Call Me Ismay

by Sean McDevitt

  2:08 A.M.

  Edward Lyons had been skulking the decks for roughly ten minutes now, drinking in the chaos that had been relatively simple to initiate. He was also keeping a possessive eye out for Lillith. After observing the crew's stubborn refusal to help the men while grabbing the women against their wishes, he was concerned that a member of the overzealous crew had pitched her into a lifeboat. Gidley's unclean killing had pierced Lyons's ears a few moments earlier. He assumed that meant Gidley had in fact been successful in getting into the Marconi room.

  His leisurely, studious stroll stood in stark contrast to the panic that surrounded him. He noted to himself casually the walk aft had been getting a little bit more steep with every passing minute, and gradually he surmised that retrieving Lillith was probably, by now, a moot point. The night, with its deception, intrigue, and its scale of revenge on both Ismay and Lillith, had been a masterpiece.

  As the ship's slow but steady plunge downward continued, he selected a vantage point aft where he could glance down and forward at the fruits of his labor, and perhaps catch a fleeting glimpse of Lillith, for all it was worth. What made it impossible to enjoy, however, was that Father Thomas Byles, an English Catholic priest, had also taken up residence in that part of the ship. He was about to grant absolution to the terror-stricken passengers who had been left behind. Lyons scowled as Father Byles began to lead passengers through the rosary, and it occurred to him with a slight touch of dread that a crucifix or two might actually be present in the area. He made a point of turning his back on the priest, folding his arms, sighing loudly in disgust, and staring resolutely forward. I can't even relish My finest hour without Jesus Christ stepping in to ruin that, too, he thought.

  2:09 A.M.

  Gidley had stepped out a bit from his corner, sloshing through the rising water, amazed and amused at Langston's brazen statement.

  “You, lad... you are to hold Me accountable for My actions?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Once a reporter, always a reporter,” Langston replied. “Someone has to keep an eye on the likes of you.”

  “The likes of-!” Gidley exclaimed, tossing his half-eaten apple aside. “Young man, I could regale you with stories of the many reporters I have dispatched in My time, but it seems that this ship is sinking.”

  “Yes, it's something I might not survive,” Langston stated urgently, the lower half of his legs immersed in seawater and the rest of his body now dripping with sweat. “But it seems that you might- although there are ways to stop that.”

  “And what do you suppose those are to be?” Gidley asked menacingly, stepping even closer.

  Langston moved with speed that surprised even Gidley. He hurled the box at him with all his might, striking him directly in the face. As the box splintered, fell open and spilled its contents all over the flooding bridge, Langston grabbed the vial of holy water out of his coat pocket. He pulled the cork with his right hand and then lunged forward with the vial in his left, splashing water on Gidley's upraised hand by his face.

  Gidley shrieked in pain like a wounded animal. It was a reaction with such intensity that it sent Langston stumbling back a few steps. Gidley turned away from Langston, clutching his left hand while watching some of its skin peel away as if it had been exposed to a corrosive. “You bastard! You simpering little bastard!” he screeched. Little pockmarks quickly formed on his forehead and temples where a few drops of the holy water had made contact near his face. He turned back to Langston, who could clearly see some of the white bones in Gidley's hand.

  “There will be no heroes tonight!” he bellowed. “When will you deluded fools learn?” He breathed heavily, then with his good hand pointed to one of Titanic's polished brass dials- specifically, the speed order marked DEAD SLOW.

  “Life's but a shadow, man's but dust, this dial says die we all must. Words to live and die by, mister.”

  Langston felt his stomach drop as the bridge continued to tilt forward. Faced with an opponent- and, as he now fully understood, an entire night- that was deadly, he immediately clutched the wooden stake in his right pocket, drew it out and lunged at Gidley.

  The vampire grabbed Langston's hand, and slowly, slowly allowed a kaleidoscope of fire to spin in his eyes. Their faces were just inches apart, Langston desperately trying to push the stake somehow forward, Gidley not budging.

  “Reporters,” Gidley whispered. “So easily dispatched.”

  He whipped him around, pinning him to the bridge's starboard wall, crushing his hand until he dropped the stake. He opened his mouth, let his fangs descend, and plunged them into the left side of Langston's neck. He then promptly and messily pulled them out, causing blood to spurt like a stream. Langston, coughing, gasping, and wincing in horrible pain, clutched his hand to his neck in an attempt to stop the blood, but it was futile.

  “Your blood's not even worth drinking,” Gidley growled at him, stepping away from him as his body began to slump, and exited the bridge on the starboard side.

  Kerry Langston died with his eyes open, the now-empty vampire kit floating nearby, his blood creating a crimson cloud in the rising seawater.

  2:11 A.M.

  She was in a daze, on her hands and knees in a few inches of water when the piercing shriek came. It exploded through her head and this time it shot into her heart.

  As if electrocuted, Lillith jolted straight up- her throat closing and not allowing her to breathe.

  She spun around, knowing full well what had just occurred, realizing it was entirely too late. She began to run aft on the port side, her hair wild and her face streaked with tears of blood. Her stumbling body contorted in anguish and pain. The strains of “Song d'Autmone” drifted over her shoulders as she ran frantically past members of the ship's orchestra, devoting themselves to just one last song.

  2:13 A.M.

  Bartholomew Gidley had pulled himself over the edge of the starboard bridge wing, and was now treading water with dozens upon dozens of others. Lights on the forward part of the ship burned eerily underwater several feet below. He allowed himself a chuckle as he realized that those already in the water with him were swimming frantically towards the lifeboats in the distance. While personally oblivious to the cold, he knew that none of those fleeing had a chance of living more than a few minutes in the 28-degree water. “Extraordinary, isn't it?” He called out to no one in particular. “Finding ourselves in this position after spending so much money for a ticket!”

  He spat out the salty seawater that seemed annoyingly determined to fill his mouth, as he dog-paddled in the sea. Unbeknownst to him, about fifty yards away in the water on the port side, a frantic Marcus was being faithful until the end. “Sir! Sir!” he called out in desperation as he flailed his arms and tried to stay above water, still trying to find his master.

  As Gidley surveyed the situation, paddling over the bow and toward the port side, from behind him came several loud reports not unlike gunfire. “Who's the crew bloody shooting at now? The boats are gone already!” he declared.

  He turned about and realized the source of the noise. The wires supporting one of Titanic's funnels- namely, the one directly behind the bridge- were starting to fail and they were snapping down into the water with tremendous force. He quickly realized that the funnel was warping at its base and beginning to collapse, and was, in fact, about to land right on top of him.

  “I always wanted to see the bottom of the North Atlantic,” he said with sarcastic understatement.

  All 62 feet and 60 tons of the funnel came tumbling forward. It smashed violently into the ocean, crushing dozens of people and nearly destroying or capsizing several lifeboats.

  Bartholomew Gidley's body- if he did indeed part with it- was never found.

  2:14 A.M.

  Edward Lyons, trying to maintain his balance with the ship at a nineteen degree angle, had by now covered his ears in frustration. He was increasingly agitated by Father Byles, with his prayers and his hearing of confessions. While successfully a
voiding the sight of any crucifix, the recitation of the rosary was making Lyons's skin crawl. He continued to stare forward, trying to take in the destruction he had caused. He pressed his hands to his head even tighter in an attempt to block out any sound of holy absolution, when a distinct, shrill, female cry of pain that could not have been muffled by anything made it through to him.

  There came a figure- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, becoming clearer as the seconds passed. It first seemed to drift, stagger, then move ahead with purpose, and Lyons knew that he had a completely distraught Lillith on his hands.

  He felt rage, then confusion. Had the collision somehow driven the woman to the edge of insanity? As she approached him, his mind reeled with thoughts of domination and outright hatred.

  But as he stepped towards her, before a single word had left his lips, Lillith delivered the most vicious slap to the face that he'd ever received.

  “You bastard, what have You done to Kerry?” she screamed.

  “Kerry? Kerry who?” he responded, his vision jarred by Lillith's assault.

  “Kerry Langston, You bastard!” she screamed, slapping him yet again.

  “Him? Him?!” Lyons protested, stunned by Lillith's intensity. “Gidley killed him back in London!”

  “He did not! He was here with me tonight!” Lillith shrieked.

  “That's impossible, you stupid woman! He was killed by Gidley in a cemetery!”

  “That was Stanley Johns, You idiot! I know that Kerry Langston died here tonight!”

  “And so will a lot of other worthless filth, you witch!”

  Without another word, just a guttural, animalistic scream, Lillith pounced on Lyons, tearing at his neck, his eyes, his shoulders. He stumbled as she jumped upon his back, the two of them now engaged in a fight to the death. As they struggled about wildly, passengers shrieked in terror as the deck and the entirety of the ship was plunged into darkness. Titanic's lights had gone out forever.

  2:15 A.M.

  “The lights have gone!” a few passengers in Collapsible C cried out. “Did you see that? Oh dear God, the lights have gone!”

  J. Bruce Ismay could not bring himself to turn around and look at this latest bit of news regarding the ship. Instead, he remained with his back to the Titanic, in a lifeboat that could have held at least eight more survivors than it was carrying. He did look directly ahead, realizing his immediate surroundings had become noticeably darker in the sudden absence of light that had been coming from behind him. Gradually the cloak of the inky night would turn into its own unique form of muted blue, as the stars above were now the only source of light upon the face of the waters. With a jolt, he abruptly jerked and looked from side to side, realizing he had no idea where his butler was, and that he'd had no chance to warn him.

  John Fry would not survive the disaster.

  2:16 A.M.

  As hundreds of passengers ran for the darkened heights of the aft of the ship above, with Titanic's propellers by now well out of the water, Lillith and Lyons were engaged in a struggle that had forced him to stagger to the starboard rail. Lillith, who was still clinging to Lyon's shoulder and back, had deployed her fangs and dragged them across the back of his scalp, shredding his skin. As the tilt of the Boat Deck worsened, Lyons lost his balance and tumbled. Lillith landed on her stomach and Lyons, sprawled on his back, began to slide away. She flung out her hands, digging her fingernails into both sides of his face, but gravity prevailed and he continued to pull away as she tore deep red trenches into his cheeks. He slipped through her grasp, still sliding downward and was now practically amidships.

  The continuous tilting halted for a moment, just long enough for Lyons to turn over onto his stomach, and for Lillith to rise, unsteady in her balance.

  “There isn't one tragic incident or one war in history than cannot be blamed upon a woman,” he spat at her, venomously. “I should never have brought you, or allowed you to be alone with Ismay. But his pride will go down along with this ship!” he shouted triumphantly.

  “Ismay? Ismay, You mentally corrupted fool? What are You saying?” she shrieked at him, wild-eyed and insane.

  “I read your letter! I found it upon his person!” Lyons shot back, fighting to stand up.

  “Any letter I ever wrote was meant for Kerry Langston only,” she cried, her shoulders racked with sobs, her balance precariously uncertain.

  Underneath them, and felt throughout the entire darkened ship, there came a rumble not unlike an earthquake. The ship's iron body seemed to growl in protest as the strain on her flooded structure became too great. The deck that separated the two vampires began to buckle and crack, and Lyons, certain of what was happening before Lillith could begin to comprehend it, scrambled to stand up. Planks of wood began to split in half, snapping with a sound that resembled gunfire. Then with no further warning, the muffled roar from below hit both of them at full volume, as the Titanic ripped open, sending a flash of sparks flying upward.

  Lyons, able to stand at the last moment, had the presence of mind to vault himself over the chasm and onto the aft part of the ship before it could claim him. Lillith, staggering and unsure, fell down and was tossed forward, and as her hands flailed about wildly in a desperate attempt to grasp onto something- anything- she was for an instant airborne. Her fall was swiftly interrupted, however, as a jagged part of the deck's wood pointing upward pierced her chest and impaled her.

  There was no time to scream or even have much of a physical reaction. Her body instantly went limp, her head and arms dangling forward. Lyons, now on the aft side of the chasm, had the advantage of balance as the stern settled back, the ship separating, all nine of her decks now openly exposed. For a horrible instant Lyons could see Titanic's inner skeleton did, in fact, resemble the naves of half a dozen cathedrals laid end to end, just as some contemporaries had described. It occurred to him he resurrected Bartholomew Gidley from one place of worship, and that now Lillith was about to be posthumously baptized in a watery grave. The dark sea would close over the bow section almost immediately, taking Lillith in her white dress and black shawl, Kerry with his broken vampire killing kit, and far too many other souls to name straight to the bottom.

  The stern tilted forward yet again, this time with a severe list to port. Those left on the deck now had only seconds to decide what they were going to do. Edward Lyons quickly determined that he needed to close the proceedings with a dramatic flourish.

  Clawing over dozens of passengers, and tossing them prematurely into the sea, if he had to- he made it past the unfortunates who were desperately clinging to capstans, railings, deck benches, ventilators or any other protrusion they could find. He knew where he wanted to be- the fantail, or more precisely, on the other side of the fantail, which was certain to be the last part of the ship exposed. He could see on the stern's flagpole the White Star pennant flapping about- a ludicrous bit of decoration for a vessel that was, for all intents and purposes, ruined. Using his vampiric strength, he pulled himself over the gunwale, edging himself over to the flagpole. Just below him were the golden letters on her stern that declared her name, Titanic. He furiously scanned the darkened horizon in the general direction of what he believed to be Ismay's lifeboat.

  2:19 A.M.

  Collapsible C had managed to pull only about half a mile away when Titanic broke in two. The sound had been equivalent to a locomotive exploding and then tumbling down into the water, railcar after railcar piling upon each other. And yet J. Bruce Ismay still could not bring himself to look back.

  The oarsmen had stopped rowing, while women sobbed and put their heads on each other's shoulders. Many a foreign tongue exclaimed in despair as the ship's sides clearly split open, and the forward portion of the breakage sank. With his left arm folded over his chest and his trembling right hand pressed to his lips, Ismay assumed that the boilers had just exploded.

  Aside from the brutal cold that seemed to tear at him from all sides, there came a sudden tin
gling on the back of his head. Ismay twitched as it rapidly worsened, and he wondered if he'd been struck by someone, or perhaps it was the beginning of a stroke. He then deduced it was a sensation that was compelling him, commanding him to turn around.

  At last, he relented and quickly looked back. The Titanic looked like a huge black mountain in the water, and he recoiled at the sight of her propellers thrust into the air- it was a part of the ship he had not even seen since she'd been built in Belfast. His heart seemed to skip a beat, and before he could turn himself back around, Ismay suddenly felt himself become very aware.

  Edward Lyons, the MP from East Surrey, was crouched upon the ship's stern, which was now horizontal while the deck behind him was vertical. With his face torn and bleeding, a faint kaleidoscope of fire emanated from his eyes. Its swirling and burning continued until it pulled Ismay's faraway vision into a tunnel that could see only him and the pennant.