“Wer sind Sie?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” Holmes replied.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
The man spoke with excellent English but was not particularly inviting, it was perhaps understandable seeing the desolation around him.
“Mr Holmes, this is my colleague Mr Watson? said Holmes.
“Have you been bitten?” he asked.
“Most definitely not sir, but we are tired and weary, in need of food and rest, we have been fighting these foul creatures for several days from England to here.”
“Then what are you doing here?” the man asked.
“We are following the path to the root of this evil to bring an end to it,” Holmes replied.
“Will you do us the pleasure of entering your house?”
The man looked weary, but slowly began unbolting the door, he was most likely glad to just see more humans. Three bolts rang out and the door swung open. The man that stood before us was tall, with a sizeable round belly protruding over his grey trousers and covered in a dirty white shirt and braces. He had a bushy moustache, a revolver stuffed in his trousers and a shotgun in his hands. This was a practical man, the shotgun was firmly aimed at us.
“Turn around!”
“Excuse me?” said Holmes.
“I am sorry, gentleman, but these are desperate times. We will let you in once you have proven you have not been bitten, now turn around, slowly, let us see your necks, and pull up your sleeves, I cannot take the word of a stranger,” he said.
It was fair enough really, this man had likely just had to butcher what were until recently his neighbours, and was now being asked to trust foreign strangers. We propped our long guns against the doorway and did as the man asked, until he was finally satisfied that we were not infected. The man finally relaxed slightly and lowered his shotgun to one hand beside him.
“Thank you gentleman, I am so sorry to have to be a poor host, but these are wicked times, and I have no choice, you are the first normal people we have seen all day.”
“It is no problem, sir. And thank you, your thoroughness is to be commended, may we come in and offer some explanation of these events, and perhaps trouble you for some information,” said Holmes.
“Of course, welcome to the Englischer Hof, I am Peter Steiler the elder, the landlord,” the man said.
The landlord was an intelligent man, having served for three years as a waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London. He had done well to barricade and defend this place so effectively. We thankfully accepted his welcome and entered, it truly was a wonderful thing to be invited into a place of safety among survivors.
“Do you have any more survivors here?” I asked.
“Four, my son and three patrons.”
“You have done well to survive here,” I responded.
“Perhaps, but yesterday there were six more people lodging here,” he replied.
It was a sad turn of events, but anyone surviving an outbreak such as this was impressive. Peter led us through to the kitchen where the rest of the three guests were sat, along with his son. They were drinking tea, but not in the relaxed fashion you would expect of such a relaxing drink. The whole table was shocked, quiet and dulled.
“Are there any more survivors in the town?” I asked.
“I honestly cannot tell you gentleman, since this began we have remained firmly locked in here, as it was the only way to stay safe. We have made as little noise as possible and dealt withanyone thathas tried to break in,” he replied.
Peter muttered a few words at the group in German mentioning our names, but received no response. The kitchen table had a selection of weapons laid upon it. A bolt action rifle lay at the centre, a Vetterli M1881, a precursor to the Schmidt-Rubin I was carrying. Another shotgun lay beside it as well as two revolvers. A number of rudimentary weapons such as knives and axes also littered the table, the axe still had evidence of blood on its tip. These people had evidently fought desperately to survive, and the landlord being the linchpin.
“I do hope you can provide us with some information and answers Mr Holmes, for we have just become locked in our own home, having to defend ourselves from our neighbours,” said Peter.
“This disaster has struck across Europe, from England where we started this journey to this place we now find ourselves,” replied Holmes.
“Are you not bringing this problem with you?”
“No, we are following the head of it to bring an end to these dark days,” said Holmes.
“Then can you explain to us why our neighbours have become savages?”
“To some extent, yes.”
“Then do tell,” Peter insisted.
“Anyone one of us can become one of those beasts, which I have been reliably informed are known as zombis, upon sharing of their bodily fluids, most commonly through a bite. The bitten subject dies within a few hours, less through extreme blood loss, and quickly re-animates as a foul creature,” said Holmes.
The landlord look aghast, they were hard words to accept, and not something you would expect to hear except perhaps in old tales. Peter slumped slightly and laid his shotgun to rest against a wall. Rubbing his brow, both weary and highly distressed, he looked up at us.
“And there is no cure for this?”
“Not as far as we know, and the survivors are too busy trying to remain alive to spend even a moment’s time considering the possibility, though my guess would be no. Everything we have seen suggests that you must first die in order to become a zombi, and no man can be brought back from the dead,” said Holmes.
Peter sat down at the tablewith the drink he had left and contemplating the even worse news he had just received.
“Will you stay with us?” he asked.
“If we could have a bed for the night, that would be most appreciated, but beyond that we must pursue our mission.”
“Of course, can we be of any assistance in that regard?” Peter asked.
“Information would be valuable, we are looking for a man who would pass near here often,” said Holmes.
“I meet many people who travel here, so please, ask what you will of me.”
“The man we seek is a tall Englishman, thin, slightly hunched, with thinned hair and a sharp face. He would likely appear rude to you and would never travel without aides, who would be tough characters, always attending his will.”
The landlord straightened in his posture, the character profile clearly provoking a response.
“You know of who I speak?” asked Holmes.
“I do, but he never appeared as anything but pleasant and civil to us, his name is John Wilkinson.”
Holmes shot a look at me, this was the first lead we had received since Holmes had first come to me with this information, and Holmes had lead us directly here, it was a positive step.
“Does this Wilkinson live in this area?” asked Holmes.
“I truly cannot say, but he is here often and is a great lover of the local scenery, so I can only imagine that he has some regular accommodation nearby.”
“Would you have any idea where we could find this man?”
“He has on occasion made more than a few mentions of the hamlet of Rosenlaui, and the falls of Reichenbach, of which he was a great admirer, and said he spent much time basking in their beauty,” said Peter.