Guy Adams - Sherlock Holmes - The Army of Doctor Moreau

I did not relish the sound of that. “What have you done to him?” I asked again.

He smiled, once more the alpha male. “You will see soon enough. He is a greater man than he ever was.”

We arrived outside what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. As far as I could tell we were somewhere in the area of King’s Cross. I considered making a run for it the minute the door was opened, but one look at the eyes of our feline driver changed my mind. I knew that my chances of getting out alive would drop dramatically once we were inside the building, but if this brute lived up to his natural heritage he would be fast as well as strong. There was no chance I’d be able to outrun him.

I was grabbed by the shoulder, and I could feel thick claws pierce the material of my jacket. If I pulled away he meant to make sure I left a piece of me behind!

“I can’t promise you will be comfortable,” Mitchell said. “But I doubt you’ll have to endure my company for long.”

“Well that’s a relief.”

He stared at me, seemingly at a loss as to why I was being so rude. That’s the problem with lunatics—they’re not awfully self-aware.

“I had hoped that you might be able to assist me,” he said. “As a medical man you would have been an extremely beneficial companion.”

“As a medical man I couldn’t lift a scalpel to help you.”

“You say that now, but let us see if you can maintain that dismissive attitude once you see what I have achieved.”

I was led inside the building, and my first impression was of the foul stench that clung to its ancient brick walls. I remember during my time in Afghanistan entering a barn that had been used to house a herd of goats. The sun had baked the inside of that barn, making the air hot and fetid, and filled with the aromas of hair, food and waste. I had been forced to run for the open before the atmosphere caused me to vomit.

This building was much larger, of course, and therefore the smell was not so strong. Still, I couldn’t help but think back to that Afghan hut.

The floor was filthy, littered with torn bedding, half-chewed bones and dark stains I didn’t wish to guess at. For all Mitchell’s talk of civilisation, it was clear his animal army hadn’t stepped far from their feral behaviour.

Mitchell clearly sensed my disgust. No doubt it showed clearly on my face.

“I am not here to strip away what makes our animal friends what they are,” he explained, “unlike Moreau with his determination that they should be made vegetarian, stripped clean of their urges and needs.”

“Fear the Law -” I said “- Isn’t that what you shouted when you wanted them to behave? Doesn’t sound like real freedom to me.”

“Well,” Mitchell squirmed slightly, “I’ll admit I have had to maintain some sense of order, just to ensure we’re all working towards the same goal. It’s in their best interests.”

“That’s what all dictators say.”

He led me down several flights of stairs then through to a small side room, the central feature of which was a large column covered with a heavy black sheet.

“Here,” he said, “then you will finally understand the miracles I have created.”

He tugged at the sheet, revealing a tall glass water tank. Inside, floating, fully clothed, was Lord Newman, the Prime Minister.

“Dear God, man!” I shouted, circling the tank to try to find a method of opening it. “He’ll drown!”

“If he were going to drown,” Mitchell replied, “he would have done so long ago.” He pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “Our noble guest has been in there for nearly an hour.”

“Impossible.”

“See for yourself, he still lives.”

I pressed my face up against the glass, looking the dignitary in the eyes. His long hair and beard, so often criticised by the opposition as undignified, looked decidedly so now, bobbing around his pale face like seaweed fronds. His thin lips were tightly pressed together, as if he were holding his breath, and yet his skin showed none of the ruddy tones one would expect from a man deprived of oxygen. As I looked, his hair parted and just for a moment I glimpsed the organs that had newly grown on either side of his throat—narrow, fleshy slits that rippled as they allowed air bubbles to filter between them.

“Dear God!” I exclaimed. “You’ve given him gills!”

“Only indirectly. I injected him with the serum I have prepared, that Holy Grail of governmental research. He has simply adapted to his environment the quickest and simplest way his body could think of.”

“But that’s …” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I was simply too in awe of the sight in front of me—the absurd, grotesque impossibility of it.

Suddenly Lord Newman convulsed, his whole body twitching like a fish caught on a line.

“Damn,” said Mitchell, stepping closer to the glass. “I was so sure he would last longer than the rest.”

“Longer than … What are you talking about man? What’s happening to him?”

He convulsed again and a shocking gobbet of blood burst from between those tightly pressed lips. It hung in the water for a moment, then sunk, immediately followed by another, and then one more. Soon his whole body was thrashing, and the water grew increasingly pink as he haemorrhaged.

“Every time,” said Mitchell, “the body goes so far and then breaks down.”

“You’ve got to get him out of there!” I shouted, looking around for something I could use to break the glass. I moved no more than a couple of feet before the leopard creature gripped me by the arms and raised me slightly off the floor. I thrashed in his grip, just as Lord Newman thrashed in the tank, neither of us to any positive effect.

“There’s no point,” said Mitchell, staring through the glass as Lord Newman slowly vanished in the murky soup. “He’ll be dead in a few moments. It’s almost akin to tissue rejection, as if the whole body begins to reject itself once the changes bed in. Fascinating—” he looked away “—but so terribly disappointing. He was to be my spokesman for the brave new age. Mind you,” he grinned, “I didn’t vote for him, did you?”

“Inhuman bastard!” I was beside myself with rage, not caring that the claws of the creature were tearing holes in my upper arms.

“Oh yes,” said Mitchell, “isn’t that the point?” He looked once more at the water in the tank, still and red now, and the hirsute silhouette that floated within. “Shame. Still, if at first you don’t succeed...” He looked at me, and the ferociousness of his lunacy burned hot in those eyes. “Let’s hope you manage to last a little longer, eh?”

I was carried out, and dragged down the adjoining corridor to another small room.

Mitchell pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “You’ll have to forgive the smell,” he said. “This is the secure area where we keep our animal friends when they first come into our care. They are understandably disorientated at first, and sore from their surgeries. We find it best to keep them somewhere dark and peaceful until they have come to their senses.”

He opened the door and once more I was hit with my memories of that Afghan barn, before I was thrown inside and the darkness consumed me.

I landed painfully on my knees, and rolled to my side in what felt like damp straw.

My arms burned from where the creature’s claws had drawn blood.

At that moment I could have happily killed Mitchell—he seemed to be the most terrible, loathsome beast of all.

Eventually I began to calm down, though the image of Lord Newman’s death lingered with me in the darkness. I was simply unable to see anything else.

After a while, as much as I tried to nurture my moral indignation, my thoughts turned instead to my own predicament. Clearly I was to share the same fate as the Prime Minister. Perhaps not the water tank—I had a feeling that Mitchell would always be eager to experiment afresh—but certainly something like it. Perhaps I would be buried alive, left to writhe like a worm until I ruptured into the soil. Or would I be dissected—forced to regrow myself ad nauseam like a lizard that has shed its tail?