Keep the ship on its faster pace and risk the ice, or slow it down and risk further infection.
There was no right answer.
He left the wireless room and headed down to A-deck, where he ran into Bruce Ismay talking with George and Eleanor Widener, owners of the Philadelphia Traction Company. The Widener’s had organized a dinner party for this evening in the á la carte restaurant on B-deck, which Smith had previously agreed to attend.
Smith apologized for the interruption, and handed Ismay the message from the Baltic. Ismay glanced down at the little yellow slip of paper, and then without word shoved it in his pocket.
Smith walked away satisfied.
Later in the evening, just after seven, Smith found Ismay in the smoking room and asked if he still had the telegram.
“Yes,” Ismay said, and pulled the yellow paper from his pocket.
“Good. I need to put it in the chart room with the others.”
Ismay handed it over. “And what of this virus? I trust you have it contained.”
“For now,” said Smith.
Ismay took a drag from his cigar. “Good, let us try and keep it that way.”
“It’s not only your reputation that’s on the line.”
“Your reputation doesn’t matter, Edward. You’ll be retired when this voyage concludes, so what do you care? Don’t pretend to relate to my quandary.”
Smith sighed, struggling to hold back his irritation. The managing director, with his boorish tone and dancing brown mustache, had a way of lighting a fuse in him like few others.
“Good evening, Mr. Ismay.”
LIGHTOLLER
10:27 p.m.
Lightoller sat at the small table outside the third-class general room, blowing into his hands to warm them. The temperature outside was thirty-two degrees, or at least it had been when his watch ended at ten. Could have gotten even colder in the last half hour, sure felt like it.
The walk across the boat deck had been slow and painful, and the thin walls enclosing the third-class stairwell did little to keep out the bone chilling air. When he thought of lookout’s Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee sitting in the crow’s nest atop the foremast, the cold wind punishing their faces at twenty-two knots as they scanned for bergs on the dark horizon, Lightoller felt lucky to be indoors.
He had the next two hours on guard, babysitting the infected. When midnight came, he planned to be in his bed wrapped up in a blanket. Sleeping, hopefully.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so sleep deprived. If Friday night was tough, Saturday night was unbearable. It had been almost two a.m. before he made it to his room, and he had to be back up and on watch at six. Best-case scenario, sleep for three and a half hours. What he actually got was less than half that.
His mind had kept him up, even if his body was tired and his eyes felt heavy and sore. He had sat up in bed thinking about everything that happened, about all the innocent victims, about the lives he had taken and those he couldn’t save. No image haunted him more than that of the young boy he had shot in the second-class corridor.
While he didn’t regret pulling the trigger, as the boy was already dead long before the bullet hit him, Lightoller did feel regret for allowing the boy to become infected in the first place. And for the twenty or so others now quarantined within the general room. Not long ago they had dreams and aspirations, places they wanted to be, things they wanted to see. They had families that loved them, and children who needed them. Now their only desire was to spread the virus that was responsible for taking all of that away.
The virus that stole their humanity.
Lightoller slouched back in the chair, smoking his pipe and listening to the scratching and beating on the door in front of him.
That was the worst part of babysitting. The noise. It never stopped. And at times, he swore the door was swelling outward and beginning to crack under the pressure applied by the infected pushing from the other side.
He had his Webley revolver on the table in front of him, a weak defense if they managed to break through the door. He remembered what Dr. Simpson and William Dunford did to the door to the first patient room. How much longer would this door last, and how would he take down twenty infected with just six bullets?
I wouldn’t. I’d run like hell, he thought, smoke billowing from his pipe. Aye, that’s what I’d do.
As the end of the hour approached, Lightoller found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. Sleep had decided to come and try to take him at the worst possible time. He’d begin to drift away and be jolted back awake by the hot ash burning on his lap after dumping his pipe, or by his head rocking backward and hitting against the wall—both painful eye openers.
Just as he started to drift off again, he heard soft footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, a woman who looked to be in her seventies reached the apex of the staircase and looked over at him. Clasped in her hands was a single sheet of paper.
Lightoller sat up as the woman approached the table. She looked familiar. “How may I help you?”
“Do you remember me?”
“You were here last night.”
“Yes. My name is Abigail Barnes. My husband’s name is George. Is he still in there? Can you tell me how he is doing? I came here earlier today, but the man who was here said he didn’t know.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you either, ma’am. The last contact I had was last night when you were here.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just so lonely now. I don’t know how to go on without him.”
“As much as I wish I could give you good news, I can’t. Everything I said last night was the truth. I don’t know what more to say.”
“I understand.” She lifted the piece of paper up and looked down at it. Her eyes held all the sorrow of a new widows. “Would it be okay if I read something to him?”
“I can’t let you inside.”
“Can I read it through the door?”
Lightoller took a deep breath, considering her request. Finally, he sighed and said, “I suppose that would be fine.”
“Thank you.”
The elderly woman named Abigail shuffled up to the door to the general room and stood there for a moment looking like she had forgotten why she’d come. She looked down at the paper and seemed to regain her focus. Lightoller figured time must have snuffed out much of her hearing, because she didn’t look bothered by the inhuman sounds coming from the other side of the door—the noise that had never once stopped until, strangely, the woman began reading from the paper.
Then silence.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but Lightoller could hear every word.
“My loving George. The kindest man I’d ever known,” she began, her hands trembling. “Being married to you for the last fifty-three years has been the greatest gift. You took me away from an abusive father, and promised you’d take care of me. To this day, you kept your word. You were a great father to our three beautiful children. You worked so hard to keep us safe and healthy, and you never missed an opportunity to make us smile. There is so much more I would tell you, if there were words to express it. My heart is telling me our time is over, and that we had a good run. But my soul refuses to let it end here. Should you find your way to heaven, I know you’ll save a spot for me by your side. Where you go, I go. I love you, George, and I’ll see you soon.”
She lowered the paper and looked over at Lightoller. From across the room, under the dim overhead lighting, he could see the tears in her eyes. Her words made him think of his wife, Sylvia, and how much he missed her and the boys. He hoped she was at home thinking about—
The thin wood split apart with tremendous force, throwing dust and debris through the air. Before Lightoller even knew what had happened, the grey, muscular arm that smashed through the door seized Abigail and pulled her arm back through the hole, pinning her body against the door.
Lightoller rushed around
the table and grabbed a hold of Abigail. The sounds coming from her mouth now weren’t beautiful or poetic. They weren’t even words. They were shrieks of intolerable agony.
He managed to pull her away from the door more easily than he expected. After she collapsed back into his arms and he saw the blood flow out of her like water from a garden hose, he understood why. In a matter of seconds, the undead creatures in the general room had chewed her arm off at the elbow.
Lightoller pulled her close to him, trying to comfort her in her last moments.
“Hold...me...George.”
There wasn’t time to explain to her that he wasn’t her husband. As the blood raced out, so did the life in her eyes. Any moment now, she’d be gone. The infected did not intend to wait, as a dozen hands began clawing at the breach in the door, ripping open a larger hole piece by piece.
Lightoller carefully placed Abigail down against the wall and hustled back to the table to get his revolver. Then he shot all six rounds through the opening in the door, realizing instantly how little it would delay their escape. The door was almost shredded. They could taste freedom. It was literally at the end of their fingertips.
Better go now, Lightoller thought. Before it’s too late.
He slipped the gun into his waistband, grabbed his pipe, and ran out of the stairwell. He continued running up and across the ship until he reached the bridge, the icy cold air outside making it difficult to breathe.
First Officer Murdoch was standing between the bridge and the wing cabin.
“Aren’t you supposed to be—”
“We have a big problem,” Lightoller said, leaning over to try and catch his breath. “They’re out. They broke through the damn door and escaped.”
“You’re serious?”
“After the shit we went through last night, you think I’d lie to you?”
“Sorry, I’ll go inform the captain. You keep watch here.”
While he waited, Lightoller reloaded his revolver. His hands were so cold he could barely hold the bullets between his fingers. He glanced up every few seconds to see if any of the infected had followed him. He thought he had closed the door to the stairwell, but doors didn’t seem to matter much anymore.
Through the thick glass windows, Lightoller could see Captain Smith enter the wheelhouse, followed by Murdoch, Moody, and Lowe. Smith then handed Sixth Officer Moody his revolver. A moment later, all but the captain came back outside.
“Come on,” Murdoch said.
“What’s the plan?”
“He wants the four of us to go back there.”
Lightoller walked swiftly beside Murdoch down the boat deck, Moody and Lowe followed closely behind. “Back where? To the general room?”
“Yes.”
“For what? There’s nothing we can do. We are vastly outnumbered.”
“What other choice do we have?”
Lightoller sighed, causing a white puff of cold air to drift from his mouth. “Last night two people managed to infect eighteen. How many do you think eighteen could infect? Fifty? A hundred? We can’t quarantine that many people. It’s impossible.”
“I know that, but if we all go in together and take down enough of them, maybe we can slow the spread.”
“Or die a horrible death.”
“I don’t plan on dying tonight,” Murdoch replied.
“Then you won’t mind if I stand behind you.”
SMITH
Looks like it’s going to be another long night, Smith thought, slipping on his overcoat.
He had come to his personal sitting room only to retrieve the coat, and then he would head back to the bridge. Normally, it would be First Officer William Murdoch’s watch, but with Murdoch off on an unscheduled hunting trip with three of the other officers, Smith was forced to stand watch in his place.
He had ordered Third Officer Pittman to accompany Chief Officer Wilde on a sweep of the ship, with the goal of once again getting all passengers to vacate all public areas. It was a lofty undertaking, and just like the previous night, would likely produce mixed results.
First-class passengers often didn’t respond well to being told they had to leave the comfort of the free flowing Brandy and cigars and return to the quiet solitude of their staterooms. The lower classes were used to falling in line, so they took less convincing. Wilde was armed, and could be quite the intimidator when he needed to be, yet Smith knew some passengers would take a bullet long before surrendering their post at one of the lounges or smoking rooms.
Smith returned to the wheelhouse, where he was met by the assistant wireless operator, Harold Bride.
“Sir, Jack asked me to relay a message to you.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“The Californian has stopped, surrounded by ice.” Smith gestured for Harold to go on. “The rest was cut short, sir. However, a few hours ago, the Mesaba also reported ice in our area, and advised to keep a close watch.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Smith followed Harold Bride out of the wheelhouse and strode up next to Fourth Officer Boxhall leaning against the handrail. He was staring off into the dark horizon beyond the ship’s bow.
“It’s a cold night, but without much wind.”
“None whatsoever,” Boxhall agreed. “The sea is calm.”
“Calmest I’ve seen in recent memory. It will make spotting bergs more difficult.” The breaking of waves was often one of the first visual cues that an iceberg loomed ahead. “At least the stars have come out in full tonight. Their reflections may be of use.”
Boxhall nodded, looking around at the bright stars shining as far as he could see. “Indeed. Quite wonderful a sight.”
LIGHTOLLER
The four officers approached the aft well deck, carefully looking out for any infected that might be wandering around. Lightoller was glad to see that he had in fact shut the door to the third-class stairwell.
“Okay. We go in slowly, and we watch each other.” Murdoch reached for the door handle. “Oh, and aim for the head.”
“A shot to the chest isn’t enough?” asked Moody.
Maybe it was just the freezing temperature, but Lightoller wondered if this was the first time Moody had ever held a gun. The youngest officer was constantly fidgeting and readjusting his grip.
“No, it’s not,” Murdoch said. “Don’t ask me why, only God knows.”
“What about shooting them in the legs?” asked Lowe. Unlike Moody, Lowe wielded his personal seven-shot Browning like Jesse James ready to rob the town bank.
“Now that’s not such a bad idea,” said Lightoller.
“The head is a sure thing.”
Murdoch slowly opened the door about six inches and then peered inside the stairwell. The other officers tried to look over his shoulder.
“See anything?” Lightoller asked.
“Not yet. You sure they got out?”
“Aye.”
Murdoch opened the door the rest of the way and carefully stepped inside. The rest of the unlikely gunslingers followed his lead. Once inside, it was obvious where the infected had gone.
“Down the stairs,” said Lowe. There were streaks of blood on the floor from the general room to the staircase.
“I kind of thought that might happen,” said Lightoller, looking down the stairs. “But since they couldn’t use a door knob, I figured maybe there was a chance—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lightoller saw a tall man appear from around the corner to the general room and lumber, arms extended, directly toward Murdoch. His grey skin and beard of blood instantly confirmed he was infected. Murdoch saw him coming as well, and squeezed off three shots in rapid succession. The first shot missed to the right. The second grazed the top of the right shoulder, tearing a hole in the attacker’s suit. The third shot hit the head, but only enough to detach an ear.
Lowe stepped forward with the Browning and took the fourth shot, shattering the man’s kneecap into pieces. Unable to balance on one leg, the tall, pale-skinned
man fell face first to the floor. Lowe then placed one final shot in the head.
“Thank you,” said Murdoch.
“What was that you said about a sure thing?” asked Lowe. “You took three shots at the head and only got an ear.”
Lightoller and Moody exchanged smiles.
“I didn’t see you two do anything,” Murdoch scoffed.
“We thought you had it under control,” said Lightoller. He walked around the corner to the general room to make sure there were no more surprises. “Next time, take a second to aim.”
“I did. He moved around too damn much.”
Lightoller looked down at the remains of Abigail Barnes outside the broken down door to the general room. The infected had cleaned almost every inch of flesh off her body, leaving behind an old, frail skeleton slouched in a slop of blood. He found four more sets of bones in the general room; the four who had decided to stay behind and take care of their sick loved ones. At some point, the tables had turned, and their sick loved ones had taken care of them.
A number of distraught passengers began to come up the stairs from the lower decks. Most hardly acknowledged the gathering of officers and ran straight out the door to the aft well deck. Those that did stop tried to communicate the horror that was going on down below, often through broken English.
“Charles, what do you suggest we do with these people?” Murdoch asked. “They keep coming. Some have been scratched or bitten.”
“We can’t do anything with them,” Lightoller said. “For now we need only worry about the dangerous ones spreading the infection.”
“But how long do you think it will take for these to—you know—change?”
“I don’t know for sure. Not long. That’s why we need to hurry and find the others.”
They found two more of the others one floor down on D-deck near the third-class hospital. The two infected were walking around in circles trying to grab at anything that moved—a young mother and her baby the latest attempt.
Titanic With ZOMBIES Page 9
