We went in, walking through a narrow double door into a tall room with plenty of tables set up. A few of the customers looked around in surprise, maybe at such a large group, but more likely the armoury that between us we bore. The barman either didn’t consider us unusual or simply chose not to care. The room was decorated with old swords and muskets, pipe smoke wafted across the room from an old man sitting at the bar. He was the only patron not to give us a moment’s thought or attention. The stranger had a big beard and scruffy hair, he sat like an Englishman, but didn’t look like one, either way, he seemed to be of little importance.
“Six of your finest specials and as many teas if you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Cyril.
The bartender nodded in acknowledgement. A stiffer drink would have been far more welcome at a time such as this, but also counterproductive to our purpose. We sat down at a small table and relaxed as best we could. It would be twenty minutes before our food arrived, but the tea was enjoyable. Finishing up the meal, and glad to feel some energy returning to our worn out bodies, Cyril spoke up.
“Would it not be an idea to wire London with the new information we now have, regarding the infectious nature of the beasts?”
“It would indeed, sir, a fact that had crossed my mind when we sat down here,” replied Holmes.
Before Holmes could give further explanation footsteps rang out from the doorway, the sound of an important man strutting, not a beast.
Turning to face what we had hoped to be a friend and not a new more intelligent enemy, we were pleased to see Holmes leap to his feet and reach out his hand to the man, a friend evidently. The men shook hands and Holmes invited him to sit with us. He didn’t seem altogether shocked by our attire, perhaps being well accustomed to Holmes’ odd ways.
Holmes introduced the man, and us to him, his name Johann, and was our equivalent in this region, clearly an old acquaintance for Holmes.
“Cyril, please take your chaps and find a way to wire London with all the information necessary as quickly as possible, and be back here with as much speed,” said Holmes.
My old friend rose quickly to his feet, pleased to have a new duty, and knowing full well its importance. His colleagues took up their rifles and strolled out of the room with purpose. Holmes looked back at Johann and gasped, knowing he would yet again have to explain himself and our story of the last few days. Explaining this turn of events to even the most trusted and close friend was a difficult task, and it was becoming tiresome.
“More tea!” barked Holmes.
He was rude and obtuse, giving a bad representation of our countrymen in a foreign land, but I knew exactly why, and would not call him up on the fact. There was no time for fretting over politeness and individual feeling.
As Holmes began to discuss the present matters with his old friend and the tea arrived, I completely blanked out everything in the room, focusing on only the current events and my tea; nothing could break my focus and thoughts. What bothered me about this situation was that Moriarty had not appeared to have dealt his final blow. Why would that be?
We had only ever been attacked by a few dozen creatures at a time, who were unarmed. Did Moriarty assume they would be capable of killing us? Was he simply reducing our ammunition and wearing us down, or goading us in the direction he wanted? It was a horrible thought, to have your life played with as a child plays with a toy, and yet, with the addition of sadistic character. I didn’t have an answer here, because I could not see into the villain’s head, I had not even ever met him, though I suspected that the worst was yet to come, for his potential for havoc was evident.
“I know your thoughts Watson,” said Holmes.
“Oh really?”
“You are wondering why our foe has not made his final move?”
“Excellent.”
“Elementary.”
“Then what will Moriarty do next?” I asked.
“That is the crux of the matter Watson, as the villain’s intentions are not wholly clear. We still do not know the extent to which Moriarty can create these creatures, and to what level he must rely on their number to infect the rest of the population. Based on our findings thus far, I would predict that he is confident of placing himself in power of the British Isles as soon as he has removed any threat to his personal self and whatever goings on he has in Switzerland,” Holmes replied
“Which means killing us is currently his only objective?”
“It would unfortunately seem that way, and we must therefore quite shortly expect an attack on a scale none of us have yet seen.”
Holmes’ face suddenly turned from the look of a calculating conversationalist to the concerned combatant. His eyes tightened on an object further behind me, as my back faced the door. He drew his Bulldog and fired with the barrel just a foot away from my left ear, my hearing popped and I was slightly disorientated, flinching to my right side. I turned more to look over my left shoulder now as Holmes’ gun flashed twice more. A mass of the creatures was pouring through the door, with no clear indication of their number.
There was no time to grab the rifles, and they would not be well suited and could be a hindrance in these confined spaces. The creatures were now just fifteen feet away as I drew my Adams revolvers, Holmes reaching for the Webleys in his satchel. We fired continually, all twenty shots we had, smoke filled our vision and blood gushed from our foes in a glorious display of violence. Now at just three feet from us, the last round of Holmes’ guns rang out, skimming the head of one, taking the flesh off to reveal the skull underneath. I knew I had just one round left, pointing it directly at the brain of the nearest, just a foot away I pulled the trigger. The creature’s eyes went immediately lifeless as the bullet ripped through its skull, the powder burns singeing the flesh around the hole and the exit wound spraying blood out across the last two creatures behind him.
The hearing in my right ear was coming back, though it would be some time for the other to recover. I could hear gunshots in the distance outside the cafe, likely to be our friends engaging the same enemy from the other side, sadly too late to assist us now. Before we could reach for our swords the last two villains were upon us, trying persistently to take hold of us, we were forced with our backs to the bar, struggling desperately to keep away from their bite.
For all our preparation in firearms and swords, it how now come to this, and for a few moments I really did think it was the end of our most important adventure. Holmes, ever the boxer, jabbed at his assailant’s face, just trying to get free of the thing. Not wanting to put my flesh anywhere near the foul creatures mouth I took an undercut at my attacker whilst holding him back with my other hand, it barely caused the beast to flinch. I hit it again, and again, any such wound would have caused a normal man to release, but not these creatures.
There was a clatter on the wall beside me; we could only hope not more beasts. Something struck my foe on top of the head, sending a length of metal flying across theroom. With the strike to the beast its head was smashed down, revealing the source of the attack. The old man who had been sitting at the bar held an old sword in hand that he had taken from the wall. It was a beautiful Schiavona, with its large and exquisitely sculpted basket hilt, the blade now only half its original length from the first blow that had broken it. Not letting the blade break dissuade him, he struck the creature in the head with the hilt of the sword, again and again, until the hilt was a bloodied mess and the beast was lifeless.