This adventure had become more than solving a criminal caseand had developed into a war that threatened the country at large. Holmes quickly speculated that this could not have been an isolated incident, and his hypothesis later proved to be unfortunately accurate. The British Isles were at war from an enemy already on its soil, and made up from its own citizens, a civil war without the political conflict required to create opposing sides.
We turned to walk back to our bags, to see a boy, probably not even eighteen years old yet, but stood steadfast and confident, holding a rifle from my bag, the Lee Metford Cavalry Carbine. I feared he would shoot us, and yet, Holmes saw the situation for what it was, his hand met my shoulder and pulled us both down. A shot rang out from the powerful .303Metford. One of the creatures from the attack yet had life in him, and had arisen to strike at us, this lad hit him square in the head, dropping the monster with admirable precision.
Getting up from the floor, we looked back at the fallen beast, just a yard behind us and now totally lifeless, surrounded by his comrades’ bodies. Holmes strolled over to the lad.
“What is your name boy?”
“Churchill sir, Winston Churchill,” the lad replied, in a confident and prideful manner.
“We are in your debt good man, you are destined for great things, keep the rifle, and get back to your home as quickly as you can, lock your doors, protect your family and do not leave the house until you run out of food and water.”
The boy looked ecstatic, I walked up to him, he held the rifle as a trophy and showed little signs of ever giving it up. I purchased that rifle just six months ago, weeks before the Marlin. It was a pleasure to own such a great weapon issued to the men of our fine armies, and yet this boy deserved it as well as any soldier. I picked up the box of thirty .303 rounds from my luggage and passed it to the young Winston, feeling comfort in the knowledge that he would use that weapon to defend this great country well.
“That goes for all you good folk, get back to your homes, gather what weapons you can, and hold up until this chaos passes,” Holmes shouted out across the car, comforting the people when we both knew full well the grave situation everyone was in.
We packed our still hot barrelled weapons back into the canvas wrap from which they came. I pulled out two boxes of ammunition, .450 Adams and .455 Webley, from which we reloaded the four pistols we had. What became clear was that we needed to carry a good number of weapons to cycle through rather than reload, for these enemies rarely allowed reload times.
Looking back down the carriage we quickly realised that not one of the carriage’s passengers had left. Why would these people not want to leave a scene of such horror and violence?
“What are you still doing here?” I asked.
The carriage remained silent, most of the inhabitants not even lifting their eyes to gaze at us. Did they fear us or simply not want to walk among the dead and dying? Finally, a young woman walked a few paces closer and spoke up.
“We have no weapons, and god knows what other villains lay in the night, not one of us would choose to leave the safety of this carriage and your guns.”
It was indeed true, this was not a safe place, perhaps those were the only villains in the vicinity, but that was not a certainty. Just moments before we thought only of our mission to stop Moriarty and therefore our own preservation, and now the protection of these people was a new burden placed upon our shoulders.
Looking out from the windows across the platform we could see the wounded still laying in pain on the platform, some lying among the bodies of our fallen enemies. With self defence being the priority of the time, care of the wounded had not even crossed my mind, which made me shameful, for it is what should occur to me above all else as a man of medicine.
I put the Adams revolver back into its holster and headed out to attend to the casualties on the platform. The first victim I approached had been struck a number of times with a bloodied and black face, bitten on the side of the neck and losing a lot of blood. As I did the best I could with what limited supplies I carried, Holmes paced among the dead and wounded, clearly in deep thought, but not stopping to give any assistance despite the cries of agony.
After just a few moments of assisting this first victim, the strangest thing occurred. What was a lifeless body just seconds before, five feet from my position, twitched, and then began to arise. With the amount of blood loss I had witnessed, regaining consciousness suddenly was rather unlikely. The victim sat up, then tried to find placing of a hand and stumbled to their feet. Looking up, a shiver went down my body as the now familiar frenzied look stared at me, the look of a monster. The shock of what I had seen left me frozen and unable to respond in any way at all, a terrifying feeling when you face an attacker at this distance.
Bang, bang, bang, the shots rang out from Holmes’ Bulldog, he having come to the correct conclusion before I. The first round struck the man’s collarbone, second the neck, third, the brain; he tumbled to the ground, twitching on the platform deck until he finally went still. A matter of minutes before that was an innocent civilian attacked by these monsters, this minute we killed him; the horror hit home, the civilians had become the monsters.
Speaking purely as a doctor, there was only one explanation for this horrific situation, the monsters carried some form of disease that was carried over to their victims, from their contact of bodily fluids by the evidence we saw. This clearly had not been an issue the night before, as those enemies only targeted us, who remained unharmed, but now these creatures are attacking all in sight.
“I have seen enough,” exclaimed Holmes.
“England is no longer safe, and will not be until we either end Moriarty, or end his means of creating and controlling these beasts, which evidently resides in Switzerland.”
I agreed, but didn’t need to say anything for Holmes to know I was in agreement.
“The real question is, is Moriarty the head of the snake or merely the current agent of a larger agenda? With his intelligence, I cannot believe a man such as himself would be under the command of any being. We must head for Switzerland, letting him believe we know where and what he is practicing there, at which time, we will either discover his secret, or end him personally. One or other will likely save good England, but we may well need to achieve both to find the outcome we desire.”
What became clear to us was that those who were dead or dying across this platform were currently harmless, but they would soon become the enemy. As a doctor I could not bring myself to solve this problem in the only way that was both best for them and the populace at large, and yet, Holmes, ever the tactician, only saw friend or foe, knowing what had to be done. As I knelt beside the man who I was caring for, Holmes drew his bulldog, and proceededto put a bullet in all who were injured or lifeless and not already full of lead. After the second shot, screams rang out from those not already dead or unconscious, begging for mercy, cries that were not unfamiliar to me, and yet, had not been heard in a long time. When the fifth shot rang out, the great detective simply stood still, emptied the cases over the bodies of his gruesome victims, and reloaded, single rounds, casually, as the cries continued. Holmes was not a heartless man, only calculating, knowing exactly what had to be done. Having just occasionally seen a warm heart to my dear friend, I knew what agony he would be facing inside, and yet, strong enough to ignore it for the greater good.
Finally, the last scream was silenced as the twelfth shot rang out, only my patient surviving, staring at me with desperate eyes. I had dealt with horrible injuries many times, but never had to end life so suddenly and harshly, I could not withstand the torrid nature of what was to come, nor withstand the cries for help. Before the man could say a word I drew my Adams in quick order and without stopping or hesitating, nor waiting for a response, put the barrel to the side of the man’s head and pulled the trigger, it was an unpleasant sight, but the shortest path of resistance. Brain matter coated the hot barrel of my beloved service revolver, and I could think of nothing to do but wipe the barrel off in my victim’s jacket. Killing an enemy in war or a ruffian in self defence was a natural act that caused nothing more than sorrow, but having to euthanise what was a healthy man in your arms was something entirely different. Was this what Moriarty was making us, executioners of our own country folk?