Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London

by Stephen Mertz

  I chose the middle path.

  I said, "Mrs. Wells has been under considerable stress. This can often result in erratic, emotional behavior in women as well as in men."

  Lestrade hardly took time to consider this.

  He said, "Another question, Mrs. Wells. Did Albert snag that kerchief from your, er, drawers or did you place it in the boy’s things for him to find?"

  Holmes said, "The latter, Inspector. Isn’t that so, Jane?"

  "Yes." She spoke in a small voice. "I ... I was lonely."

  Seeing the woman in such a state did tug on my heart strings.

  I said, "There there, Jane. You must calm yourself."

  Holmes said, "I’m afraid, Watson, that for Mrs. Wells there is little for her to be tranquil about." His clipped tone razored through my measured cadence. His gaze never left the woman. "Jane Wells is a woman scorned twice over and the reason lies dead in the parlor."

  Jane said, after a single, soft sob, "God only knows how the trollop came to be in my home, as she is now."

  I said, "Are you saying that you knew of your husband’s infidelity?’

  "A woman knows, Doctor. Mr. Holmes is right. I found more than one program of Danielle’s so-called performances when I once searched my husband’s study in his absence. I recognized her from the pictures when I found her. Did Herbert bring the slut here into our home? To think that he would do her ... in our own bed." She shuddered as if caught in a draft. "It is as terrible as murder itself."

  Lestrade prodded gently, "The kerchief."

  "I placed it in a teenage boy’s luggage ... I can only imagine how pathetic an act that must seem to you, and you’re right. I was crazy with jealousy. I was lonely. So dreadfully lonely. But I swear to you, gentlemen, I did not kill that woman. I swear I didn’t."

  Holmes said, "When you planted the kerchief in Albert’s things, you found a signed picture of Dani. Two men, your husband and Albert, spurned your affections for hers."

  Lestrade cleared his throat.

  "I’m sorry, Mrs. Wells. Two men are missing. You admit to having been in a lovers’ triangle, and the other woman is murdered in your home. I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard."

  Jane’s desperate eyes swung to me.

  "Dr. Watson, surely you can intercede on my behalf." She reached out, vaguely gesturing with both hands. "Please! Tell them I could never do such a thing!"

  Empathy again coursed through me.

  Then I caught Holmes’ direct, dispassionate gaze.

  I said, "Jane, it will be best if you accompany the Inspector. You’ll be treated fairly."

  "You believe I’m guilty too! Everyone believes I killed her!"

  We stepped from the bedroom. Holmes drew the drapery across the archway, granting her privacy.

  Lestrade was summoned outside by one of his men. He returned a minute later, uncertainty in his eyes.

  "The government coach outside. Commander Standish awaits you."

  The activity in the street had not diminished. We approached the government coach.

  I said, "Er, Holmes, there’s something of a rather delicate nature that you should know about regarding Mrs. Wells. It may help to explain her extreme behavior with regards to flirting with me and acting improperly toward Albert. I am betraying a confidence, but I confide in you."

  "Then pray do so. How you do prattle on sometimes."

  I ignored that and said, "First I would like to state that I simply do not believe Mrs. Wells is capable of strangling another person to death in her own parlor, or anywhere else for that matter."

  "Dear me. Watson, have you fallen under her spell?"

  "Not a bit of it! I simply don’t want to see an innocent woman sent away for something she is incapable of. With everything that’s happening—kidnapping, zombies, a time machine, people disappearing—you surely don’t honestly believe that poor housewife to be a murderess."

  "Not for a minute."

  I blinked, momentarily stunned by his reply.

  "Then why subject her to more of, well, of Lestrade? For my money, the woman is a victim. I may appreciate H.G. Wells the writer but I shant in the future confuse the man with his art. The fellow is a scoundrel of the first rank, carrying on with Danielle while—"

  Holmes completed the sentence for me.

  "While Mrs. Wells is in the family way."

  "I say, Holmes!"

  "Watson, I am always distrustful of what has been erroneously labeled ‘the weaker sex.’ I am not, however, distrustful of my powers of observation. There is enough about madame’s demeanor and behavior, in addition to several physical indicators, for the trained eye to deduce that she is in the early stages of pregnancy. I do not believe Jane Wells to be a murderess. I doubt your friend could slay the proverbial housefly."

  "Do you know what’s going on, then?"

  "I know chess, and I know Moriarty. Now we know what ‘further uses’ Moriarty had for Dani. She was sent to the Wells home by Moriarty. She followed his instructions because she no idea what was about to happen to her. She had served her purpose in initially acquiring the serum for Moriarty and romancing Wells. The Professor had her stringing Wells along in an attempt to get his hands on Wells’ time machine, and he ordered her to do the same with Albert when the boy showed up. But Dani was too ambitious for her own good. When Moriarty found out about it, she had to be punished. The kidnap and ransoming of Albert without Moriarty’s sanction ... the Professor couldn’t abide that. Danielle had to be made an example of to any of his other subordinates who might be considering a score of their own."

  I said, "When she disappeared from that tugboat, Danielle was whisked away by Moriarty’s people thinking that she was being rescued as she had been in Leicester Square."

  "You’ve got it, Watson. They brought her here, where she was done in and left for Jane Wells to find. Like the bounty that has been placed on my head, her murder is a move intended to sidetrack and impede us."

  I said, "If Danielle was murdered by killers dispatched by Moriarty, why in blazes were you so extraordinarily enthusiastic about Lestrade taking the poor woman into custody?"

  "I steered him to her because Jane is innocent," said Holmes. "That makes her vulnerable. Lestrade will question her and ultimately release her on her own cognizance, yes, but given the complexity of this case, the safest place for her is in police custody until this is resolved."

  I said, "What about Wells as the murderer? Who knows how many times the cad brought Danielle to his house, into the conjugal bed, during his wife’s absence? Suppose Dani and he quarreled? They quarreled, and Wells killed her."

  "And escaped in his time machine?"

  "Holmes, I’m serious."

  "Then do forgive me, but we’re keeping the Commander waiting. Let’s see what surprise he has in store for us. It will not be good news. There is deviltry afoot this night."

  Chapter 22

  "They came from the sky!" screamed the man with the idiot eyes.

  A country man. Sixtyish. Scraggly beard. Rough-hewn. Slack-jawed. Slump-shouldered. A dead, hollow voice.

  Holmes said to him, "Tell us everything."

  We had accompanied Commander Standish to a government-run lunatic asylum in the heart of London, differentiated from other such institutions by its security measures. Armed guards opened the gate for the Commander’s coach. It had been a hurried trip from Woking. We made good time, the official coach charging unhindered along the roads. My friend spoke little during the journey. He was withdrawn, his mental energies turned inward. We had come to this windowless consultation room.

  I stood with Standish off to the side.

  Holmes sat knee to knee with the wild-eyed fellow.

  "They came from the sky!" the man screamed again. "They came with the sun. They live only to kill and destroy!"

  Holmes said, "Who are they?"

  "Horrible creatures. They kill men, women, and children. The very old. Babies. Gone. All gone. Nothing stops t
hem. Nothing. I saw them rip the intestines out of Mrs. Chetworth! Another pulled Mr. Swain’s head off as if plucking a tomato from the vine. Sweet Jesus, protect us! They came from the sky. They came from the sky!" His shoulders sagged, chin resting on his chest. He commenced rocking back and forth, arms akimbo, moaning. "They came from the sky ..."

  I stepped forward.

  "Enough. This man needs sedation and rest."

  Holmes said, "Quite right. Thank you, Mr. McDill."

  McDill said, "They came from the sky," one more time before the orderly led him away humming a tune that had no melody.

  The tune seemed to linger after the door closed behind them.

  I said, "Poor devil. He’s been traumatized, perhaps beyond the point of no return."

  Holmes said, "The creatures he spoke of ... how like those beasts at Castle Moriarty."

  The word came unbidden from in a whisper: "Zombies ..."

  Commander Standish said, "McDill was one of seventy-six residents of a small crossroad community in Devonshire. A dreary place on the moors that nobody visits unless they have to. Isn’t even on the map. Five structures. Utterly remote."

  "I know the area," said Holmes. "Unpopulated. Barren. Inhospitable. A brooding place."

  "McDill is the only survivor. He somehow managed to escape physical injury but as you can see, the chap is clearly classifiable as walking wounded."

  "What is it precisely that he survived?"

  Standish said, "Gentlemen; I can show you."

  He unsnapped a leather packet he’d brought in from the coach. He withdrew eight-by-ten photographs, which he passed them to us.

  I was reminded of the pictures taken by the American photographer, Mathew Brady, of battlefields of the U.S. Civil War. The art of photography had improved over the intervening thirty years but the photographs Standish showed us had about them the same grainy, almost out of focus quality as those Brady photographs; the same inhuman carnage and gore, starkly revealed.

  The little crossroad community had been photographed in daylight, at various angles, so as to leave no doubt that the area was littered with human remains. Corpses were scattered across the ground, draped upon the steps of buildings where doors had been ripped off hinges and windows broken. There were close-ups of dead men, women and children. Corpses so horribly mauled that it was impossible to determine their gender. Bodies with decapitated heads. Entrails covered with black spots that at first appeared to be flaws in the picture but, upon closer inspection, proved to be flies. One common denominator united the expression on every dead face, even the decapitated heads upon the ground: a look of sheer horror, greater even than the agony of their grisly demise.

  I said, "My God. It’s as if demons of superhuman strength and ferocity ran amok."

  We handed the photographs back to Standish, who returned them to the leather packet.

  Holmes’ expression was grave.

  "Only Moriarty would dare loose such madness upon the world. There is our evidence. His creatures are the residue of that military experiment. At their deepest core, no matter how dead their minds, there burns within them the impulse to blindly assault and devour."

  I asked Standish, "Do we know how many were responsible for this, and where are they now?"

  "The situation is being contained under the strictest secrecy," said the Commander. "It’s why McDill was brought here. He’s in an isolation unit. He told us there were only three of the creatures. They were found wandering the moor. Covered in blood. One was gnawing on a woman’s dismembered arm. They were lumbering but deadly. Our chaps actually had to blow them to pieces with artillery. It is only the fact that the area is so remote that news of this has been contained. A delivery wagon happened upon the scene not long after the massacre took place. The driver who reported it is being held in temporary custody to keep him quiet, poor chap. But it would cause mass panic if word got out. It’s been determined at the highest level that the general public is not quite ready for reports of zombies terrorizing the populace."

  Holmes said, "And what is this about them coming from the sky?"

  "The delusions of a man in traumatic shock."

  I said, "Perhaps not. We launched our probe of Moriarty’s castle from the air. I remember that clearly enough. And so zombies attacking from the air? The possibility is real and frightening. Is there information can you provide that those pictures do not show?"

  "Perhaps the most perplexing aspect of all," said Standish. "It was a modest little community, to say the least, but of the several standing structures, each was thoroughly looted of anything remotely of value. The community, in other words, was picked clean of valuables."

  "Is it possible that local human scavengers descended on the scene after the zombies had left?"

  Holmes had tapped tobacco into his pipe. He struck a match and touched it to the bowl. Within moments foul smoke wreathed his thoughtful countenance, making the small room stuffy to an almost unbearable degree.

  He said, "Such a scenario might be worthy of consideration were not Moriarty involved. What happened in that remote community was of a dry run, mark my words. A dress rehearsal. Zombies air-dropped and in their wake, a band of highly organized looters, well-trained by Moriarty, who systematically strip a community of all valuables while the zombies cause a diversion."

  I waved my hand before my face to clear aware some of the foul smoke.

  "Then what remains is location and timing."

  Holmes shook his head, no.

  "On the contrary. We presently possess that information. It remains only for us to do something about it."

  Commander Standish was frowning. "I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. Time and location, you say?"

  "Consider. The attack on that crossroads was carried out at dawn. That is crucial. It is in fact the time when many famous military attacks throughout history have been successfully launched. As to location, is that not obvious given the grand design of this undertaking from the beginning? Gentlemen, horror of an unthinkable magnitude is about to be unleashed unless we can stop it."

  Standish glanced at his pocket watch, his forehead pearled with perspiration.

  "A zombie attack upon London at dawn? Sweet God in Heaven. That’s only two hours from now!"

  Chapter 23

  Mycroft’s massive, pasty white, totally naked body executed expert backstrokes along the length of the oversized, rectangular indoor swimming pool.

  Holmes and I had been shown in by Mycroft’s ancient butler, who hastily withdrew.

  Mycroft beamed when he saw us.

  "Ah, Dr. Watson! Sherlock! What an unusual surprise at four o’clock in the morning!"

  We had parted company with the Commander Standish, who would organize and coordinate what response he could to the ominous threat prophesized by Holmes. We’d hired a coach that brought us straightaway to Mycroft’s posh home.

  Holmes said, "A matter of the utmost urgency has brought about this untimely intrusion, dear brother."

  The sight of Mycroft swimming in the nude was not a pretty sight; not unlike observing a whale, ungainly and yet smoothly moving through the water.

  Mycroft seemed to penetrate my thoughts.

  He said, "Yes, I’ve read Moby Dick, of course. Who hasn’t?"

  I averted my gaze as if intently infatuated with the multi-colored tiles that enlivened the vaulted ceiling. I heard him emerge from the pool.

  He continued, "Melville’s best, no doubt, though it certainly could have benefited from judicious editing, wouldn’t you say? The fellow does adore his whaling minutiae."

  Holmes said, "To business. I’ve come to avail myself of your office as Her Majesty’s Chief of Intelligence."

  I took a chance. I glanced in Mycroft’s direction. He had (thankfully!) donned a bulky cotton robe that reached to his thick calves. Water puddled at his feet.

  He ignored his brother’s terseness, and addressed me.

  "A pleasure to see again, Doctor. You are no doubt familia
r with Sherlock’s lack of social grace. Let’s see. The last time I saw you, you were stepping out of an airborne dirigible. I was gratified to hear that you survived."

  We shook hands.

  Holmes said, "Please, Mycroft. We are here because I need only to verify a hunch, and everything may then fall into place."

  I said, "Indeed, Holmes? Share with us what you’ve deduced."

  "Reasoned would be more accurate, and forgive me but right now there isn’t time. We must work fast to avert disaster. I need the present status of the dirigible, Blackhawk."

  I said, "We could have asked Standish about that. The airship is under his command."

  "I prefer the Commander focus on his agenda while we pursue this."

  Mycroft led us deeper into the house. He trailed droplets of water. "Avert a disaster, you say? A matter of life or death then?"

  "More than you can possibly imagine. Quickly, can you determine the Blackhawk’s present whereabouts and status?"

  The living quarters occupied an entire wing and were lavish as befitted a gourmand and bon vivant. A manned communications room kept Mycroft in direct contact with the world outside.

  We entered his private office, a utilitarian cubicle only large enough to accommodate Mycroft’s girth, a wide desk and a row of filing cabinets. We stood in the doorway and watched him go directly to the nearest filing cabinet. He opened the top drawer and index-fingered his way through the files.

  "Here we are. The Blackhawk." Mycroft lowered his heft into the swivel chair. He flicked the folder open on his desk, referring to the file inside. "Inactive," he reported.

  "Then it’s moored at that supposedly inactive industrial complex north of London."

  Mycroft further perused the file.

  "Right as usual, Sherlock." He closed the file. "Any other questions?"

  "A request. Watson and I are on our way to that airfield. You’re aware of the stolen zombie serum?"

  Mycroft’s eyes tightened.

  "I am."

  "Moriarty has used it."

  "Used it? You mean—"

  "He’s auctioning off the serum to foreign powers, and he’s bred monsters that he’s about to turn loose on London, along with a trained army of looters descending in their wake. The airfield is their staging area."