“I have never had the requirement of taking to the air with such urgency gentleman and are therefore ill prepared for the condition,” Fogg said, panting from the quick work.
I threw my rifle into the basket and hauled myself aboard, the others quickly following me. Passepartout was hastily throwing the mass of sandbags out of the basket as Fogg was shoveling coal in and stoking the fire with a bellows. The horde was now just thirty yards away and we had not left the ground. Taking my Marlin in hand, it felt entirely inadequate, when a rifle with such outstanding qualities had at times seemed necessary in previous years.
I could not help but wish I had acquired a Gatling for my collection, not that I could have carried it of course. Taking aim, I loosed off the first round, entirely missing, the nerves of this tense situation caused me to lose all train of rational thought and practice. Annoyed with myself for making such a beginner’s mistake in such a time of need, the lever clicked back and fore and I quickly took aim at the opponent I should have struck with my first shot. Squeezing the trigger, the round echoed around the field, striking the forehead of my target, blood spurting upwards, silhouetted against the lights still on in the house behind the now backlit mass.
The panic and stress of the situation got the better of me, as well as the lack of experience in facing such overwhelming numbers at close range. I began firing at a
rate of fire which compromised my accuracy, reminiscent of Holmes’ manner with firearms. With quick consecutive firing the third shot hit one in the chest, the fourth the shoulder. The fifth round hit the creature dead on the nose, destroying all that protruded from its face in a bloody mess, and yet, not stopping the assailant in its tracks. Cocking the rifle again, I took better aim, putting a round directing into the top of the skull, part of the scalp separating from the head and hanging brain matter visible,
he was done.
Taking aim with the seventh shot, I would not make the same mistake again, accurately aimed, I squeezed the trigger and a deafening sound rang out as the round ignited
in the breech as I momentarily blacked out. Just seconds later my vision began to return, I was lying on the deck of the basket, head resting against the sidewall. Looking
up I could just see through a blurred vision that Holmes was aiming his shotgun. A shot rang out, the flash being obvious, but I heard no sound, still deaf from the misfire. Holmes suddenly keeled forward as if being wrenched, the shotgun being pulled out of his hands, they were upon us, and we were still on the ground. Holmes threw back
his jacket and drew out the two Webley revolvers he was carrying, without time or thought to aim he opened up, firing repeatedly over the wall of the basket.
Arms reached over the basket towards Holmes, I could not see how much damage he was inflicting, but it was clearly not enough. His revolvers were out within seconds. A head of one of the creatures appeared over the rim of the basket, Holmes reversed the Webley Mk1 and mauled the foul thing continually until it sprawled over the edge, blood dripping into the basket. The ground below us felt light, we were beginning to lift.
“These things are keeping us down, we must get them off the basket!” Fogg yelled.
“Get down!” shouted Passepartout.
The immaculately kept blunderbuss was lifted above me facing the horde over the basket, the valet pulled the trigger and even with my still ringing ears I could hear the
thunder of it ring out. The whole basket was shrouded in powder smoke it had worked! The craft slowly took to the sky, but it was fast enough, a wondrous site that neither of us had ever experienced. We were free and clear for the first time all day.
My vision was clearing, but hearing still fuzzy. Holmes offered his hand to assist me to my feet, still shaky from the malfunction, we were now a hundred feet off the ground. I could feel my face burning where small shards of metal from the rifle had embedded in my cheek, an insignificant injury considering what we had survived. Turning to see the state of our friends, Fogg was grinning wildly at me, clearly quite pleased with himself.
As I looked at him, reaching out to shake his hand in gratitude, a hand from outside the basket reached from behind and grabbed at the gent and pulled him to the rim, trying to get better hold of him, its head drawing near, clearly we had an undesirable aboard. Before I coulddraw a handgun, Passepartout released the bayonet forwards on the fine blunderbuss and drove it forward into the eye socket of the beast. The triangular profiled and hollow ground long blade penetrated the eye socket and drove through the head and out the skull with no hesitation, soaring blood into the open air. The arms of the creature went limp and the body slumped, only being held to the basket by the bayonet through its brain. Passepartout stood looking at his victim for a moment, blood seeping over the barrel of the weapon which had driven all the way to the head. Admiring his handiwork, the sharp thinking valet took a pace forward for leverage and then drew the weapon back, the bayonet cleanly sliding back out from the eye socket. The beast slipped straight from the basket and dropped off to freefall back to the ground. Holmes patted the valet on the back, with almost no briefing he had risen to the task and saved all our lives. It was nice to know I had judged his character accurately, and equally comforting that I had loaded the weapon correctly, as it just saved all of our lives.
“We are heading for Switzerland, but our foe will suspect this as our mode of transport from the moment he sees it, being intelligent enough to know that coincidence is
worthy of investigation,” Holmes said to Fogg. Holmes’ plan was to put down in France and continue this adventure through more common modes of transport, as to not attract unnecessary attention. A balloon could and would easily be followed, and we must set down
eventually.
Mr. Fogg was busy shovelling further coal and getting the propeller going, putting us on course for the north of France. It would not be a quick journey, but at least a safe
and relaxed one, or as safe as dangling from the heavens could be This relative and short lived safety was of little comfort when we sat down to take stock of the weapons
and ammunition we had left. Holmes’ shotgun was gone, the Marlin was at least inoperable without major repair, if ever it could be saved, and the rounds for the pistols
were thin on the ground, they would likely not last another fight.
As we were whisked across the channel, Mr Fogg wanted all the facts, something that Holmes gladly gave up. The information we possessed was vital to the survival of our
great nation and perhaps the world, we needed reputable men to pass that information on. Finally having time to rest and consider the events of the day, we took stock of all information gathered and came to some potential theories.
What we knew so far was that Moriarty, upon fear of arrest and complete destruction of him and all his associates, had let loose an evil upon England. These creatures resembled humans in bodily shape, but moved in part like inebriated thugs and part like cattle. They felt no fear or morale and appeared to not notice pain or injury. At first it appeared that they could not be hurt in the same way a man could, and yet, their lack of emotion and fear of death only made it appear that they were more resilient to injury.