Sherlock Holmes and the Zombie Problem by Nick S. Thomas, Arthur C. Doyle Page B

and the force sent the beast tumbling backwards onto its back. I followed a few paces whilst racking the lever of the Marlin and quickly reshouldering it. Shooting a man on the ground was akin to an assassination, but knowing what these were, it left me with no qualms at all, I squeezed the trigger and its skull fractured. Holmes’ shotgun rang out for a second time behind me. The four beasts were now finished and we were free to move.
Getting up the pace, we could perhaps gain fifteen minutes on the horde, which would presumably continue to swarm past the inn. We could only hope that Hutton and those fine men could either break out or hold up.
In the distance we could see the light haze and loose silhouette of a balloon shape, good old Hutton! Trotting up the footpath to the premises that housed the flying machine, panting from the quick rate we had kept up, we could see the silhouette of a man sitting casually in one of the rooms of the house before us. Holmes beat enthusiastically on the door, and yet, the man not shocked or startled, took a final sip from his cup before casually strolling to the door.
The shabby and rough old door swayed open and before us stood a distinguished and yet roughly clothed man, but clearly a well educated one.
“Mr Fogg?” Holmes blurted out, not giving the gentleman time to enquire about our presence. “At your service gentleman, why would you trouble me at these hours and with such armaments?” The man responded in a plucky and well spoken voice.
Holmes, as he had with Hutton, explained as quickly as he possibly could, tagging Hutton’s name and order on to the end of his words.
“I have travelled the world and seen plenty, this story seems farfetched to say the least my man, but that does not change the responsibility I owe Hutton and now to you.”
Holmes informed him in no uncertain terms that we had to head for Switzerland without delay.
“That does not change the fact my fine men that until my man returns with further supplies of coal, we will not get further than the coastline.”
“Damn it man, have you no way to get this balloon in the air sooner?” snapped Holmes in a rather ungentle and rude fashion, of which I quite understood considering the
impending situation, but was not endearing us to the man nonetheless.
“I will have you know sir that this is no balloon, this is a dirigible, and we will leave the moment we have coal. Now, calm yourself and let us enjoy a pleasant cup of tea before taking to the air.”
We were both unsure as to whether this odd gentleman understood the severity of the situation, but despite that, a cup of tea was music to our ears after the events of the
last day. Tea was a comforting beverage at any time, and always gave such a feeling of home and sense of norm, no matter the chaos around oneself. As Mr Fogg settled down in his rocking chair and we planted ourselves nearby, Holmes piped up in a rather abrupt fashion, though not startling the gent.
“Do you have any weapons about the premises?” “My valet has a coaching gun kept in the outhouse, but nothing else,” Mr Fogg replied.
“Then I rather suggest you place your hands on it and have it duly prepared with as much urgency as the coal for your dirigible,” Holmes explained.
The rather odd old gentleman rocked forward on his chair and rose from it, clearly now understanding that grave deeds were afoot and our haste and concern was not a small matter. With a straightening of his back he set out of the room with purpose. For all his oddities, this was clearly a sensible and quick thinking man, and Holmes
evidently saw through to that conclusion quickly. Mr. Fogg strolled back into the room clutching a blunderbuss, handing it to me with a powder flask and case of shot, looking at me rather sheepishly.
“Well I don’t know what to do with it!” he proclaimed. I took the gun in hand, it was old, I hadn’t handled a gun like this since my school days, it was clearly at least
several