Tip of the Iceberg

by Ash Hartwell

  Moody continued sipping his tea while Callahan stared uncomfortably at his boots, neither man prepared to offer an answer to the captain’s question, all too aware of the harm that could befall them. Moody offered up a silent prayer for a swift and decisive death, one that wouldn’t see him rise again in search of human flesh.

  Forty-six

  Bridget ate little of the lamb, divine as it was. She had little appetite and much on her mind. Her thoughts revolved around Esme, William’s body, which still lay stretched across their bed, and the plight of her unborn child. What would become of it if they caught her and tried her for murder? There were so many things that could go wrong with Esme’s plan, it seemed unlikely to succeed. But, she told herself, it was their only plan so it had to work, somehow. She could at least go to the gallows secure in the knowledge her child would live free of the evil William Grafton, that in itself was some recompense.

  “Mrs. Grafton, perhaps tomorrow I could escort you and your husband on a tour of the bridge?” Bruce Ismay sat across the table, his plate already empty and a stiff-backed steward silently recharging his glass.

  “I do not presume to speak for my husband, but I will be sure to tell him of your kind offer, while I myself would be delighted,” she said enthusiastically. Bridget could think of nothing that would bore her more than men talking about levers, knobs, and dials, but she needed to make an impression, to preserve the ruse that William was alive and well.

  Whatever Mr. Ismay said next, Bridget didn’t hear. Seated at a table not twenty feet away were a middle-aged couple and a young woman. The couple were of little consequence to Bridget, it was the young woman who captured her sole attention, causing her to rudely ignore her dinner companions in favour of staring brazenly at the diners at the other table.

  “Is something the matter, Mrs. Grafton?” Guggenheim asked, although Bridget barely heard his question as she continued to stare at Violet in stunned disbelief. She could not believe the sheer audacity of the woman. She knew her husband’s below stairs whore was aboard ship, but never expected to see her brazenly dining in first class and wearing one of her dresses in the bargain.

  “Mrs. Grafton? Bridget, are you alright, you seem a little pale?” Guggenheim raised his voice, breaking the spell Violet’s appearance had cast over her.

  Bridget turned her attention back to the rich philanthropist. He wore a concerned expression and had already started to rise from the table, possibly expecting her to faint, or something worse.

  “Sorry. Yes, I’m quite all right, just a little tired.” She smiled weakly at the gentlemen sitting around the table. “Maybe one of you would be so good to order me a tea, after which I shall retire for the night.”

  While Guggenheim called a steward and Ismay and Andrews perused the menu in search of pudding, Bridget stole a furtive glance in Violet’s direction.

  Violet, her attention caught by Guggenheim’s raised voice, stared back at her from below the brim of Bridget’s own hat. For a moment the two women sat in quiet contemplation, their eyes locked in an unspoken battle of wills. Each daring the other to reveal their hand, each equally wishing the moment would slip quietly by.

  The moment did indeed slip by, but it did not go quietly. Frenzied screams filled the air as the carefree diners became embroiled in a frantic battle for their lives as the minions of Hell, spawned deep in the bowels of the ship and forced upwards in search of sustenance, spewed into the saloon with but one dish on their menu.

  Forty-seven

  The corridor skirting the two dining saloons was eerily quiet, and Esme’s footsteps sounded loud on the exquisitely polished decking. She kept her head down, walking as briskly as she dared towards the huge galley’s service entrance, hoping she did not encounter one of the eagle-eyed chefs or worse, Miss Wilson. Particularly while wearing a uniform soaked in the blood of half the ship’s medical department. Behind the wall, she heard the muffled hubbub of dinner service, the usual hundred conversations and the constant clatter of cutlery all set against the gentle melodies of a chamber orchestra.

  But tonight it sounded different. It was louder, more frantic, chaotic even.

  Reaching a discreet set of double doors, Esme paused, her hand resting lightly on the polished brass plate. She gently pushed the door open a few inches. The general hubbub grew louder. She strained to listen, trying to distinguish individual voices above the maelstrom of sounds swirling past her ears, but could not pick anything out clearly. There was nothing to suggest someone might be standing close to the door, so she pushed it a little wider, just enough to slide quietly through before the powerful springs pulled it shut behind her.

  The service pantry, as usual at this time of the evening, was empty. Esme, aware she had not taken a single breath since reaching the double doors, let the air escape her lungs, causing a soft moan to roll up from her throat. She darted across the small room to the doorway through to the main kitchen and peered through the small porthole-like window cut into the door. At the far end of the vast kitchen a few chefs were crowded together but otherwise, the usually busy kitchen was strangely empty.

  She pushed open the door. The noise from the dining room grew louder and Esme felt sure she heard individual screams punctuating the general din. Not wanting to draw attention, she strode sedately towards the far end of the kitchen where she hoped to pick up a freshly laundered apron to cover her blood-soaked uniform. Walking past the long trestle table on which the chefs prepared passenger meals before service, she noticed abandoned, partially prepared food scattered across the smooth oak surface. A colander containing boiled potatoes and a saucepan of garden peas sat next to an empty plate and farther down the table a large slab of raw meat, probably lamb going by the evening menu, lay on a large platter. She paused to study the succulent meat, curious about why someone should require their meat served in such a way.

  Esme looked towards the few chefs still working, but they had their backs to her, engrossed in their task, so she returned her attention to the table. The meat had gone, leaving a bloody outline on the large gilt-edged platter. While she pondered the possible whereabouts of the lamb, she chewed absentmindedly on the soft, tender steak in her hand while its sweet juices trickled down her chin.

  As she raised the raw meat to take a second bite she abruptly realized what she was doing. Her stomach lurched, and she cried out in disgust, throwing the uneaten portion to the floor. She hunched over, spitting the well-chewed meat onto the floor next to the uneaten portion. Even as her digestive system recoiled at the texture and taste of the uncooked food, something deep inside her wanted it. No, the feeling was stronger. She craved it. Something inside Esme craved the juicy, raw cut of dead bovine.

  Feeling her stomach twist and contract, she bent forward and hurled a stream of bright, red blood. It splattered on the deck, speckling her shoes with fine ruby droplets. A cold shiver passed through her body bringing a second wave of nausea and leaving her weak and disorientated. Her knees buckled, forcing her to cling defiantly to the table while she waited for the room to stop spinning. Footsteps, originally distant, were now getting louder, getting closer.

  She turned her head towards the approaching sound, her neck stiff and painful, each joint popping and creaking with every movement.

  Squinting slightly to focus, Esme recognized the chefs, resplendent in their pressed white tunics stained with the fresh blood that still dripped from their gaping jaws. She saw the intense, cold stare of death in their eyes, the mottled skin, and thick, dark tracks crisscrossing their features. But most of all, she saw the severed human leg swinging back-and-forth in the swollen, purple hand of the nearest chef.

  She edged away and tried climbing to her feet, but her heels snagged in the dismembered remains of a waiter. His head, torn from his shoulders, lay next to his half-eaten body, a serene look of peaceful acceptance evident on his face as if, at the end, he had welcomed death as the better alternative.

  Esme made one last desperate effort to get to
her feet, but the chefs quickly closed in on her as she stumbled. Unsteady and disorientated, she practically fell into their waiting arms. The vile smelling creatures pulled her down into their icy grip, their cold hands tearing at her uniform as they prepared her for their main course.

  Esme tried screaming for help as she stared into their gaping mouths, drooling with fetid saliva, lips drawn back to reveal bloodstained teeth which threatened to rip into her flesh at any moment. Deep down, she knew help would never come, that this was it. A sharp ripping sound filled the air as one of her assailants pulled a sleeve free from the bodice of her dress, exposing the mottled flesh below. She closed her eyes not wanting to witness the frenzied expressions on her killer’s faces as they tore her apart.

  Then they stopped.

  They simply let go of her, and Esme fell to the floor like a child’s unwanted old rag doll. Exhausted, she lay on the rough flooring unable to move, expecting, at any second, a final blow, one terminal slash that would cleave her head from her torso.

  But it never came. Instead, the chefs began feasting on the dead waiter’s ragged neck stump, pulling at the tender, soft flesh with their bare hands before eagerly shovelling it into their mouths like excited children with a birthday cake.

  Esme started to move. Slowly, inch by inch, so as not to draw the unwanted attentions of the ravenous cooks, she edged away from the headless corpse. Every part of her body hurt, either from the attack or from the fire raging inside her. She gently rolled onto her knees and crawled a few more feet before hauling herself to her feet, using the table for support. She felt dizzy, confused, and had the mother of all headaches, but she was not going to let these bastards beat her, not the dead doctor, not a rotting nurse, and certainly not a bunch of cannibalistic chefs.

  She inspected her exposed arm. Her soft, pale skin looked swollen and blotchy. The delicate wispy blue veins replaced by angry raised tracks that started as hair-thin lines in her fingers and grew larger as they travelled up her arm, forming disgusting, thick lesions as they disappeared under the ripped shoulder of her dress. Esme now knew why the dead chefs left her alone. Why they had simply stopped? She understood the burning pain flowing through every organ in her body as though her blood was ablaze, the desire to eat raw meat, and her suddenly slower, clumsier movements.

  She had become one of them.

  They had already beaten her, and she never even knew it. They no longer viewed her as an appetizing hors d’oeuvre for them to feast on; her body was in decay, rotting where she stood. Esme wanted to cry but her tears were too thick, too congealed to flow, and the despairing wail that welled within her chest as the true horror of her condition dawned on her, died in her throat. Without the air rushing from her lungs to vibrate her vocal chords all she managed was a low guttural gurgle.

  Esme stood in silent shock for a moment trying to think, trying to apply some reason to her predicament where none existed, but her faculties were failing. The pain in her head had gone, replaced by a dense fog. The images her mind produced became random, disorganized, and horrific featuring mutilated bodies and festering corpses. Among them, her sister, Charlotte, her innards torn from her stomach, laid out like a suckling pig at a banquet.

  And all the time she endured the agonizing craving for fresh, raw meat. It consumed her, and it was what finally drove Esme to move. She was ravenous, and her hunger needed to be sated. Slowly, purposefully, she walked towards the double swing doors leading through into the commotion of the first class saloon. Her abilities to think and reason were slowly diminishing while her senses were sharpening, becoming more acute. Her vision had become tunnelled, the peripheries dark and blurred while the images in the centre were sharper and more focused than they ever were in life, and she could hear every individual heartbeat of her prey. She had the urge to hunt, and the ability to kill.

  Pushing open both doors, Esme walked through to the saloon. As they swung shut behind her, she surveyed the opulence of the room and its furnishings with disinterest. It was something she had seen before and tonight she was looking for something special, something warm.

  Something alive.

  Forty-eight

  Bridget stared at her servant in disbelief. The sheer audacity of the below-stairs strumpet had left her momentarily speechless. How dare she presume she could dine in luxury in full view of her lover’s wife without getting her comeuppance? A comeuppance Bridget would gladly administer personally. However, as the two women stared at each other in an unspoken battle of wills, the rich and famous clientele around them dissolved into hysteria as the infected masses overran the saloon. They could no longer huddle below decks, the infection had spread rapidly in the cramped conditions of steerage, meaning fresh meat was scarce, and the demand for it was growing.

  Guggenheim reacted first. As the first of the undead swarmed towards their table, he used his chair to ward off their advances, thrusting the stout wooden legs into their faces.

  “Mrs. Grafton ... Bridget!” The urgency in his voice drew her attention away from Violet’s confident, almost arrogant, stare.

  “Oh my! What ...” Bridget’s words were cut short as Guggenheim physically pulled her from her seat with one arm while pinning a scruffy urchin with bloodstained teeth under his chair with the other.

  “Please excuse the overfamiliarity, Mrs. Grafton, but our exclusive little soiree appears to have reached its conclusion.”

  He used his body to shield her from the approaching horde as he led her briskly from the table, making his way in a roundabout fashion towards the entrance with a terrified looking Andrews and Ismay bringing up the rear.

  “That’s perfectly alright, Mr. Guggenheim,” she paused a moment to catch her breath, then added with a forced smile, “Propriety, at moments like this, seems a trifle redundant.”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Grafton,” he replied, swinging a champagne bottle like a baseball bat into the face of a man in dirty overalls and large hobnailed boots. The bottle struck the assailant square on the chin with a resounding crack but did little more than turn the man’s head and dislodge a large flap of skin which stuck to the front of his overalls. He advanced another stride, his lifeless eyes staring past them, and yet, seemingly taking in every move they made. Bridget hiked her skirts up past her knees, gathering the material in a loose bundle at her waist, and swung a low, vicious kick into the side of the man’s knee. His leg broke with a sharp crack, sending him to the ground where he continued to scrabble after them, but more in hope than menace.

  “Rough childhood,” she shrugged in response to the men’s astonished expressions. Stealing a glance to where Violet had been sitting, but there was no sign of her. The older couple whom she’d accompanied to dinner were engaged in a violent struggle with one of the plague-carrying invaders. Its teeth were embedded in the man’s arm and he and his lady friend were frantically beating it about the head with their napkins. As Bridget watched, several more of the gruesome attackers joined the fray, swiftly overpowering the helpless couple and dragging them to the floor where they began to dismember them as the two lovers clung to each other in one final embrace. Bridget heard their bloodcurdling cries above the tumultuous melee of screams echoing about the room as the hungry mob tore them apart.

  “I fear we must make haste if we are to survive this evening; lingering here will certainly result in our demise.” Guggenheim had to shout to make his voice heard, although he preserved his gentlemanly poise.

  “I couldn’t agree more!” Ismay shouted, ducking away from a rotting crewman before disappearing into the crowd at a sprint.

  “The man’s a coward,” said Guggenheim firmly. “Let’s get you to safety, Mrs. Grafton. I have no doubt the captain will have devised a plan to ensure the safety of those passengers not infected by this terrible menace, and if the situation appears lost, he will authorize launching the lifeboats.”

  With that, he took a firm grip of Bridget’s wrist and led her swiftly across the room using his free arm to push and
punch anyone or anything that got in their way. He pulled Bridget behind him until they reached the relative calm of the lobby.

  “Go to your room, Mrs. Grafton. You will, at least for the time being, be safe there.” He turned and strode back towards the pandemonium of the saloon.

  “But what about you, Benjamin?” Bridget asked, although, in her heart, she already knew.

  “Tell my wife in New York that I have done my best in doing my duty.” With that he vanished into the fracas with his fists raised like a prize fighter.

  Forty-nine

  Violet watched Bridget’s emotional farewell with her fellow American from her vantage point on the grand staircase above the lobby. Once she witnessed the look in her mistress’s eyes at the dining table, she knew the only way she would ever have William was to remove Bridget from the scene, and it was at that very moment the Devil himself intervened to provide her with the perfect opportunity. As Guggenheim heroically pulled Bridget from her seat, Violet and her companions, Sir Bernard and Mrs. Black, were attacked by the deranged hobbledehoy from below deck. Sir Bernard had, after a firm shove in the middle of his back from Violet, taken the brunt of the assault, providing her with the time she needed to slip away, abandoning her new friends to their violent deaths.

  As Bridget hurried across the lobby, intent on following Guggenheim’s advice and locking herself in her suite, her late husband’s lover darted, unseen, up the last few stairs. She slipped quietly into a doorway, planning to take advantage of the melee downstairs to finally rid her life of William’s undeserving wife.