“You clearly have more experience of this new enemy than any of us, please lead us in this new battle.”
“Interlaken has fallen, but we have left comrades there in defence. We can either stand and fight here, or run, and face even greater combined odds at a later date, additionally, we two must make it to Meirengen,” said Holmes.
“Interlaken has fallen?” the man asked.
“Yes, three of our friends defend the school and its inhabitants, but we did not see or hear of any more survivors there,” said Holmes.
The soldiers all gasped in surprise.
“What were you doing out here?” I asked.
“We had heard news of attacks of some sort breaking out across the country and were ordered to gather all capable men to form a militia at Interlaken. There are many capable farmers out in these parts, we must get back there to save what is left of our families,” said the man.
“And so you shall, but first, let us fight this battle together, so we may continue on the road, and you may return to aid the school without the threat of this army behind you,” said Holmes.
“Thank you.”
“Now, gather as much ammunition as you can from your wagons and form up on me,” said Holmes.
“Yes sir.”
“Have you any more ammunition for the Gatling?” I asked.
“Yes, on the cart to the rear, I shall gather it for you.”
That was good news, it was a fine weapon and could be a godsend when facing such an enemy as this, and in such great number. We had a little time until our foe could cover the ground between us and we, as well as the men, used the time in the best way possible. Holmes and I collected up our weapons from the ground. The horses had bolted as we had not time to tie them up, but it didn’t matter anymore.
Holmes was flicking cartridges into his shotgun, an outstanding wonder of technology, whilst I reloaded my Adams revolvers. Our swords were coated in congealed blood that was causing corrosion in places, a sad reality of the urgency of our times. Cleaning would have to wait, perhaps many more days, perhaps forever, if we could not survive this nightmare. Just ten soldiers remained now as well as Holmes and myself, all of us preparing for the onslaught in the most professional manner possible. The few brave men were moving with intent, it was an honour to be among them. The previously angry soldier that had spoken to us ran to our position holding box magazines for the Gatling.
“Your ammunition, sir,” the man said.
“Thank you my man, what is your name?” I asked.
“Jacques.”
“Thank you, will you let us lead you?”
“Until this fight is over, yes.”
“Then ready your men, ensure ammunition is at the ready and bayonets remain fixed, we will be with you in just a few moments,” I replied.
The man moved off with great speed. Holmes and I moved over to the Gatling, it was no longer steaming. We wheeled it forward into a good line of sight with our foes and I locked a new magazine on top of the gun.
The soldiers around us were rushing to re-arm themselves, a rather odd thing when the enemy was at such a close distance, and yet an action which was allowed by their lack of firearms and speed. Jacques ran back to us holding two box magazines and handed them to me, it was much appreciated.
“Watson, get that gun in line and I will form the men up upon it,” said Holmes.
I moved the Gatling, it was still warm, and ran it on its wheels forward a few feet past the bodies. I ripped the empty magazine from the top of the weapon and threw it to the ground, locking in a new one.
“Form up!” Holmes barked at the men.
They were a little surprised to be shouted at by a foreign civilian, but after the display of ferocity seen before them, did not hesitate to obey.
They were just ten men, all armed with bolt action rifles, each of their shoulder ammunition bags stuffed to the brim or overflowing, a wise move. Actions were clicking as stripper clips were loaded and weapons cocked. Each man carried the same Schmidt-Rubin model 1889 that Cyril had so kindly given me, a fine rifle. We were now lined up, ten soldiers, bayonets still fitted, a Gatling at their flank manned by myself, and Holmes on their left flank. Holmes had not picked up his shotgun, but chosen to remain in command, perhaps to maintain the morale of the men, or perhaps because he relied on their ability to get the job done. He now stood upright and confidently, his 1853 trooper’s sword in hand and resting on his shoulder, Webley in his left hand.
The men now stood at port, waiting. This was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable times in a fight, as once the battle begun the training and practicality of survival took over, but just before the fight, nerves ran high and heart beats pounded. The men were uneasy, unsurprisingly, they had just watched a number of their friends die in the most horrific means, by such savages no soldier had ever expected to face.
The beasts were perhaps now three hundred yards away. With rifles as capable as these we would normally have been firing well before this distance, but the necessity of headshots diminished our effective range drastically. We were all waiting impatiently and uncomfortably, sweat dripped from my brow as I sat behind the carriage of the Gatling. Fear was in the air, I did not need to see the soldiers to feel the hellish effect on their morale. The next hundred yard shamble of our foes was unbearable. Finally, two hundred yards, and we were ready for revenge.
“At two hundred yards, present!”
The rifles shouldered in perfect harmony, we now commanded more firepower than any previous point during this affair, but equally as large a foe.
“Pick your targets carefully and aim for the head only, fire!”
A volley ripped out and struck the oncoming horde. The crisp sound of rifles ringing out in harmony was a unique sound, one that should drive fear into your opponents, but not these beasts. Twelve rifles seemed woefully inadequate against these odds. Just four zombis dropped from this round of fire, and one of those stumbled back to their feet to continue on. The men quickly reloaded their weapons with the hugely quick and efficient straight pull design of their rifles.
“Fire!” shouted Holmes.
Four more zombis dropped to the dirt and all stayed there this time, it was my turn. Finally after sitting there uncomfortably for so long I took the Gatling crank in hand, and began to rotate it. The slow but repetitive fire of the Gatling was a mellowing sound that always warmed my heart.
Bullets ripped through the oncoming zombis, blood spurting out and bodies spasmed as bone structures were smashed. Bits of clothing ripped off as the Gatling continued to roar. I could just hear Holmes shout out from the other side of the infantryman.
“Fire at will!”
The guns were ringing out beside me as the bloody mess ensued before my eyes. We had now killed perhaps forty of the foul creatures, but those behind them simply stepped over their bodies and kept going. The Gatling ran dry, a horrible feeling in such a time of need. I took hold of the magazine but it was stuck, sending a chill down my spine. I stood up from my position pulling harder on it, but nothing.
“Watson, get that damn gun firing!” shouted Holmes.