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

night before shepherded in our direction, or were they working from a kind of directive or control?
Clearly we needed a lot more information, but we had one strong element in our arsenal, we had Moriarty in the dark. For all his intelligence, he clearly was very concerned about what Holmes could either know or do. For all of Moriarty’s strengths, he was evidently worried enough to leave England in order to protect whatever assets he may have abroad, which were evidently vital to his operations.
I was glad Holmes had some skeleton idea of a plan, for the one thing that bounced around my brain was the sheer lack of firepower we now held. What occurred to me at this stage was my old friend in Brussels, he was an avid firearms collector and we would be passing within a short distance of his home on our route to Switzerland. Should we find him at home, he would provide a worthy ally.
We were descending at a slow but steady pace now, the open fields being a welcome sight after the horde infested streets and plains of the England we had left. A metal bracket next to me pinged as if under pressure, not a pleasant experience when we were dangling from the sky at heights which would inevitably lead to our deaths should we drop. We looked around for what had caused it, before we could speculate on the issue, a second sound rang out, something struck the frame of the basket and ricocheted across the interior around us. At this point we realised the harsh reality that our latest plight was not mechanical malfunction, but gunfire deliberately made against us.
Already on the way to the ground, we had no choice but to get to land and move on from there, as the dirigible could easily be pursued at the slow speeds it travelled. Every few seconds a bullet struck the basket, we all lay low on the floor, just hoping to remain uninjured. Nine shots had struck out, waiting upon the tenth and likely last, we all remained motionless. The shot rang out, it whistled and pierced the basket, striking the arm of Passepartout, who barely made a sound. I could see the rip of his jacket and blood just visible beneath the fabric. Moving over to the valet I checked his arm, the bullet had skimmed the flesh of his arm, causing nothing more than a painful flesh wound, a lucky turn.
We were just seconds now from impact to the ground, coming down slightly harder than would be ideal, bracing for the impact we took hold of the frame of the basket. We struck the farmland hard and one corner of the basket buckled, causing part of the frame to break, we were thrown about and tumbled eventually to a halt.
“Out!” shouted Holmes.
We were made, with little ammo and the further disadvantage of not knowing our location or terrain. The only conciliation in this regard was that the sparse population and open fields had shown us that the surrounding area was void of the hordes of beasts that had caused us so much trouble in England.
Stumbling out of the wreckage of what was an outstandingly created and treasured device of science; we knew that we had to cover distance quickly if we were to stay free and clear of whoever was now hunting us, likely Moriarty or a henchman of his. Leaving the Marlin behind as it was now useless, we began to move carrying nothing more than our handguns, as they were all we now had left besides the clothes on our backs.
“Mr Holmes,” Fogg spoke in a surprisingly relaxed tone.
“This villain has no quarrel with us, in fact, he owes me a sound apology. You continue with your task and leave this concern to me,” the eccentric Fogg explained.
Holmes quickly evaluated the situation, and understood. Fogg was no threat to Moriarty, and to spend any more time in his company would be a disservice to two men that had already done us a good turn. Fogg being the odd fellow he was may well talk his way out of Moriarty’s grasp, as no man could think he was guilty of anything but silliness.
“Good luck my fine man, stay out of England until you hear