness.

  It was not easy tailing Big Stan.

  The weather helped, as did the onset of night. The misting dampness turned into fog with an encroaching chill. Few people felt compelled to be out and about on a night like this unless they were working the docks. There were no crowds for me to blend in with as I followed him.

  He chose a roundabout route to his destination, no doubt as a precaution in case he was being followed. He looked back several times but each time the echo of his footfalls would first cease along the narrow, empty streets and by the time his eyes came around, I was safely ensconced in shadows and fog.

  At an adjacent wharf, two barge loads of bricks were being unloaded by flare lights. Luminous orbs in the fog. Their vague illumination hardly reached across to where I hugged the deepest shadows.

  He boarded the tug. Then he vanished from my sight into the gloom at the base of the tug’s wheelhouse. A vertical rectangle of yellow light appeared. Big Stan eased sideways through a doorway. The door closed.

  What to do next?

  I could move in for a closer look. I saw no indication of a posted guard. There was no way of telling how many were aboard the tug. Was Big Stan leading me into a trap? Should I return to Baker Street and report to Holmes? But what if the tug shoved off in my absence?

  From behind me, a quavery, phlegmy voice said, "You’re not going up against that bunch, are ye?"

  The voice startled me, though I tried not to let it show. I turned cautiously.

  An old tramp materialized from the gloom. Grizzled. Bearded. Unkempt. The old salt toted a backpack over one frail shoulder. A walking stick was clasped in his gnarled free hand.

  I discerned no one save him alone.

  "What business would that be of yours?"

  I had no wish to be rude but if something bad was happening aboard that tug, I had little time to spare. But I could not dismiss him outright. An old wharf rat could overhear things. He may already have pieced together the information I sought. Then a quiver in my subconscious warned me that this encounter might not be as it appeared ...