As I looked over to Holmes, he had taken hold of a steak knife from the bar and was placing it vertically under the jaw, with one sure blow the blade drove up through the creature’s jaw and into the brain, dropping the beast to its knees. Disgusted by the filthy thing Holmes placed his boot upon its chest and kicked it to the floor.
I looked back to the old man, a new fire in his eyes from the solemn and lonely man we had seen upon entering, and then it struck me who he was.
“Dick Burton!” I cried.
Without responding the man dropped the sword to the floor and went to sit at a nearby chair. It had to be him, the scarred face was rather distinctive, I had met him a number of times in the late seventies. Cyril and the rest of his men rushed through the entrance, barrels still hot and spouting smoke.
“All in one piece?” Cyril asked.
“Indeed, five minutes and we shall be on our way,” replied Holmes.
“Then enough time for tea, barman!” Cyril shouted.
We walked over to the old man, now sitting, quite relaxed and thoughtful.
“Burton, is it really you?”
The man looked up directly at me, and it was unmistakeable, the piercing look, he was now quite old, maybe seventy, but none of that fire had gone. What totally baffled me was that his death was reported in the papers six months previously, in Trieste I believe.
“Watson is it?”
“Yes Sir,” I gladly replied.
“Dick Burton died last year, I am all that is left.”
Drawing up chairs to Burton’s table, we sat to further question him whilst we reloaded our handguns. After some prompting it became clear that Burton had faked his death, wanting to be remembered as the man he used to be, and not the clearly saddened drunk he believed he had become.
“Whatever your reasoning sir, you just saved our lives, and in doing so, perhaps saved England,” said Holmes.
Something clearly awoke in Burton upon these words, a newfound pride I should imagine, he straightened his back, now sitting taller and prouder.
“Thank you gentleman, you must please explain this turn of events in as few words as possible, so you may continue your travels and I will be better prepared,” Burton replied.
Holmes knew the man’s reputation and did therefore not insult him with any form of simplification of the events; he began with the first attack in my home and paid particular attention to the attributes of the creatures.
Burton gasped as if remembering something of what we spoke, which struck us as rather odd. He scratched his beard and pondered the information that Holmes had just imparted upon him. We both sat eagerly awaiting a response, for Burton clearly knew something of the matters we were now involved in. Finally he spoke up.
“I have heard of such a thing, a long time ago, but never given it any credence.”
“At this stage sir, we are quite willing to consider all possibilities, no matter how bizarre they may be. For the events of the past few days have been nothing that any decent man would believe, without experiencing it with his own eyes,” Holmes replied.
“In my travels across Africa, a number of times I encountered such a thing called Vodou. The locals believed it to be a form of powerful magic, but then such a thing was not uncommon with uncivilised peoples. Within this Vodou magic, they believed a person could be brought back from the dead and controlled, and that they called these creatures a zombi. Now, I do not know the details of how such a thing may be done, as it was a closely guarded secret that I gave no attention of interest to, dismissing it as mere mystical nonsense.”
“And I would have done the very same, but the unfortunate reality is that we may face such a magic, or science hiding under the name of magic, on a rather large and devastating scale,” Holmes replied.
Burton further explained what little he knew, which was a large step up from our current knowledge. It was therefore entirely possible that Moriarty was using such a magic or science to conjure up these beasts. It was still totally unclear as to why he placed such importance in Switzerland, something I was hoping Holmes would shed some light on, and therefore asked him.
“Switzerland may have no significance to the science or magic, but merely a safe location to pursue research and practice. It is safer and less likely to be drawn into war than any other country in Europe, whilst being a beautiful place to live. Is it not where you would live could you afford to do so Watson, among the splendour of the mountains and chalets?” Holmes replied.
He made good points, it was far from his intended target, safe and beautiful, what more could any man want? At this stage we began to wonder whether Moriarty himself was the head of the snake, or was it his research and base in Switzerland.
“Therefore, do we continue on to attempt to find his centre of operations, or do we go for the man himself?” asked Cyril.
A fair question, and something which had continually been on our minds since this began.
“At this stage we have too little information to know the answer to that question. Therefore, we must continue to find the villain’s home, which in doing so will eventually lead him to cross our path, ensuring we finish both him and whatever resources he has,” Holmes replied.
“Should we not inform the authorities here about the impending disaster they face?” Egerton asked.
“We will leave that to Johann,” Holmes said.
“For no explanation we can give will be explained, and they will know soon enough, we must be on with our task.”
They laid their various bags onto tables and began taking ammunition out, reloading the weapons and filling their pockets with what they could, it was a wise idea. Splitting up at this place was nearly the end of us, we had to avoid doing it again at all costs.
“Will you come with us?” I asked Burton.
“This is your adventure Watson. As far as the world is concerned I am already dead, and whilst this fight has given me a new reason to live, I do not wish to spend what could be me last days running around with younger men. No, I shall stay here, and defend this place with my life,” Burton replied whilst lifting his glass of wine to us.
Time was going on and we needed to be on our way, it would likely be morning again by the time we reached Interlaken, though that would at least give us some rest overnight on the train.
“It is time to move on, good luck to you gentlemen, and good afternoon,” said Holmes.
We set out into the street, the bodies of twenty creatures, that we now knew were probably called zombis, lay across the cobbled street. Blood trickled into the crevices of what was a beautiful place. After losing Jacob, we moved through these bodies cautiously, we could not afford such a mistake again, now knowing the risk these beasts presented beyond physical harm. Stepping from body to body, my Schmidt-Rubin held at low port, a creature just a yard from my feet opened its eyes, without hesitation I aimed the barrel at its head and let loose, the powerful round cleanlyfinishing the beast off instantly. As weedged through the bodies, two more rounds were fired from my colleagues for the very same reason. We were now through the carnage and feeling a little more comfortable, though no man relaxed. Each of us held their rifle or shotgun at the ready and continually looked around for potential risks. We made our way towards the station, which at this guarded rate took us at least ten minutes, though it felt much longer. The heat was bearing down upon us, which felt worse for the amount of equipment we were carrying.