Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  The amateur rich will get what's coming to them! That includes Ismay! Gidley's taunting words from earlier were now bothering Langston. He had remembered them while ruminating over the fact that Ismay had been so kind to him- and it was all because of a misunderstanding.

  I wanted to see her, Langston had said to him earlier, while crumpled upon the Boat Deck.

  You wanted a better view of our finest ship? Ismay had responded, not realizing that he was referring to Lillith, and not the ship.

  Somehow, Langston had managed to dig himself out of trouble with that overzealous steward largely by keeping his mouth shut when it had been appropriate. What if he had contradicted Ismay's inquiry? I would likely have been handcuffed by the Master-In-Arms and hauled off to anywhere on this ship, he mused to himself with a slight shudder. And why had Gidley apparently deemed it necessary to threaten Ismay? As the moments rolled on, Langston had allowed his mind to drift into a horrid direction: what if Gidley was going to harm Ismay, after their chance encounter on the ship? Would he not be bearing some of the responsibility if Gidley decided to do something foul? Good God, I do not know what they have in terms of a security force on this ship, Langston thought to himself. And if Gidley decides to act, could they even stop him?

  He drew a breath, sat up in the semi-dark of his room, fumbling for the bundle of his belongings which had been tied to a bedpost at the foot of his bunk bed. After struggling with the sack's strings for a few moments with shaking hands, at last he held the vampire kit in his grip. What to do, what to do? he practically whined to himself. Lillith had pointed him in the direction of those tools- ages ago, it now seemed- for good reason, and as he held the dark wooden box in his hands, feeling its weight, he berated himself for not taking the time to learn how to use them. To the end, he had hoped it would be unnecessary- even impossible- to actually use any of these strange weapons, and now he was regretting not having schooled himself when he had the chance.

  However, the box did offer a strange sort of comfort. It was a link, some sort of palpable connection to Lillith- whom he had longed and feared for- for so long. She is my security, he thought to himself. She will know what I should do with them to stop Gidley and Lyons when the time comes. I hope that time is not tonight.

  In an action that he knew was completely eccentric, Langston replaced his pillow with the box, and actually laid his head upon it. Warm, solid and secure it was, and within moments he was sound asleep.

  9:15 P.M.

  Dinner for Ismay that evening had been a disappointing affair- and certainly not because the food offerings were anything but spectacular. On the menu had been oysters, filet mignon, sauté of chicken lyonnaise, greens beans and creamed carrots, punch romaine, roast squab, Waldorf pudding... Ismay had sampled them all, but he had still been unable to settle himself from the great feelings of unease and uncertainty that had been plaguing him for the duration of the day.

  Is tomorrow Monday? he had asked himself silently, the sight of 24 karat, gold-rimmed china not giving him the usual pleasure that it had so many times before. Is today really Sunday? What happened this morning? Why can I not clearly remember anything prior to lunchtime? he worried, as Dr. O'Loughlin kept a watchful, but not overly obvious, eye on him.

  For awhile he pondered the importance of that telegram he had given back to Captain Smith. If it was important, why did he give it to me? he wondered. Why didn't I give it right back to him? And why did- HOW exactly had he given it to me at all? Did he say he had given it to me in the afternoon? Why was it so difficult to find in my jacket? Why can I not remember?

  The string orchestra, playing music from Puccini and Tchaikovsky, sounded alternately distant or discordant to him, only agitating him further. As the evening dragged on, his discomfort had become unbearable, and so he directly headed for his stateroom, where his valet- John Fry- found him unusually withdrawn and uncommunicative; Fry did whatever he could to make Ismay's transition into nightclothes an easy one. The befuddled head of the White Star Line placed his head on his pillow, sincerely hoping that an evening's rest would bring peace to his troubled mind.

  9:45 P.M.

  Lillith Sinclair had remained in her Second Class stateroom for hours now, but it had not been by choice. These powerful, infuriating men had kept her under control for so long, she feared even touching the cabin's doorknob. She dared to try a couple of times, but the attempts wrought terrible pain in her arms and hands.

  The Titanic's ventilation system, while admittedly not perfect, gave her at least a modicum of fresh air, which was welcome since she was now feeling completely sealed within the cabin. There had been very little foot traffic in the corridor that evening, and, while she had pondered the possibility of making a run for it, the potential consequences were too awful. A young woman- to society at large, nothing but a chambermaid- caught in the brazen act of stowing away on the greatest vessel in the world. With Lyons and Gidley almost certain to turn their cruel but influential backs on her, she stood little chance of facing anything other than prison in either Britain or the U.S. Of course, Kerry Langston could make a valiant attempt to rescue her from unjust custody, assuming that he would ever even know what had become of her. However, she would most likely be erased, rendered extinct, discarded from the world. She knew, deep in her heart, she could not even consider using her status as a vampire in an act of evil, even if it could help her escape.

  She had long since abandoned any of her work on her master's clothes, and had in fact tossed them to the floor, kicking at them and rumpling them in disgust. Alone on the settee, she pulled her knees up against her chest, rocking back and forth, trying to create some level of comfort for herself. She thought to herself: When We arrive in New York, I hope those two are on deck, and as this ship passes the Statue of Liberty I hope her torch comes smashing down upon Their heads before Their cloven little hooves can even touch the ground.

  She wept bitterly.

  10:45 P.M.

  For the Titanic, it was yet another element of inevitability towards her fate. For Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley, it was a special bit of horrid luck.

  The Titanic's First Officer, William McMaster Murdoch, had been one of the few in charge of navigation that seemed to take any notice of the multitude of ice warnings. He ordered the fore scuttle hatch closed in order to block out the light streaming out of it. His reasoning was that the light's glow might make hazards like icebergs more difficult to detect, and so the forecastle of the ship had been darkened. It was a precaution that two of the ship's darkly clothed passengers deeply appreciated, as they were now undetectable under a ladder on the starboard side, where just above the crow's nest lay.

  The temperature had fallen to 32 degrees, and Lyons and Gidley could actually hear the lookouts above stomping their feet and blowing on their hands in an effort to keep warm. However, the two hiding passengers had no reaction to the cold weather. Lyons liked to say that it was just one of many “benefits” of the lifestyle they had chosen. No gooseflesh, no shuddering- not even frozen breaths of air were experienced by the two men, as they continued to conduct their own sinister drill.

  They had observed that the lookouts worked on two hour shifts. The last switch in crew took place at 10:00 P.M., so the men now doing their duty had been staring into a freezing wind for about forty-five minutes. Even so, Lyons knew that these were probably seasoned lookouts he was spying on, and he might have to use certain tactics in order to carry out his dreadful mission.

  Not a word had been spoken between Lyons and Gidley since they had set foot on the forecastle, and not unexpectedly, it was Gidley who finally broke the silence.

  “Charming night for a shut-down, isn't it?”

  Lyons frowned, indicating that he hadn't understood Gidley's meaning.

  “I mean, if We actually go through with this scheme- it's a beautiful starry night on the Atlantic, and the sea is calm. The only thing that would make it more delicious would be a full moon!”

&nbs
p; “Nonsense,” Lyons replied, doggedly staring up at the crow's nest. “We will go through with it and I don't need the moon for inspiration.”

  “Indeed,” Gidley replied, a bit disappointed in Lyons's reaction. “I would hope that with this being perhaps Our last exploit- at least for awhile- You would appreciate the irony of a full moon being connected to yet another bit of calamity.”

  “Hush up!” Lyons hissed, trying to concentrate on the lookouts for any hint of activity other than trying to keep themselves warm. The shuffling and stomping from above was now occasionally accompanied by the occasional groan and moan, and as it went on for several seconds, Gidley's eyes widened and he couldn't resist a violent snicker and a bit of a jest.

  “Hmmm, it seems that the lookouts get lonely too, don't they?”

  “Shut up Man!” Lyons spat out his words. “These men are cold, and they are getting colder. We must be approaching the ice.”

  “Indeed,” Gidley muttered, leaning back on his cane. He looked about the well deck, took in the sight of the very dim light coming from the bridge above and behind them, and then put another question to Lyons, this time much more serious in tone.

  “Why are We focused on these men- the lookouts?” he whispered, his tone irritated. “Why aren't We on the bridge?”

  “The bridge controls the wheel, and that wheel swings the ship,” Lyons whispered back. “But if their last line of defense- and that would be these men-” he pointed upward at the crow's nest- “is properly distracted or disabled, then that wheel will keep the ship on an improper course,” he explained, counting on his fingers as if doing math. “We know We have disrupted at least one ice warning, and now if We can mislead the lookouts, We might have a chance at a collision.” He suddenly looked over at Gidley. “We have had Our fair share of exploits, but surely You remember that other new ship that was headed for New York?”

  “Of coursssse,” Gidley hissed, holding the “s” sound longer for sarcastic emphasis. “Of course I remember, with those stupid cattlemen, stupid cowboys, none of them much more intelligent than any of those stupid cows on board. On the other hand, I suppose all of that frozen beef is still good, preserved as it is, very nicely on the bottom of the ocean. However, I should not want for a Hamburg Beefsteak so salty-”

  Lyons pressed his hand violently into Gidley's chest, clearly imploring him to keep his mouth shut. Gidley knew there was a line within Lyons's patience that he should not cross, and he was dangling on the edge of it.

  Several moments passed- the only sound, a spray of seawater constantly breaking under the ship's bow as they sailed along. The two lookouts had quieted down their movements for the time being, although the occasional cough or stomp made it clear that they were still suffering in the cold. Lyons stood absolutely still, his gaze unwavering, looking for any sign of unusual activity. He turned his eyes to the ship's dimly lit bridge, trying determine if there was any commotion or movement that might suggest an encounter with an iceberg was imminent. There was nothing.

  He seemed to relax a bit- or was it uncertainty? Gidley eyed him suspiciously, and as for himself, he felt for the first time in many ages personally unsure. He let several more minutes elapse before speaking again.

  “This is a big ship, Mr. Lyons,” he stated quietly. “We are making an enormous assumption that she is at all vulnerable to ice. And suppose- just suppose- that there might be on board someone that is well-versed in the dark arts. I do not mean to say Lillith could intervene- that craven little bitch is not moving an inch-” Lyons glared at him, but Gidley continued. “There is a mass of humanity aboard, it's a cross-section of class, and We might not know what- or whom- to anticipate.”

  “We will collect Lillith at the appropriate time,” Lyons replied. “And before I forget- let's not retrieve that damn fool, Marcus. The ship could be falling apart around his ears and he'd still have the mental capacity for doing nothing but spit-polishing a pair of shoes. As for the dark arts, those playthings that We leave lying about in churches, or that were sold to gullible wealthy Americans travelling to Eastern Europe- the holy water, the garlic necklaces or paste- it's all useless unless it's used correctly. It takes someone with an enormous amount of experience and education to even deploy those tools effectively. And that's not something that most of Our kind is privy to. A lot of it is nonsense, meant to keep certain Ones- such as Lillith- in constant fear.”

  Gidley stared at him in silence for several seconds. Lyons sighed in fierce exasperation. “Oh come now. We've talked endlessly over all of this, don't pretend it's the first time You're hearing any of it!”

  “Oh, I've heard it,” Gidley replied. “I just wish I'd known about the garlic three hundred years ago, before I fled from a pack of beautiful and enticing Catholic nuns that were shucking garlic at Me. Their blood would have been sensational.”

  After a moment, Lyons slowly shook his head and allowed himself a small chuckle. “Bartholomew Gidley, sometimes You open Your mouth and I haven't the faintest idea of what is going pour forth. I don't know whether to laugh at You or strike You.”

  Gidley responded with the same grim smile he'd always managed to muster. “To laugh at or to strike,” he repeated. “In a way it's almost the same thing.”

  Both men looked upward. The lack of light and a moonless, cloudless night meant that the stars in the heavens were blazing outrageously, and it was difficult not to momentarily lose themselves in such a glittering canopy. Gidley and Lyons gradually became syncopated in their breathing, with still no visible vapors coming from their mouths or noses in the freezing air.

  “This will not be a feeding,” Lyons uttered softly. “This will only be a transfixion- a Transfixion in the Third Degree.”

  “Is any blood to be Mine tonight?” Gidley quietly growled.

  “Plenty. But the first step in converting this ship into a syringe is to blind it effectively.”

  Moments passed. Neither moved. Lyons held an expression that resembled a panther in the wild honing down on its prey, seeming to absorb every sound, every vibration, waiting to pounce.

  Almost casually, Gidley posed Lyons a question. “Tell Me this. We are halfway across a vast ocean, it is a freezing cold and dark night, and We are about to deliberately send the largest vessel afloat into a dangerous ice field. We carry no weapons, We probably won't put on lifejackets. We might not even survive this desperate bid at revenge- at least, not as mortal men would understand survival. So why are We not afraid?”

  “Because We are Vampires,” Lyons replied. “Bartholomew Gidley, open that door.”

  He hooked his cane onto his arm and with astonishing speed, Gidley dashed up the ladder, followed by Lyons. He opened the door leading up to the interior ladder up the foremast that led up to the crow's nest. He closed the door behind both of them with the stealth of a ninja warrior, and with that, the entire maneuver had been completed in absolute silence.

  Lyons stepped up a few rungs on the ladder before stopping. Above was a small passageway that led to the open air where the lookouts both stood. He pursed his lips together and whistled a note roughly an octave above middle C.

  Fifty feet above, the two shuddering lookouts, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee, looked at each other in puzzlement, wondering if perhaps some of the other lookouts currently not on duty were making some sort of weird joke. After a beat, the same whistle came drifting up from where the interior ladder was, and Lee tapped Fleet reassuringly on his hand, indicating silently that he would investigate this. He crouched down to the passageway.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  His voice rang out in hollow fashion down the dark passageway; there came no answer. “Hello?” he once again called.

  After several seconds of silence, Lee shrugged to himself and stood back up in the basket-like area. “There's no one there,” he said. However, as the words were leaving his lips, the whistle came up again. Lee crouched down once more.

  “Hello? Symons? Lee? This isn't funny. Are yo
u down there or not?” He squinted into the darkness, seeing no movement, hearing no sound.

  Exasperated, he stood back up. “Christ, Fred, I don't know. I don't see anyone down there-”

  The whistle came again, this time loud and urgent. Angered, Lee hunkered down by the passageway one more time.

  “Bloody hell, man- if you're not on duty, then piss off!” he spat his irritated words into the opening. The whistle then returned- this time, constant, uninterrupted, and sustained for an impossibly long time. Lee covered his ears and continued to yell down the ladder. Fleet, his ears now also starting to hurt from the shrill noise, stomped his foot in agitation and pulled himself away from his post, bending down to shove his head into the passageway right alongside Lee.

  “What in the hell is going on down there-”

  In the darkness, Lyons held up his right hand, his index and middle fingers raised and parted in a “V” sign- and suddenly the tips of his fingers glowered like orange flames in a coal fire.