“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and rock over the points.
“There are limits, you see, to our friend’s intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-maitre had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”
“And what would he have done had he had caught up with us?”
“There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous attack upon me. It is, however, a game at which two may play. The question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven.”
“To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces, sadly we may presently choose between hunger and impending death,” said Holmes.
Having decided to press on to Newhaven and go hungry, we were making good headway and Holmes’ plan was shaping up nicely, despite his shabby and gaunt look since I saw him the year before. His mind was as sharp as ever, sadly, there was one element of Moriarty’s plan which Holmes had not predicted was that he had contingency plans just as Holmes did, and having predicted a slip from his sharp thinking foe, had put a drastic and wicked strategy in to effect.
Passing through the countryside in pleasant weather, we both were contemplating the recent turn of events. Never had we faced such a risk to our own lives, nor had such an important task at hand. Moriarty had now lost our track, at least accurately, though he was clearly well aware that we were heading to the coast to head on to France.
Upon approaching the platform at Newhaven, a ruckus had clearly begun just moments before, the likes of which we had not ever witnessed and were about to face with horrific effect. A handful of people lay bleeding on the deck of the platform and others were fighting desperately around them. This sight was clearly out of the ordinary, and not anything you would ever see among fine British citizens, this was the work of a desperate madman. As I found out rather later on the next day, Moriarty had set two hundred ruffians lose upon all of the port towns along the southern coast, as a defence against both a slip from us and/ or assistance we called in from the authorities. You may ask what good two hundred scoundrels could do against the British police force, but those two hundred rapidly increased in number, for reasons that only became clear to us at a much later date. At the centre of the fighting were men who we now recognised as the crazed henchman of our foe, and we could do nothing but prepare for a battle.
Just twenty seconds from arriving in the middle of combat, I was glad of what I packed last night and now held close. I grabbed the tall duffel bag I had carried on my shoulder, a custom piece I had made a few years back with side opening and leather belts to create a roll bag. Throwing it on the table I released the clips and launched it forward like you would shake out a blanket, unveiling all my favourite firearms in a glorious display of technology. Holmes was a man who never cared much for weapons, carrying a Bulldog out of need rather than desire, but even he had the look of a man who’d just been served a free pint of ale.
I grabbed for my Marlin, this time fully loaded in readiness. I threw Holmes my double barrel hammer gun, knowing full well it was the best suited to his talents, as he stuffed a box of ammunition in to his jacket pocket. Reloading weapons was clearly a risky proposal against these foes, a fact we were both too familiar with, though no time to attach sword belts for the cold steel that also lined the bag, we each grabbed one of the matching pair of Webley Mk1 .455 service revolvers and stuffed them into our belts.
“Clear the doors,” Holmes cried as worried passengers began to panic, seeing our arsenal they quickly moved aside.
We had no intention of going onto that platform if at all possible, the narrow door of the carriage provided a natural bottleneck defence that we were rather grateful of, we faced perhaps ten enemies that we could see. The train came to a halt and those who manifested the violence stopped and looked at us, the same cold hatred that we had seen the day prior.
I took aim with my rifle at the first towards the heart, lightly squeezing the trigger the bullet ripped through the man’s chest, causing him to drop to one knee, and yet astonishingly he got back up and drove forwards. These ruffians did not have speed, barely more than shambling towards us, yet with drive and dedication. Whatever these foes were, they were not prone to the same incapacitating strikes that any human would be. Remembering the fight in my office the day before, I took aim at the same attacker’s head, my second shot rang out and my foe was utterly vanquished, spreading blood across his accomplices behind him and collapsing like a sack of potatoes upon the floor.
Holmes’ shotgun rang out as he shot the next assailant square in the chest, stopping him in his tracks, but barely altering his posture. Before I could call out to inform my friend of the manner in which these beasts could be felled, he had evidently already reached the same conclusion.
The hammer gun’s barrel raised whilst the man was just five feet away, the scattergun let loose its second and final content, striking its target just above the left eye, taking half the man’s head off in a less than clean fashion. Brain matter from the bleeding victims spread across the floor below the beasts and the second fell before us.
Holmes, not even considering reloading had already thrown his shotgun to the floor whilst it was still smoking, drawing the .455 Webley and continuing the action. I took aim at my next opponent, but as I pulled the trigger his head jolted slightly to one side and his body swayed, the bullet struck his chin, the right side of his jaw completely detached from his face and the other side only stayed attached to the body by the skin of his face, blood spewed from his open jaw and yet nothing stopped him coming at us.
I let off a further five rounds to the heads of those attacking us, killing three, but their frantic movement in an attempt to get on board made accuracy difficult. One of the attackers smashed the window of the door and grabbed hold of the frame. Holmes, who stood in front of it, put out his Webley and let off three rounds one after another into the attacker’s face until he dropped as a bloody mess upon the platform, sliding down the side of the carriage. Another attacker beside him reached in for Holmes, knocking his weapon from his hand, and grabbing hold of the door, wrenching it open.
I leapt to Holmes’ side and fired the final three shots in the Marlin at the next two monsters, killing both, but now out of ammunition. I stumbled back towards the opposing side of the carriage as I reached for my Webley but Holmes had already opened up with his Bulldog.
Despite Holmes’ methodical approach to crime, his illogical wild use of firearms was always a puzzle to me, much like his attitude to cleanliness I suppose. Before I had even taken aim with my Webley my friend had emptied his Bulldog, killing only one foe with five rounds, putting his fourth round through the eye socket of the closest, and yet firing his fifth and final round in to the same foe, piercing the neck. As I fired my first round of the Webley, Holmes by my side reached under my jacket, drawing the Beaumont Adams. Side by side we now had five rounds each and had no time for careful accuracy, being rushed by four blood thirsty monsters.
We fired withno rest until all ten rounds were expended and the carriage was thick with smoke. The last of our foes was vanquished and we sighed with relief, powder residue clinging to our faces and sulphur being the overwhelming smell now clinging to our nostrils, thankfully blocking the stench of the dead.