She had begun her search at the third-class hospital, but the door was locked and no one answered to her knocks. The larger hospital down D-deck was open although she didn’t recognize any of the staff currently on duty. Margaret asked a nurse named Evelyn Marsden if she had seen Dr. O’Loughlin or Simpson.
Evelyn had replied, “Not since yesterday.”
“Do you know anything about a patient by the name of Elise Brennan?”
“Sorry, there is no patient here by that name.”
Moving on, Margaret then went up to the boat deck and asked around for Second Officer Lightoller. A quartermaster referred her to Captain Edward Smith, who upon learning her name, pulled her aside and told her the bad news.
Elise Brennan was dead.
According to the captain, Elise had never come out of the coma and simply died during the night.
Margaret was reluctant to let it go at that, probing for answers about the virus, but the captain assured her of passenger safety and insisted there was no more to the story. There was nothing left to contain because there was nothing left. It was over. He concluded by asking her to please keep the conversation between them private.
Margaret agreed.
If he could lie, she could too.
The captain was hiding something. She didn’t doubt he had the best of intentions and was at heart an authentically honest man, all the best qualities of a lousy liar. Why would he ask her to keep the conversation between them if there was no story to tell—if it was over—if there was nothing to worry about?
The captain’s words ended up having the opposite effect he intended.
She was more worried now than ever.
She didn’t bother searching for Lightoller anymore, who she thought was sleeping, and who would likely prove even more difficult to break than the captain, and instead searched out her new friend Thomas Andrews. If anyone would tell her the truth, it would be him.
Up in his room at the top of the aft first-class staircase, a steward was in the process of cleaning and gathering together used plates and silverware. He met Margaret in the doorway and introduced himself as Henry Etches. He then told her that Andrews had met with a few of his associates this morning to tour the ship. He didn’t know when they would be back, but told her she could leave a message.
Margaret politely declined the offer and continued her search across the ship, checking the dining saloon, the lounge, the Café Parisien, the reading and writing room.
Everywhere.
As is often the case, it was only after she gave up that she finally found him. He was on the boat deck in front of the gymnasium, not far from where she had spoken with Captain Smith. Two men flanked him on each side examining one of the lifeboats. They never saw Margaret until she was upon them.
“Planning on going for a ride?”
All five men turned their attention to Margaret. Andrews looked surprised to see her, and not in a good way.
“Well, I certainly hope not,” one of the men in a leather cap replied.
“Margaret, it’s good to see you,” said Andrews. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Mrs. Margaret Brown. We just met last night.”
“Nice to meet you all. Mr. Andrews, you feeling all right? You look a little—I don’t know—wishy-washy.”
Andrews frowned. “I feel fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid you might have come down with something.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Andrews said to his associates, and then led Margaret around the corner of the gym to a spot out of sight.
“Was I not subtle enough?” Margaret asked. “I’ve never been too good at that.”
“Listen, Margaret, I can’t—”
“Who are those men?”
“Members of my design team. They came along to assist me.”
“Oh, how nice. Trained problem spotters.”
“Sort of.”
“They didn’t see me coming. What’s wrong with the lifeboats?”
“Nothing. Margaret, please, I really must go. Can we talk another time?”
“Not until you tell me what happened to Elise Brennan? I know she’s not dead.”
Andrews’s fidgety demeanor confirmed her suspicions before he even said a word. He looked back around the corner of the gym to make sure no one was within earshot. His associates were talking and laughing amongst themselves.
“Who did you talk to?”
“The captain.”
“The captain told you she’s not dead?” Andrews sighed. “Of all people.”
“No, he was the one I talked to. He told me she was dead. You told me she wasn’t.”
“I’m confused.”
“So am I,” Margaret replied. “So are you gonna tell me what happened after I left last night or what?”
“You know, I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
“Come on, I promise I won’t tell nobody.”
“There’s been a lot of promising going on,” Andrews whispered. “Look, I can’t talk about this right now. Come to my room later this afternoon. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Splendid.” Margaret took off around the corner to where the four men were waiting. “Sorry to be a pain in the rear and waste everyone’s time.”
“No worries,” one of the men said.
“How many people can you fit into one of these boats anyway?”
“About sixty-five. Maybe seventy.”
Andrews rejoined the group. “Not nearly enough.”
“Enough for the trade board,” another man said.
“I wanted more boats but I was overruled,” Andrews said to Margaret. “As it stands we only have enough boats for a little over half of the passengers on board.”
Margaret shook her head in disgust.
“Nothing to fear though,” Andrews continued. “This ship is as strong as they come.”
“I’ll take you at your word. Back to work, boys.” Margaret clapped Andrews on the shoulder and then left for the forward entrance to the first-class staircase.
SMITH
“Four hundred and eighty-four was the first days run,” said Bruce Ismay.
Captain Smith nodded. “Yes. We did better than the Olympic.”
“Indeed. Better by twenty-six miles.”
Smith and Ismay sat across from each other in the reception room on the starboard side of D-deck. Two cups of coffee were on a table between them.
The reception room was one of many places on the ship where first-class passengers could go to relax and converse with their companions. The decor was more casual than that of the lounge or smoking room. There was a good number of available chairs, all represented by a green and white color scheme that carried over to the walls and potted plants nestled up next to most of the support pillars. The carpet with its rusty red color and geometric patterns offered an unusual but visually pleasing contrast.
“Yesterday’s run was not quite what I expected. A gain of thirty-five miles over the first day, but fell short of the Olympic. I have nothing but confidence that we can and will do better going forward.”
“There’s still over three days left,” said Smith. “I think tomorrow’s run will be more than satisfactory.”
“There is no reason to think not. Now that we know the boilers can withstand the pressure, I say we make a bold statement,” Ismay said ardently. “We must turn all the heads at Cunard.”
Ismay, being the managing director at the White Star Line, had a lot to gain in the ever-escalating battle over the Atlantic. Britain’s Cunard Line was their main rival in the race, and had absorbed a bit more of the market in recent years with the success of the Lusitania and Mauretania.
Captain Smith took a long sip from his cup of coffee and then said, “I’m not so sure that is a good idea. While everything has gone rather smoothly...” Smith stopped and thought for a moment about the ongoing incident on the other end of D-deck—the unexplainable illness that if not properly contained could threaten all the liv
es on board and leave an ugly final mark on his otherwise remarkable career. “Hasn’t the ship itself already made enough of a statement, Mr. Ismay? Cunard is on their heels.”
“Imagine the surprise if we arrive in New York on Tuesday. What will the papers say?” Ismay smiled wildly as he built his case. “Everyone already knows that Titanic is second to none in size and luxury. But her speed, captain...her speed should not be underestimated.”
“Neither should the danger of pushing her too fast,” Smith replied. “We could be approaching thick sections of field ice soon.”
“Are there any reports of this?”
“Yes. The La Touraine reported ice yesterday, and the steamer Rappahannock signaled similar warnings as it passed us earlier today. So far, we haven’t spotted anything yet. Still, we will maintain our southerly route around the Grand Banks to avoid excessive fog and thus any hidden icebergs.”
Ismay wore the expression of a man who wasn’t used to being challenged, a man who without even saying a word often exuded confidence and strength just through his appearance. He was rather tall and always kept himself well manicured and dressed in the finest attire. To top it off, he had sharply defined facial features and a dark mustache that seemed to over accentuate the scowling indignation he now showed toward Smith.
“The boilers are holding up. The engines are working well. You said it yourself, Cunard is on their heels.” Ismay spoke slow and assuredly. “You may be retiring after this but the future of the White Star Line goes on. Let’s show the papers that the Titanic is more than just luxury. Let’s give them a headline they won’t soon forget.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Smith finished off the last of his coffee as he gazed to his right out a large arched top window. In the corner of the room, a pianist sat down behind a grand piano and began playing something by Chopin.
Smith scratched at his beard, considering Ismay’s proposal that he increase the ship’s speed. He understood Ismay was simply doing his job, doing what anyone in his position as managing director would do. He had to sell the line, always sell the line. Public image was very important in this business, and so he had to keep reinforcing their strength in the industry, as their competitors would surely reinforce any perceived weakness. All the same, Smith didn’t like feeling as though his opinion as captain wasn’t being respected.
But none of those things—not the fairly routine warnings of bergs in the area, nor the unrelenting diminishment of his pride by Ismay’s less than admirable motives—was the reason he decided to go ahead with the increase in speed.
The real reason, all three of them, lay unusually self-contained on the other end of the ship.
Self-contained. For now.
But for how much longer?
Last report from Second Officer Lightoller before lunch showed no change in the situation from his first report at sunrise, which could be construed as both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because the barrier between the virus and the rest of the passengers on the ship seemed to be holding up, and bad because he had expected the three of them would be dead by now. And as long as they remained alive, the risk of further infection would always be there nibbling on his nerves. Getting to New York by Tuesday, one day earlier than planned, was one less day he’d have to sweat this terrible thing out.
ANDREWS
There was a long moment of silence, easily the longest they had shared since they met.
Margaret had come to his stateroom just as he had asked her to earlier on the boat deck, and then he had told her everything. Over tea.
And now he felt like a traitor.
He had promised Captain Smith that he wouldn’t tell anybody about what had happened last night. Smith had done his part in squelching any panic. He had managed to ward off Margaret’s persuasive personality. When confronted, he had lied.
Andrews caved.
He had considered lying, but Margaret was the kind of woman who wouldn’t respond well to being made a fool. She guarded her emotions closely. She wouldn’t believe his lie anymore than the captains.
And now that the truth was out in the open, he waited on the tip of his chair to see how she would respond—her rare silence puzzling him. Naturally, she was wrestling with the authenticity of the story. He knew how it sounded. It sounded unbelievable.
Crazy.
Margaret stared at him with the fierce, examining eyes of a private investigator. She was inside his head, prying around, searching for clues.
Finally, she said, “You expect me to believe that?”
“Unfortunately, as outrageous and disturbing as it may sound, it’s all true.”
“You swear?”
“I swear I’ve told you everything I know.”
Andrews sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. While he still felt ashamed for having betrayed Captain Smith’s confidence, he also felt relieved to have told the story to someone, least of all to Margaret, who more than anyone else on the ship probably had a right to know given her close contact the previous night with Elise Brennan.
“Everything you know?”
“Yes. I left sometime after midnight. I can’t speak for anything that may or may not have happened since then. I haven’t spoken with any of the others today about it, and I don’t intend to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s out of my hands.”
“You don’t care what happens to them? You made it sound like they are basically prisoners.”
“It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that there is nothing more I can do. It’s a medical problem, and a security issue, neither of which are my area of expertise. Elise attacked two people and so she remains in isolation. If Dr. Simpson and William Dunford have since come down with the same condition, then they too should probably remain locked up. For everyone’s safety.”
“So it’s possible the captain wasn’t lying after all?”
“You know, I hadn’t really considered the idea that Elise could actually be dead. Dr. O’Loughlin had certainly doubted she would make it through the night. I just assumed that when you came to me and said that Captain Smith told you she was dead that he was just following the plan.”
“The plan to lie to me?”
“Well, yes. I never gave much thought to the underlining sincerity of his statement. Of course I didn’t hear it directly from him.”
“I can usually tell when someone is feeding me fiction, and he sure sounded like he was telling tales.”
Andrews shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m not going to make it my business to get further involved.”
“I respect that. Thank you for at least being honest with me.”
“Margaret, promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. Promise me you won’t make it your business to get involved.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You have a reputation I wouldn’t dare spoil, Mr. Andrews. You have my word. Will I see you at dinner this evening?”
“I’ll be there.”
LIGHTOLLER
10:11 p.m.
His second watch was over, and Lightoller had only to complete his final walk of the ship before heading to his cabin for some much needed sleep.
Considering the extreme events of the previous night, today had gone smoother than he had expected.
The captain had placed him in charge of monitoring the third-class hospital and the three sick and maniacal patients quarantined therein. He had already checked-in three times today. Once at the start and close of his first four hour watch this morning, and again at the open of his second watch shortly after six in the evening.
While the first visit had yielded some unpleasant news to return to the captain—that the poor souls in room number one had caught the “crazy” bug from the young woman in room number two—the last two reports showed virtually no change.
From the moment he had the door unlocked, they could sense he was there, no matter how quiet or still he tried to be. He figured they could smell him, which he attributed to his smoking. Once they had identifi
ed his presence, the three would then begin to claw at the doors and vocalize their feelings toward him in their special way.
He didn’t spend much time with them. Maybe a few minutes each visit. This had just become part of his daily routine; one that he didn’t think would last much longer. He expected soon he’d walk in and hear no movement from either of the rooms, no futile attempt at speech.
Because they would be dead.
And he’d be glad to deliver the news to the captain, and Smith would be equally glad to hear it. Not because these three deserved to die, but because in Lightoller’s mind, they were already dead.
What good is living without the self awareness to control one’s actions, without a mind capable of love or friendship, capable of creating long lasting memories, or to even figure out how to do such simple things like working a door handle? And even if by some off chance they could be saved, they would likely never be the same, in need of constant care and assistance.
What kind of life is that?
Just let them die, Lightoller thought, descending the third-class staircase. Let God cure them of what man cannot.
As he reached the landing to D-deck, a few passengers came around the corner and made their way past him up the stairs. When they were gone, he unlocked the door to the hospital, stepped inside, and then closed and relocked the door behind him.
“Shit,” Lightoller whispered.
They were still alive, with no apparent decrease in energy. They shuffled up to the doors and began pounding and scratching away.
Lightoller slowly crossed the room and sat down on a bench. He pulled a tuft of tobacco from the pocket of his uniform and began to load his pipe, humming to himself. When finished, he took a drag and laid his head back against the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open.
He hadn’t gotten much more than three hours of sleep last night. He managed another hour or two after his first watch ended during the afternoon, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Sleeping in small increments was never as satisfying as a good long night of careless dreaming. Tonight he hoped to catch back up.
Titanic With ZOMBIES Page 5