Deck Z - The Titanic

by Chris Pauls

“I am not your assistant, and I will not take orders from you,” huffed O’Loughlin. “We will wait for the Master-at-Arms, and he will find Timothy and determine why …”

  Weiss wasn’t listening. He’d risen to inspect the rest of the room. “More fluid,” he exclaimed. “Here, on the door jamb. Don’t touch it. If the fluid comes into contact with an open sore or any mucous membrane, you could be the next one infected. Scrub this down with bleach. You have rubber gloves?”

  “Back in my office,” O’Loughlin muttered.

  “Please get them. All you have. I must find your cook.”

  Weiss took off down the corridor. “Come back here!” O’Loughlin called. “I order you to wait!”

  By the time O’Loughlin reached the doorway, Weiss was turning the corner. O’Loughlin held back the urge to chase him. Instead, he would wait for the Master-at-Arms to handle Weiss.

  Tracing the cook’s path proved difficult. Weiss found occasional random streaks along corridor walls, indicating that Timothy’s condition was worsening. Unfortunately, the corridor split in three possible directions at regular intervals. Weiss ran this way and that, trying to pick up the trail. He was nearly ready to give up and find O’Loughlin again before noting an inky smudge leading down a stairwell.

  Weiss proceeded to Deck G and an area of the ship restricted to crew. He listened carefully. There was no sound, save the hum of ice-making machines, which had left a small puddle on the floor.

  An erratic pattern of wet footprints led out of the puddle to a heavy door marked “Thawing Room.” Weiss pulled out his pocketwatch—it was past 5:30 P.M. By his calculations, Timothy may have been infected for up to nine hours. It was impossible to say what state his mind was in by now, but Weiss prayed the man could still reason. Fully realizing the danger, he tightened his grip on his walking stick and pulled on the door’s cool metal handle with his free hand.

  Weiss left the door open a crack behind him as he entered the damp, cold room. Sides of beef and racks of mutton hung from big gaff hooks in long rows. Blood dripped freely onto the floor. Some of the stains were old and dark, but not dark enough to be mistaken for the Toxic. That had a stale, dead look all its own.

  Weiss squatted and scanned under the rows. The moment he confirmed Timothy’s presence, his plan was to get outside quickly and bar the door. The large hunks of meat hung low to the ground and cast weighty shadows, making it tough to see. The German moved farther in, searching quietly.

  The space was tight, even down the room’s central passage. Weiss warily made his way down the first row. He found nothing but sides of beef hanging from their hooks. He turned to proceed down a second row, accidentally bumping into a hunk of meat. The carcass swung back and forth.

  Weiss was four or five rows down, peering into a row to his right, when another carcass bumped his shoulder. He turned as a wretched pair of hands burst through and grabbed his jacket. Weiss jerked away, freeing his coat but losing his balance on the slick, bloody floor. He fell, and his walking stick went skidding away beneath the rows of meat and out of sight. Weiss looked up from the floor to find his worst fears confirmed.

  The muscles in the cook’s face were slack, but his eyes were wild. Rivulets of black mucus dripped from his nose and ears and dribbled over his lips. Timothy held his head in his hands, swaying with the waves of madness in his brain, banging into the meat on either side. His kitchen whites were smeared with more black stains, and in places they were torn where he must have been furiously scratching at sores. A horrible, low sound emerged from his throat, and his mouth opened in anguish. Timothy was almost gone. There was no saving him, but the threat could end here if Weiss summoned the will to do what must be done.

  Weiss’s sense of responsibility trumped his fear and propelled him to his feet. He searched wildly in all directions for his weapon, but it was nowhere to be found. He looked up and saw an empty meat hook on a metal track.

  The German struggled to disengage the hook, but it was thick with dried blood and reluctant to give. Timothy shuffled forward. Whether his intent was to seek help or Weiss’s flesh didn’t matter. Weiss pulled himself up on the hook and kicked hard into Timothy’s midsection. The infected man flew backward into the sides of beef before tumbling onto the sloppy floor. He thrashed to his feet, ready to fight back like a crazed animal.

  Thankfully, the swinging carcasses slowed the man’s progress, and at the same time, voices could be heard outside the door. Timothy stopped, dead flat eyes turning toward the sound. Weiss gave the hook a final tug, the mechanism let go, and the gaff hook came free.

  Weiss did not hesitate. He struck hard with the hook, burying it deep into the side of the cook’s skull, which split as the body toppled to the floor.

  Crew members burst into the room, but Weiss was oblivious to everything but destroying the infected man. Weiss withdrew the hook and slammed it into the head repeatedly, unleashing all the frustrations and fears of the previous week, of the previous year. He was no longer trying to kill a man but the specter of death itself. As Weiss raised his arm for another blow, a hand grabbed his forearm, stopping him, and then the hook was roughly yanked away.

  “Murderer!” yelled a large, bearded man dressed in blood-stained butcher’s whites.

  Even though Weiss had killed out of necessity, the accusation was an arrow through his conscience.

  The bearded man punched Weiss hard in the face, sending him reeling into the sides of beef. The butcher called to a companion to go for help and resumed taking Weiss apart, blow by blow, until he collapsed to the floor.

  Moments later, O’Loughlin arrived with the Master-at-Arms and more ship’s personnel.

  “Good lord!” O’Loughlin exclaimed when he saw the scene. “What have you done!?”

  At O’Loughlin’s shoulder, the bearded man insisted, “He killed that man. I saw him do it, and a more horrible death I ne’er seen.”

  O’Loughlin nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t reply. Instead, he donned surgical gloves and crouched down to get a better look at Timothy. Yet the German had so thoroughly destroyed the cook’s skull that it was impossible to discern much of anything. Not all the fluids looked like blood, necessarily, but the light and the mess made it hard to say for sure. The stains on the cook’s clothing, however, matched what O’Loughlin had seen on the bed.

  “Put this man under lock and key,” he said to the others crowded into the room. “Place a guard on him until you receive further orders from Captain Smith. I’ll deal with the body.”

  Weiss raised his head, which throbbed in excruciating pain. “Doctor, tell them. Tell them about the disease. Don’t touch that body, please, whatever you do.”

  The bearded man grunted and dragged Weiss roughly from the room.

  15

  CAPTAIN SMITH’S QUARTERS.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1912. 7:45 P.M.

  “Doctor, that’s an incredible story,” said Captain Smith, removing his cap and leaning back into his chair. He sat at his small mahogany table with Dr. O’Loughlin and J. Bruce Ismay, whose cigar filled the room with smoke. “In your professional opinion, how much of it is true?”

  Before O’Loughlin could answer, Ismay threw his smoldering cigar into an ashtray. “Why would we believe a word of it?” he sputtered. “That man is a murderer! He’s trying to save his own skin!”

  Ismay’s shouts were loosening O’Loughlin’s thin hold on his own composure. “Certain elements of the story I can confirm, Captain. Our cook did complain of the symptoms Mr. Weiss described. Of course, those symptoms are quite common. More troubling are the stains on the man’s bed things and clothes. This is not blood, but some black discharge. Prudence dictates we should not dismiss the potential danger. Plagues are not to be trifled with. As for Mr. Weiss’s more fantastical warnings?” The doctor tried not to think about Timothy’s skull smashed against the bloody floor. “I couldn’t possibly say.”

  “You have the devil’s heart to speak such things!” came a yell from outside
the captain’s quarters, followed by the sound of a hard slap and a shout of pain.

  The door to the captain’s cabin burst open and Weiss was shoved inside. His hands, still bloody from the meat locker floor, were cuffed in front of him. A large, red handprint branded his cheek. Mr. King, the Master-at-Arms, gave Weiss a final push and roughly closed the door behind them.

  Smith stood, returning his cap to his head. “You will hold your hand, Mr. King,” he commanded. “I will not tolerate such behavior from my crew, no matter what this man has done.”

  “My apologies, Captain. I lost my temper,” said King, staring at his shoes.

  “So this is our murderer,” said Ismay, examining Weiss’s swollen face, unimposing build, and nondescript clothing. “Doesn’t quite look the type, does he?”

  “He goes by ‘Nosworthy’ on the manifest, but he’s since changed his tune,” replied King. “Now he’s saying it’s ‘Weiss.’ We can’t be sure because he doesn’t have a passport. Claims that was stolen, along with his traveling bag. This stick is also his. We found it in the meat locker where he bashed in poor Timothy’s head.”

  King handed over Weiss’s cane and Captain Smith gave it a once-over. “This is more than a stick,” he said, activating the mechanism that snapped the hidden blade into view.

  The captain handed the weapon back to King, who looked surprised, then angry at having his ignorance exposed. Weiss noted a formidable sword hanging on the captain’s wall. The blade’s battered sheath indicated the weapon wasn’t merely decorative.

  “What is your true name, sir?” Smith sternly addressed Weiss. “It would not be wise to make me ask a second time.”

  “My name is Theodor Weiss, Captain. Everything I told Dr. O’Loughlin is true. It is imperative that you …”

  “Let’s waste no more time listening to the admonitions of murderers,” snapped Ismay. “We have eyewitnesses, for God’s sake!”

  “Sir, there is a deadly infection aboard that must be stopped,” said Weiss. “Your ship and her passengers are in grave peril. Dr. O’Loughlin, as you say, is an eyewitness.”

  “I … I cannot verify your full account, sir,” said O’Loughlin.

  “Titanic’s passengers are quite safe,” Ismay said to Weiss. “No one need fear a thing now that you are in custody.”

  Weiss mustered his dignity, held his cuffed hands in front of him, and addressed Smith. “That cook was incurably sick with a plague that could infect every passenger on this ship. I did what was necessary to stop him. We can’t be sure he was the only one afflicted.”

  “Perhaps we should sound the general alarm!” Ismay threw up his hands theatrically. “Abandon ship!” The Master-at-Arms snickered, but was silenced by the captain’s glare.

  “Let me be perfectly clear,” replied Weiss, looking each man in the eye, one by one. “Unless we get this quarantined immediately, there might not be anyone left to put in a lifeboat.”

  “Dr. O’Loughlin tells us,” said Smith, “that you claim to have stolen the ingredients for this plague from the German government.” He paused. “Are we all now accomplices to your crime?”

  As with O’Loughlin earlier, Weiss knew his story stretched credulity, but he had to convince them. “I was working toward a cure when I discovered our military’s plan to use the disease as a weapon. I had no choice but to take it, for the good of humanity. I fled Germany for America with the vial of what I refer to as “the Toxic” because I believe it might hold the key to a cure for all strains of the plague. But the Kaiser believes the Toxic belongs to him and sent an agent to intercept me. I’m sorry to say the man did his job.”

  “Now you claim you are the victim, and someone else is a murderer!” Ismay cried.

  “I don’t care whether or not you believe my story, so long as you believe that this plague has been unleashed on this ship. This man who stole the vial is unstable. I don’t know how many people he may have condemned.”

  “If all you say is true, Mr. Weiss,” the captain said, “then by not seeking the protection of my office in Southampton, you brought both a plague and a killer aboard my ship.”

  Embarrassment flushed Weiss’s face. “Secrecy seemed the best plan.” He swallowed hard. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this. I will have you hanged,” snarled Ismay. “Mr. King, lock him up for the duration.”

  King grabbed Weiss roughly by the arm. “Don’t be a fool!” he shouted. “This plague is more than a sickness! Your passengers will become mindless fiends. They will stop at nothing except to feast on the flesh of the uninfected! They will lose their souls, their humanity—they will become like dead that walk the earth!”

  The room went completely silent. Even Mr. Ismay was at a loss for words. Captain Smith stroked his ivory beard and looked hard into Weiss’s eyes, searching for truth or madness.

  Captain Smith spoke quietly into the silence. “What you’re saying is this infection turns people into zombies.”

  Weiss let out a long breath, relieved not to be completely dismissed out of hand. “I have not heard that term before.”

  “Surely you’re not taking his story seriously?” Ismay asked the captain.

  “During my travels in the Caribbean, villagers sometimes told tales of the dead come to life. Naturally, I was skeptical. Yet even the wildest stories sometimes hold a kernel of truth.” He turned to Weiss. “Now here you are with a similar story, told with seeming conviction. But you have only your word as evidence—you who travel under an assumed identity, carry a hidden weapon, and have brutalized a young man’s head beyond recognition.” Captain Smith shook his head. “I agree with Mr. Ismay. Mr. King, lock this man up.”

  “Finally, some sense,” said Ismay. “For God’s sake, get him out of sight. And above all, keep this quiet. Don’t breathe a word of this beyond this room. The last thing we need is for the passengers to think that there’s a madman onboard.”

  Weiss despaired. “Please, Captain, don’t ignore this. If you do, your ship is doomed.”

  “I’ve heard your claims,” Smith said curtly. “Dr. O’Loughlin, alert me instantly if you encounter any more passengers with signs of illness. Mr. King, escort Mr… the German back to the cargo hold and stand guard until you receive further orders.”

  The Master-at-Arms rolled his head to crack his neck. “I’ll make sure he don’t go nowhere, Captain.”

  16

  THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.

  APPROXIMATELY 750 MILES WEST OF SOUTHAMPTON.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 4:15 P.M.

  Titanic steamed across the Atlantic, the ship’s hull cleaving a path through calm, azure waters. Smoke spilled from its stacks, leaving a misty trail above its wake. On the ship’s top deck, open to the sun and clear blue sky, children shouted and laughed, having the times of their lives.

  Nannies waltzed some of the wealthier boys and girls through their afternoon strolls, positioning parasols so they wouldn’t be exposed to the bright sun. On the ship’s starboard side, a small crowd of children gathered outside the gymnasium. Even though they had already taken their appointed turn inside, they eagerly crowded near the door for another glimpse of the exotic rowing machines, bicycles, and mechanical horses.

  Below, on Deck C, still more children turned up in the barber shop with shiny coins in their fists, anxious to purchase a souvenir of their trip. Teddy bears, dolls, penknives, and official ribbons embroidered with the name RMS Titanic were popular ways to spend pocket money.

  Passengers on the decks below were less well-dressed but the children had no less fun. Some boys swung from the baggage cranes, while others chased rats down hallways and out of stairwells. The howling lads seemed as if they would give chase till the rodents ran right off the edge of the ship.

  Lou would have preferred to chase rats with the boys. But her mother wouldn’t stand for such activities, and Lou was fairly certain the boys wouldn’t be keen on having a girl join them. Boys were like that. So instead, she made
do with a dull group of girls about her age in the third-class common room, pretending to make tea for rag dolls and providing make-believe medicine for their tummy aches. Lou’s mother, satisfied that the girl had learned her lesson about talking to strange gentlemen, went to the library to write letters to family.

  Lou listlessly dressed and undressed a rag doll, looking for something, anything else to occupy her time. Thinking her mother would be safely occupied in the library for at least an hour, Lou took a stroll to see what she could find. She noticed a sign that read “Squash Court Observation Deck” and decided to have a look.

  These people dress better to watch a game than I do to go to Sunday church, Lou marveled, surveying the gathered crowd. Even the players on the court were dressed smartly in spotless white shorts and shirts. A quick, guarded smell of her dress confirmed that she didn’t stink; she hadn’t changed clothes since their first day on board. Her mother was saving her other good outfit for when they arrived in New York.

  Lou was thrilled to spot Lady Cardeza, hair and all, chattering not far away. Few in the room were paying the woman much attention. They seemed more interested in squash than gossip. With a sniff, Lady Cardeza announced loudly, “I have multiple concerns to attend, unlike those who have nothing to do but play silly games!” Then she left. Lou imagined “multiple concerns” meant changing into a new dress from one of her fourteen trunks.

  “Say,” one man next to Lou said, “who’s up next?”

  His companion, a man with an enormous walrus mustache, replied, “Thomas Andrews and Fred Wright.”

  “Who’s Andrews? A professional as well?”

  “Hardly. He designed Titanic. That’s him over there.”

  Andrews stood off in a far corner, frowning at a piece of trim above the observation window. He started writing in a small pad of paper.

  “He’s going to take on Fred Wright? That little fellow doesn’t stand a chance!”