Murdoch rolled his eyes. “Move along then,” he said, and pushed them aside.
“I thought we already went over the lifebelt,” said John. “I showed you how it works. I refuse to discuss it further.”
Not twenty feet away, a skirmish broke out between a number of passengers waiting to get into lifeboat number five and a walking corpse with dark brown hair and high cheek bones. The corpse lost, but not before ruining a few peoples chances at securing a seat.
“You think staying here is safe?” Margaret asked.
Madeline pouted and then looked lovingly up at John. “You swear you’ll find another boat?”
John took his young wife by her thin hips and pulled her close to him. “I will.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet,” said Margaret. “Now can we get a move on?”
“Don’t worry about me.” John continued speaking directly to Madeline, ignoring Margaret’s request. “I have to head back to the room to get something from the safe first. Then I promise I will find my own boat.”
Madeline finally submitted to the pressure.
As the first officer helped Madeline aboard, Margaret whispered to John. “What’s in the safe?”
“Twenty-five hundred in cash,” John replied without hesitation.
“You think that’s gonna buy you a ticket out of here, do ya?”
“I pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Margaret climbed into the lifeboat next with the help of Murdoch and took a seat beside Madeline. John stayed on the boat deck looking over the side as Murdoch and one of the deck hands began lowering the boat. By the time they reached the open promenade deck one level down, he had disappeared.
Madeline began to cry. Margaret hardly noticed, however, as she had spotted a friend on the promenade deck walking by himself and looking rather unwell. He was the architect of the soon to be famous Titanic, Mr. Thomas Andrews.
He turned around at the sound of his name. Even from a distance, Margaret could see the dark bags under his eyes and the sweat gleaming from every pore on his face. He was beginning to look a lot like—
One of them, Margaret thought. But that can’t be, could it?
Andrews looked directly at Margaret and then hurried off.
“What in the heck,” Margaret said, and stood up. The lifeboat swayed as the balance momentarily shifted. “Hey, Mr. Andrews. Where are you—”
“Madam, sit back down now,” yelled George Hogg, a lookout and one of three crewmen in charge of lifeboat number seven.
“I’ll do you one better.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Madeline. She had stopped crying in a flash.
“You stay here,” Margaret said. Then she grabbed hold of the railing even with the lifeboat and pulled herself through an open window on to the promenade deck.
Now Madeline stood up.
“You sit down and stay there,” Margaret barked.
“Yeah, sit down,” Hogg echoed.
Madeline reluctantly obeyed, while Margaret ran off to catch a fleeing Thomas Andrews.
SMITH
The Titanic sat dead in the water, its bow beginning to shift slightly downward. The bridge and wheelhouse were empty. All hands were on deck, the boat deck, working with a shared objective to save as many souls as possible.
An overwhelming task, for sure.
Crewmen were stationed at every entrance to the boat deck for the purpose of crowd control. But they were unarmed and could do very little to contain the disorder, as evidenced by the dead bodies lying all around. Blood ran all along the once magnificent wooden deck, seeping into the cracks between the boards, soon to be washed away.
The depravity exhibited by the infected was unimaginable. They resembled human beings only in form. In every other way, they were a thing of evil, minions of the devil himself, incapable of being reasoned with, of thinking, of emotion. They were slaves to their desires, acting purely on instinct.
So far, they made up only a small percentage of the passengers, but with each minute that passed, the scale tipped further in their direction.
If there was any good to come from the ship foundering, it was that the infection would not make it to the shore, sparring countless persons such a grim and unpleasant fate. The cold dark sea would provide the final quarantine.
Captain Smith peered over the edge of the ship. Lifeboat seven had been launched with a full load and gradually slipped off into the distance. A moment later, the crew in charge stopped rowing as a battle had broken out.
“Are you making certain no infected get into the lifeboats?” Smith asked of First Officer Murdoch, who was helping load lifeboat five.
“Trying my best, sir. Checking them as thoroughly as possible.”
“Try harder, Mr. Murdoch,” said Smith, still looking out at the infected uprising occurring on lifeboat seven. “It seems that a few may have slipped through the cracks.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Smith walked up and down the deck in a daze, mumbling to himself, wondering what in God’s name they did to deserve this. Two crewmen on the port side had taken it upon themselves to do a little deck cleaning, carrying the dead bodies one by one to the edge, and then tossing them overboard.
Also on the port side, standing in a circle near the entrance to the first-class staircase, was the orchestra. Led by violinist, Wallace Hartley, the small ensemble would normally be inside providing entertainment to the first-class passengers via the dining saloon or lounge, but Smith had asked them to brave the cold in hopes that the music would help calm the passengers. It didn’t appear to be working in that regard, but the current cheery ragtime number did present a clear contrast to the sound of screaming chaos.
Coming up to the bow, Smith thought his eyes were deceiving him.
“Is that a steamer approaching,” he asked Fourth Officer Boxhall, pointing in the direction of the flickering lights far off in the distance.
“I hadn’t noticed, sir.”
“Try to signal it with the Morse lamp, would you? And have Rowe fetch the rockets. Tell him to fire one every five minutes.”
“Right away.”
The Carpathia was supposed to be the closest ship to their position, roughly fifty-eight miles to the southeast. It would arrive in no better than four hours. This ship visible on the horizon, however, could be no more than ten miles away.
LIGHTOLLER
Of all the places to die, Lightoller thought, striking his final match. He had already smoked the last of his tobacco, so he used the short flame to check the time on his pocket watch.
1:05 a.m.
He fanned the match out and then leaned back and listened to the moans of the infected outside the door. By now, he had expected to be free of the dark linen closet. He had devised the most brilliant of plans very early on.
Wait them out.
Eventually the tortured souls standing guard would go find easier prey, or some unlucky mate would run by and draw their attention away. And then...?
Why then he’d sneak out like a housecat.
He just needed to be patient. Wait them out.
So brilliant.
Forty-five minutes later, they were still there, still driving him crazy. Once the cold water snuck under the door like a snake and bit into his feet, he knew the window of escape was about to close. The water was only ankle high, but was rising fast. He’d have to make a stand soon or drown.
He checked his pockets again for the hundredth time, digging into every corner. Not one bullet.
He searched the shelves one final time. Towels. Bed sheets. Pillows. All still useless.
The best weapon he had was trying to kill him in the coldest of manners.
The water.
No more sneaking out like a cat.
He’d swim out like a fish.
BROWN
Margaret felt like she’d wandered into a time loop. Once more, she was looking for Thomas Andrews, and again he managed to elude her.
After leaving lifeboat se
ven, she had quickly lost sight of him behind a swarm of passengers. A fight had broken out, preventing her from being able to safely follow him further down the promenade deck.
The infected class refused to go down quietly, their numbers having doubled in the last half hour, and higher numbers meant more violence. Around every turn was another battle, another sickening display of malevolence. The blood of hundreds of passengers stained new patterns into the carpeting, splattered against the richly adorned walls, dripped from the polished brass light fixtures.
The most magnificent ship ever built, with luxury and class like no other, had now become littered with corpses—some slumped over on the floor with their insides hanging out, others defying death and walking around searching for their next victim. In a short time, the Titanic had become the setting for a war between the living and the undead.
And the undead were winning.
Margaret avoided going into battle herself, circling and weaving around the infected as best she could. But such good fortune wouldn’t last long.
The door was unlocked, but Andrews wasn’t in his stateroom. Likewise, he wasn’t in the dining saloon, the reading and writing room, the lounge, or either of the cafes. Margaret went as far down as C-deck before giving up; the number of infected were simply too strong in the lower decks. If he was down there, he was probably either dead or one of them.
The thought of her new friend becoming one of those things made her feel ill. He was such a kind and gentle man. If he had to die, he deserved to die with his dignity, and all of his limbs, still intact.
Margaret hurried back up the aft first-class staircase, hoping there were still lifeboats left. She was almost up to the boat deck when she realized there was one room she hadn’t checked.
The first-class smoke room.
It had slipped her mind, likely due to her having never been inside, as the room was always off limits to women. But that wouldn’t matter now.
Margaret carefully headed inside, amazed as she took in the room for the first time. The smoke room, with its mahogany paneled walls and colorful stained glass windows, somehow hadn’t been touched by the devastation that engulfed many of the other public rooms. There wasn’t one dead body, not even an overturned chair. Everything was as it should be. Immaculate.
It was also the perfect hiding place for Thomas Andrews. He was standing in front of the fireplace, looking up at a painting of Plymouth Harbour hanging above, his back turned to her.
“There you are,” said Margaret. “What do you think you’re doing in here? Aren’t you at least gonna try and save yourself?”
Andrews hung his head but didn’t respond. Outside, a rocket shot off and exploded in the air, cutting through the stiff silence.
“Mr. Andrews? Are you okay?” She began walking toward him. “I know this must be tough on you, but you got to get past it. You have a family to think about. Mr. Andrews?”
She stopped right behind him, suddenly startled by the horrible sound she heard. It was barely above a whisper, like slow, dry breathing, but it was unmistakable.
Thomas Andrews turned around and stared at Margaret with buggy white eyes and a grave face.
Margaret reared back and fell between two chairs. Andrews followed her down, grabbing at her feet as she slipped underneath the table and out the other side. Back standing, Margaret pushed the table over, trapping him.
“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” she said, looking down at him struggling underneath the table. “But I get why you ran now. You knew what you’d become. Maybe I knew then too but didn’t want to believe it. Maybe I just needed to say goodbye.”
Andrews reached out for Margaret like he wanted her hand to help him, but he didn’t try to push the table off. He lay there, full of helpless rage, writhing back and forth, unable to understand why he couldn’t move.
Margaret walked to where Andrews had originally been in front of the fireplace. In a sheath beside the fire was a brass poker with an intricate design engraved into the handle. She picked up the poker and walked back over to Andrews.
“Poor guy, I know you’re suffering, and I can’t stand to see people suffer. I really wish there was a better way of doing this, but I’m afraid this is the best I got. We both have somewhere to go, and not a lot of time. Me...I’ve got a lifeboat to catch. And you...”
She gripped the poker hand over hand and then brought it up slowly over her head.
“Well, hopefully this will help you get where you’re going a little faster.”
She brought the poker down on the side of Andrews’s head. It drove through his skull with remarkable ease and came to a sharp stop against the carpet. An appalling odor, and a splash of dark blood, broke free from the crushing hole.
“To heaven,” Margaret said, her hands still wound tightly around the brass poker, trembling. “Hopefully, to heaven.”
Andrews instantly went motionless as all remaining brain activity ceased and his soul was finally allowed to go free.
Margaret left her friend in the smoke room with the poker still embedded in his skull and hurried back up to the boat deck. From the looks of it, the officers were having an even harder time than before at getting the lifeboats lowered. Many passengers finally got the idea that the ship was going to sink and made for the top deck in droves, bringing with them waves of the sick and violent, and despite the crew’s best efforts, they couldn’t keep them off the top deck to save their lives.
Margaret got a seat on number six. Quartermaster Robert Hichens was in charge this time, and she hoped he would be less of a bastard than George Hogg from boat seven.
LIGHTOLLER
The water was up to his waist now, and so cold he felt like he was wearing a pair of ice undies. If he didn’t get moving soon, he might never be able to have any more children, or worse yet, see the ones he already had ever again.
Upon opening the door, a flood of water poured in and pushed him back against the closet shelving. He allowed the water to stabilize and level off before attempting to move.
Had he waited too long?
The water outside was almost shoulder high, but thankfully he didn’t see any infected. They had either moved on willingly before the brunt of the water arrived, or had been swept away with the current when it did. Most likely the latter. They could even be under the water still, drowned or drowning.
Or alive.
Like the one that attacked him on the staircase on G-deck—the one that would have killed him had Moody not decided to come back. He felt ashamed that he wasn’t able to return the favor when Moody needed him, but dying now would make Moody’s death all the more in vain.
I’ve made it this far, Lightoller thought. It’s just freezing cold water.
He took a deep breath and dove under.
It was a good thing he had committed the layout of the ship to memory because he could barely see anything, and the cold saltwater felt like it was burning away his eyes.
He swam straight out of the linen closet and then as deep down as he could. Not five yards beyond the closet, he encountered the first infected. The overhead lights from the stairs leading down to F-deck helped illuminate the water, allowing Lightoller to easily see it in time.
The infected woman was thrashing about under the water, her eyes as open as his, searching for the way out, which happened to be just a little farther down on the right. Not for him, however, as he could now see many sets of legs.
The stairs leading up to D-deck was crowded with infected.
Lightoller came up for a second to take a breath and then went back down. Once he passed the stairs, the water drastically reduced in volume, back to a little over waist high, allowing him to stand again. As he emerged from the water, the infected behind him on the stairs immediately took notice, moaning and floundering in the water to try and get over to him with no luck. Of all things they were—dedicated overeaters—swimmers they were not.
Lightoller turned his focus from those trapped against
the stairs and looked down the long hallway up ahead.
More.
Four men and three women hobbled around with their heads crooked to the side like a bunch of dilapidated drunks trying to remember which room was theirs. Water played around at their knees.
“Shit,” Lightoller whispered, knowing he’d have to find another way. The hallway was too cramped to slip past them and he didn’t have bullets to mow them down. Meanwhile, the water had already risen another foot up to his chest.
He turned to his left and looked over at another set of stairs leading up on the starboard side past the master at arms station. It looked free of ghouls from where he stood.
He slogged through the water toward the starboard side and then slowed down as he came upon the staircase. He checked the door to the master at arms but it was locked. Then he gradually inched through the water until he could see on to the staircase.
One infected, standing about a third of the way up, hunched over like he was about to do a belly flop into the water.
Lightoller whistled to get his attention.
The infected man looked up and growled, but didn’t move an inch, as if he knew not to get into the water.
Was this one smarter than the rest? The others on the port side would have tried anything to take a piece out of him. If this one wouldn’t move off the stairs, then he would be difficult to pass without injury. It had the benefit of higher ground, and much less water to slow it down.
Lightoller looked around frantically searching for a better escape route, and that’s when he saw it.
Enclosed within a glass case, hanging on the wall on the other side of the staircase.
The key to his salvation.
A small red fire axe.
Instead of trolling through the water, Lightoller dove under, swam past the stairs, and came up in front of the axe case. He removed the revolver from his waistband and used the butt of it to smash open the glass. Then he took out the axe and held it up out of the water to examine it; one side had a typical flat sharp blade, the other a pick-shaped pointed one.
Titanic With ZOMBIES Page 12
