Deck Z - The Titanic

by Chris Pauls

  “I hear Andrews is an accomplished player, but agreed. Wright will wear him down.”

  Lou watched as Andrews put away his notebook and made his way to the court to warm up for the match. He darted this way and that, provoking laughter from the two gentlemen. Lou thought he looked agile and quick. Wright, practicing his powerful shots, seemed like a statue by comparison.

  “Hey mister,” Lou said. “My money would be on Andrews.”

  The two men turned, surprised to hear a young girl putting forth a challenge. The first chuckled under his breath. “A proper lady doesn’t gamble,” he chided. “Besides, you don’t look like you’ve got anything to bet with.”

  Lou felt her ears get hot, just like when the boy tried to take her corner for selling papers. She drew herself up. “Oh I’ve got money, sir, my word on that. How much you want to make it? Say a shilling?”

  The man with the walrus mustache laughed loudly. The first man gripped the lapels of his jacket. “If you want a wager, young lady, I deal by the pound.”

  “A pound it is then,” Lou said, sticking out her bottom lip.

  The man with the mustache was beside himself with laughter. “What kind of sport are you, taking a pound from a child?” He pointed down to the court where Andrews was shaking hands with his much taller and brawnier opponent. “Look at the difference between them.”

  Lou gulped at the disparity. She was on the line for six months’ wages.

  17

  ORLOP DECK. CARGO HOLD.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 9:45 P.M.

  Almost an entire day had passed since Weiss had been locked in the cargo hold, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed that no one had yet let him out. Surely, if there had been new cases of the disease, someone would have come for him. Weiss understood only too well that enough time had passed for the infection to spread and for the disease to work its horrific transformation.

  And what of his attacker? He was still in possession of the vial, its contents deadly but possibly holding the key to a cure. Weiss had to get out, and he had spent more hours than he cared to count devising fruitless escape plans. His hands were still cuffed in front of him. The hatch door in the ceiling above was locked tight. No one had visited him but Mr. King, who had brought Weiss one meal that morning and had promised to bring another. The weapon options at his disposal seemed almost comical: the room was piled with wooden crates, variously bearing the names of concerns such as Acker, Merrall & Condit and Lasker & Bernstein, which contained only useless items such as anchovies, sponges, and ostrich feathers.

  Not to mention, Mr. King was larger by half a foot and fifty pounds at least, and as he liked to point out, he made a living out of “beating down bums.” The scientist was unlikely to overpower him or play on his sympathies. Mr. King had none regarding his captive.

  Mr. King had led Weiss down a series of stairwells bustling with crew members after his audience with the captain and Mr. Ismay. Weiss walked slowly and deliberately, searching the passing faces for signs of infection.

  “Keep walking or by God I’ll disobey the captain’s orders. You’ll arrive at the bottom of these stairs in a righteous hurry,” promised King. “Don’t think I won’t enjoy watching you bounce a couple times after I grab your no-good neck and send you sailing.”

  A shilling-sized spot of black fluid on the next landing stopped Weiss short. “That’s what I’ve been trying to warn you about,” Weiss said. “There! The Toxic!”

  The Master-at-Arms pushed Weiss out of the way and got down on one knee. King studied the glistening black bead for a moment before looking up. A broad, satisfied smile creased his face as he ran his index finger through the globule.

  “Dear God,” Weiss admonished, “don’t touch that. You’ll become—what did Captain Smith say? A zombie!”

  King laughed and stood up. With his unstained hand, he grabbed the chain of Weiss’s handcuffs and pulled him close. “Are you referrin’ to this?” King barked, shoving his blackened digit two inches from Weiss’s nose. The German arched back in fear, slamming into the wall. Mr. King pinned him against it.

  “It’s oil, you fool!” King pointed toward the ceiling. “There are huge cranes and fans on the deck above us. They use oil. Oil!”

  Weiss took a hard look at the drop. King was right.

  “So much for your story,” he scoffed. Then he wiped his finger on Weiss’s cheek and delivered on his promise to make the German’s trip down the steps a short one.

  Where is King, anyway? Weiss now thought. He was hungry for news. He’d gladly suffer more of his jailer’s abuse for confirmation that all was well. Do I dare believe the worst is over?

  Suddenly, heavy, awkward footsteps sounded outside and above. With a heavy metallic thunk, the hatch door shook, then swung open, and someone started descending the ladder. It was Mr. King. His motions were clumsy, and when he reached the bottom, he turned and tripped, spilling a tray he held in one hand. Food, a plate, cutlery, and a mug of coffee tumbled and spilled across the floor, but King remained slumped on the ground, saying nothing.

  Weiss eyed him warily. “Mr. King?” he asked.

  King lifted his head, mumbled, and coughed hard. Black spittle clung to his lips. A cold shiver ran up Weiss’s neck. “Mr. King, you’re sick! Let me help you.”

  King’s face contorted, and he pressed his palms against his temples.

  Weiss crept nearer. Black fluid dripped from King’s nose. A wicked sore was visible at the base of his neck, just inside his collar.

  King grimaced and groaned more violently, then he coughed again. Weiss jumped back as dark mucus sprayed out.

  “Make it stop!” King shouted, grabbing the dropped coffee mug and throwing it to shatter against the wall.

  Nothing can stop it now, Weiss thought, but he said, “How long has it been since you saw the black fluid, Mr. King? How long? Where have you been? Who have you been in contact with?” With each question, Weiss backed farther away till he bumped into a stack of crates. “Did someone do this to you? I have to know where you’ve been!”

  The Master-at-Arms vomited a viscous stream of dark liquid over his uniform. His skin was pale. When he raised his head, his eyes turned glassy and dark tears streamed out the sides.

  “Mr. King!” Weiss yelled in desperation, holding up his bound hands. “Remember, you are a man!”

  King bowed his head again, and for a long terrible moment, there was silence in the cargo hold. Then an excruciating moan rose in his throat, undulating louder and stronger, until the thing that had once been Mr. King rose on unsteady legs. Weiss and the creature regarded each other, and then Weiss made a leap for the hatch ladder. The zombie lunged to meet him, and the scientist narrowly sidestepped his grasp. The confined, crowded space left little room for maneuvering. Weiss raced behind a stack of crates, listening for King’s following footsteps.

  When Weiss heard the shuffling gait nearing, he put his shoulder into the pile of wooden boxes. With a heavy crash, the crates fell atop Mr. King, whose head landed violently on the metal floor. The Master-of-Arms lay still and Weiss exhaled.

  Then a plank of wood groaned and cracked loudly, and Weiss watched incredulously as King moaned, low and pained, and raised himself up onto his elbows. A deep gash cleaved the skin above his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. Seeing Weiss, King moaned louder still, mouth agape, and got to his feet once more. Weiss darted past and leaped for the ladder. He pulled his feet up onto the first rung, but his bound hands stymied further progress. In desperation, he released both hands at once and tried to grab a higher rung, only to miss and tumble backward to the floor.

  Weiss looked up in horror to find the zombie standing over him. The creature lunged. From his back, Weiss frantically jammed the chain of his handcuffs into the hideous mouth, holding off the putrid, black-stained teeth with all his might.

  He heard the sound of the hatch above creak open. “Mr. King!” someone shouted, and then Captain Smith, with sw
ord swinging at his side, slid down the ladder in one fluid motion, not touching a single rung along the way. The zombie relented and peered hard at the captain, who grimaced at the sight of his former charge. Smith drew the blade in a flash and cleaved deeply into the zombie’s neck. A second blow fully decapitated Smith’s former Master-at-Arms, whose head bounced twice on the floor.

  18

  DECK E, CABIN 142.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 10 P.M.

  Lou was quite late getting back to her cabin. She had been gone the entire day and missed two meals. That was not unusual when she was selling papers, but that was her old life, the one her mother insisted on leaving behind. This kind of absence wouldn’t be tolerated aboard Titanic. Lou pouted. She’s the one who wanted me out playing with those dainty nincompoops in the first place. How can I help it if I found something better to do and couldn’t tear myself away?

  Perhaps the two pounds buttoned inside her dress pocket would smooth things over. Lou fingered the notes, still not quite believing what had happened. It was thanks to Mr. Andrews, whose focused, agile shots kept his bigger adversary scrambling until he doubled over, gasping for breath. Andrews wore down the professional, not the other way around, as Lou’s condescending opponent had wagered. She even baited the wealthy fool to go in a second time, doubling her winnings.

  When Andrews’s matches were over and Lou’s prize had been collected—she could still hear the man with the walrus mustache guffawing inside her head—she continued to eavesdrop on the conversations of upper-class passengers that swirled around the observation deck. She knew she should return to her cabin, but she couldn’t tear herself away from talk of political scandal and high finance. It was her newspapers come to life!

  New matches and intriguing exchanges continued right until the court closed. Only when the lights shut off did Lou high-tail it for home. It had been an exhilarating and even lucrative day.

  As Lou scuffled out of a stairwell and hustled toward her cabin, she rehearsed how to present her earnings and the events of the day in such a way that her mother wouldn’t be angry. It would take a deft hand, but Lou was experienced finding ways out of trouble. Her mother wanted Lou to leave her tomboy ways behind in Brighton, so she would burst in and describe what a cultured and refined day she’d had: how she’d acted like a lady and then got the better of the established businessmen.

  A murmur down the corridor stopped her just short of her own cabin door. Fifteen cabins away was a man, his head hung so low that Lou couldn’t make out his face. The fellow appeared drunk, bumbling stiffly down the corridor. Lou knew how to handle drunks. They complained about the news in the paper and often weren’t keen on paying for it. The best strategy was to ignore them, even walk away if you needed to. She scampered inside her cabin door before the moaning sot saw her.

  The cabin was dark, but Lou did not turn on the light. How long had her mother been asleep? Lou quietly locked the door, hoping to crawl into bed without notice and claim a much earlier arrival. As she tiptoed to her bunk, her mother stirred.

  “Mama?” Lou whispered. Her mother didn’t reply, but her breathing was thick, almost like snoring. She snored on occasion (though she always denied it); it meant she was exhausted and sleeping deeply. Lou felt in the dark for the small ladder leading to the top bed. She found a rung and began climbing silently. Then, halfway up, a cold hand wrapped around her ankle. She tried to pull away, but the grip was tight.

  “I did what you said, Mama, and played rag dolls at first, and then I went to the squash courts. I was very proper and polite, and I conversed with two investment bankers and watched the ladies …” The fist continued pulling on her, unyielding. “And I won two pounds, Mama! On the game. I won two whole pounds!”

  The hand jerked hard, causing Lou to fall off the ladder. She landed on the floor with a thud, pained and surprised. She gathered herself and scooted over to the light switch. She turned it on.

  Lou’s mother was climbing out of bed, her head hung low like the drunk in the hall. Black ink had spilled all over the front of her white nightgown. Her hands, always white as porcelain, were bruised and gnarled into menacing hooks. She was … wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Mama!” Lou pleaded. “I didn’t mean to be gone all day!”

  Lou’s mother raised her head, revealing a face riddled with black sores. One of the lenses in her spectacles was shattered into a spider’s web, and the eye beneath contained no remnant of her mother. She was twisted and horrible, and crying black tears.

  Dark spittle oozed from her mother’s mouth. Then she moaned in agony and lashed out at her daughter.

  Lou screamed.

  19

  CAPTAIN SMITH’S QUARTERS.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 11:40 P.M.

  Dr. William O’Loughlin paced the length of the sitting room, pulling hard on a cigarette as Captain Smith’s emergency team assembled. Chief Officer Henry Wilde and First Officer William Murdoch joined Thomas Andrews and Theodor Weiss. J. Bruce Ismay, the last to arrive, stopped short and bristled at the presence of the German.

  “I fail to understand,” Ismay said, “why this murderer is still among us.”

  “Mr. Weiss brought this infection aboard,” Captain Smith said brusquely, “and he’ll damn well help us get rid of it. We need his expertise. I will not allow my ship to be overwhelmed.”

  “And I say lock him up for his crimes,” Ismay retorted. “Remember who hired you, Captain.”

  “And you may relieve me of my duties when we dock safely.” Smith turned his attention to the rest of the men. “As some of you know, a horrible plague has infected Titanic, and we must take action immediately. I was skeptical of Mr. Weiss’s claims at first, but I regret to say that I have now seen the zombies myself. God help me, I have already been forced to kill four times, including our poor Mr. King.”

  “Zombies?” replied Officer Wilde.

  Ismay said weakly, “You killed King?”

  “King was a man no more,” said Smith.

  “I saw King just this morning … “ protested Officer Murdoch.

  “King is dead,” said the captain, “and at my hand.”

  “A man can’t be killed just because he’s turned ill!” said Murdoch.

  “You’re not listening,” said Smith. “King wasn’t ‘ill.’ He had turned into a monster.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, saying there’s a disease aboard is one thing,” Officer Wilde said, trying to sound reasonable. “But this ‘monster’ talk is hard to swallow.”

  Dr. O’Loughlin piped up. “Seeing is believing.”

  O’Loughlin lifted a heavy canvas sea bag from beneath the table and set it on top with a heavy thump. He donned a pair of sterilized medical gloves, carefully loosened the cinched cord at the top of the bag, and rolled its contents onto the table.

  Mr. Andrews made a retching sound and excused himself to the captain’s lavatory. Ismay also choked. The rest of the men simply looked on in horror.

  The severed, grotesquely transformed head of Mr. King was terrifying. His eyes were open and staring into the void, sunk into hollows the color of violaceous bruises. Dark, dried fluid and blood stained his features and matted his hair. Though King had been dead only a few hours, his forehead was already rotting, and the gash above his eye had widened to expose ivory skull bone. Worst of all was the smell—a noxious odor of decaying meat and death, but somehow fouler yet, as if fired with Hell’s sulfur.

  “My God,” managed Ismay. “It’s true.”

  “No one touch it!” Weiss snapped. “If that fluid finds a way into your bloodstream, you could become infected, even now.”

  All the men but O’Loughlin took a step back. No one said a word. Dr. O’Loughlin straightened his spine and, with a muffled cough, returned King’s head to the canvas bag.

  Captain Smith stood. “The three infected were found in the aft of Deck E,” he said. “That seems to be where the disease has taken hold. Our mission is clear: We must take
measures to make sure a proper quarantine is in place.”

  “What makes you so sure this madman won’t release more on other parts of the ship?” asked Dr. O’Loughlin.

  “Neither the agent nor the Germans have any reason to infect Titanic’s passengers,” said Weiss. “He simply needed to authenticate the vial’s contents. Now that he has, he needs to escape with as much of the Toxic as possible to satisfy the German military.”

  “Quarantine it is, then,” said O’Loughlin. “What kind of time do we have here?”

  “The infection cycle runs in three stages, taking anywhere from seven to fourteen hours, depending on how long it takes for the sickness to reach the brain,” Weiss said. “If we act quickly, math may be on our side. We know of five cases so far, and all the infected have been killed. The contaminated areas have been thoroughly cleaned. It might be too much to hope, but Captain Smith may have stopped the outbreak altogether.”

  “I’m not as optimistic,” said O’Loughlin, clearing his throat with difficulty. “Who knows what kind of trail of black fluid the men have left behind? I’ve cleaned what I’ve found, but that might not be all.”

  “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” interrupted Ismay, “but why are we listening to Mr. Weiss, if that’s truly his name, and treating him as if he’s some sort of medical dignitary? By his own admission, he has brought a disease on board that could kill us all! Who’s to say he isn’t the very same ‘German agent’ he’s warning us about? Can he prove he’s not? Perhaps he’s trying to turn Titanic into some kind of weapon against New York City itself!”

  For a moment, each man looked to Weiss, who shifted uncomfortably. Then he squared his shoulders and said defiantly, “If you doubt my veracity, lock me up again. I have no further proof, and every moment we spend arguing my credibility only gives the disease more time to spread. We’re dealing with a fast-acting contagion, closed quarters, and a heavily populated ship. For God’s sake, stop talking and act now!”