by Ash Hartwell
Bridget climbed the stairs steadily, but with little haste. It was getting late and the pregnancy was beginning to tell on her. She felt tired, her back ached, and her legs felt weak, leaving her to pull herself up each step with the help of the expertly crafted bannister rail. She kept looking behind her, expecting to see one of those ghastly creatures nimbly climbing the stairs in pursuit, but they were too busy feasting on the diners too slow to escape. A young couple broke from the doorway and sprinted across the lobby, the gentleman almost dragging the woman off her feet, such was his urgency to escape. They ran past her without acknowledgment; it had become every man for himself.
Bridget stepped into the plush corridor of A Deck and took a moment to gather herself, hand on the small of her back, deep breaths in through her nose. With startling realization, she remembered William’s body still lay on the bed in her suite’s bedchamber. But what if he was no longer dead? What if he were one of those undead demons from Hell, waiting for her return? She stood in the corridor looking first one way, then the other, suddenly feeling very alone and frightened, unsure of what to do.
A movement to her left caught her eye but before she could react, strong feminine hands pushed her backward towards the bannister and the long drop beyond. She fought back frantically, but her attacker, with the element of surprise, had already gained the ascendancy. The bannister pushed against the small of her back and she began to rock backward, her head swinging out over the deadly void, one hand clutching at the bannister the other raking her assailant’s face and hair desperately trying to fend them off.
Bridget smelt familiar perfume, her perfume; the flowery scent of opium, a smell she now realized had long lingered about William. She twisted her fingers into the woman’s hair, pulling it free from the pins holding it in place under the wide-brimmed hat, and yanked hard unveiling Violet’s face.
“William’s mine, you stuck up cow!” Violet’s words came out as a high-pitched screech as Bridget frantically clung to her hair to stop herself toppling to her death.
“Too fucking late, you bitch. He’s already dead!” Bridget spat in her adversary’s face, a final defiant gesture as she rocked backward uncontrollably, her feet lifting from the floor as her own body weight began to tip her over the rail.
Violet screamed, her face just inches from Bridget’s. It was not the ecstatic cry of victory as her nemesis fell to her death, but a cry of shock and pain as Esme’s teeth clamped down on her unprotected throat. Esme’s incisors ripped a large hole, tearing through the vital veins and arteries of the young woman’s neck. Blood sprayed through Violet’s fingers as she frantically tried to stem the flow, her attempts to push her lover’s wife to her death forgotten.
Bridget felt a firm hand pull her back from the brink of death and found herself staring into Esme’s lifeless eyes. Her face had become pale, almost gangrenous, and the fire that once burned so bright in her eyes was gone, replaced by a vacant stare. The telltale black web-like rash had spread across her face; it grew from dark trunks at her neck and gave her bloodstained lips a deep purple tinge. Her expression was one of sadness as she stood before her still living friend, one hand still holding Violet’s body which twitched sporadically as her life slowly ebbed away through her trembling fingers.
The fear held Bridget motionless. These abominations were tearing people apart to gorge on their innards in the saloon below, and Esme herself, if she could still be called by a Christian name, had so nonchalantly and brutally dispatched Violet. Bridget believed she was next. That this foul ghoul with the lifeless features of the once vibrant chambermaid would, at any moment, slay her like a deer before feasting on her young succulent flesh.
Esme reached towards Bridget’s face. The American heiress closed her eyes, mumbling The Lord’s Prayer through quivering lips, the smell of death and decay overpowering her senses as icy fingers caressed her cheek. Helpless, sheer terror gripping her heart and twisting her stomach, Bridget waited for the end. Praying it would be quick and final, she didn’t want to become one of them!
Then the fingers fell away from her face. She flinched, unsure what to expect. The harsh sound of material ripping briefly filled the air. Bridget cautiously opened her eyes to see Esme sink her teeth into Violet’s exposed breast, pulling the soft, milky white skin apart to leave a deep gash from which she continued to feed.
Realizing some flicker of humanity within the living carcass now devouring her husband’s lover still recognized their friendship enough to not only spare, but actually save her life, Bridget gingerly edged away. She hurried down the corridor away from the screams of terror and death reverberating up the staircase and away from the sickening sound of Esme gnawing and slurping on her kill.
Rounding the corner, Bridget took a final look back and whispered a silent ‘thank you’ to her loyal friend as Esme pulled Violet’s intestines from her open abdomen like a magician pulling knotted scarves from a top hat.
Fifty
Captain Smith was about to lead Callahan and Moody, who had reluctantly abandoned his tea, down towards steerage in search of the undead hoards that killed the master-at-arms, and the other members of the search party, when the undead hoards came searching for them. The infected corpses that already swarmed the lower decks had climbed into the first and second class dining saloons before the three men even made it to the stairwell.
But Captain Smith had seen enough to know the lives of everyone aboard his ship were in grave danger. “Moody, take Callahan and close as many bulkhead doors as you can. It may buy us some time. Then get up on deck.” He paused, unwilling to articulate the inconceivable, before finally adding with a weary sigh, “It may become necessary to abandon ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Moody hurried away with Callahan beside him as the captain turned and headed for the bridge.
Once out of the Captain’s earshot, it was Callahan who voiced concerns at the plan. “There is little we can do to slow them now, they’ve already broken through to D Deck and there are no bulkheads above the waterline that we can close. Those creatures will have free roam about the upper decks. Our only chance is to get everyone to the upper deck and defend the lifeboats.”
Officer Moody assessed the situation. Callahan was right. With the gates separating steerage from the upper decks already breached, there was little that could be done.
“Let’s close all doors leading to access to the lower decks. At least it will force them to come up via the dining saloons and the grand staircase, creating a funnel. Maybe it will slow them down?”
Callahan sensed the question was rhetorical but felt the need to mumble an unconvincing, “Maybe.” He knew, as well as Officer Moody, the situation was hopeless. There were too many people huddled in steerage for the infection not to have spread, and with more either becoming infected or dying every minute, the odds were heavily in the pitiful creatures’ favour. He looked Officer Moody in the eye and could see the unspoken fear. They were both young men with their whole lives ahead of them, yet deep down, they knew those lives would only number a few more hours.
“Sir. If I, you know, turn into one of those ... things. Will you end my misery?”
“I trust you’ll do the same for me,” replied Moody. It was a statement of fact, not a question. They briefly shook hands, each secretly drawing strength from their comradeship. They were entrusting each other with something far more important than their lives—they were entrusting each other with their deaths.
The two men hurried to complete their task, closing the two doors that gave access for the catering staff to the crew quarter’s three decks below. As they moved down the passageway towards the larger passenger doors, they were confronted by a small group of the infected feeding on a lifeless body in what remained of an evening suit. Moody signalled to Callahan for them to retrace their steps and try the next passage. That too was blocked, although the infected souls were not lucky enough to have found food and the sight of fresh meat had them scurrying after the two crew
men with surprising agility.
“I think,” said Moody as they scrambled back the way they’d come, “we can safely assume this deck lost and delaying will only lead us into trouble.”
“I wholeheartedly agree with your assessment of the situation, Mr. Moody.” Callahan was hot on his superior’s heels as they headed towards the second class area of the ship. “We can access the boat deck from the rear deck just for’ard of the rear mast.”
The American’s breath was coming in short gasps as they sprinted past the second class dining saloon, his voice raised to make himself heard above the clamour coming from within.
Crashing through a set of swing doors, the two men barrelled into a shuffling corpse, knocking it from its feet. The ensuing tangle of limbs brought Callahan tumbling to his knees. He powered on, pushing himself forward using his momentum to stay clear of the creatures grappling hands and gaping maw, as Moody hauled him unceremoniously to his feet by his collar.
“Keep fuckin’ moving!” yelled Moody.
Able seaman Callahan, never one to disobey orders, kept fuckin’ moving; staggering upright, he followed the sixth officer towards the outer door and fresh air. They hadn’t noticed it until then, but the air inside the ship’s mid-decks had turned stale, rancid even. The odour of decay filled their nostrils with each breath they took and the taste of death lined their throats with every laboured gasp.
Fifty-one
As he strode authoritatively onto the bridge, Captain Smith was also aware of the prevailing stench of death. He pulled the door shut behind him, trying to block it out, but it clung to every fibre of his smartly pressed uniform and lingered in the air around him.
“Mr. Murdoch,” he addressed the officer on watch. “As you’re aware, we have a medical crisis on board that has already claimed the lives of many of the ship’s compliment and a far larger number of passengers.”
“Aye, sir,” Murdoch’s expression remained professionally impassive.
“I’m of the opinion this plague should not reach New York. I have, therefore, ordered Mr. Moody to secure the boat deck for the eventual evacuation of survivors.” He moved to the window and stared out into the darkness, lost, for a moment, in thoughts of the retirement he would never get to enjoy with his precious Eleanor.
“Sir?” Murdoch moved to stand at the captain’s elbow, “Am I to understand you propose to abandon ship in the hope of isolating the infected on board?”
“No, William.” Smith spoke quietly, preferring to address his friend informally, the weight of his decision lying heavy on his heart. “I propose to sink this unsinkable vessel to prevent this plague ever rearing its ugly head again. To simply abandon her would inevitably lead to rescue ships or salvage vessels becoming infected, leading to more unnecessary deaths and the plague’s onward transmission. I cannot be responsible for that.”
After a few moments contemplating the captain’s words, Murdoch turned away.
“Please set a course forty degrees starboard.”
“Forty degrees. Starboard. Aye, aye, sir.” The order relayed without question and a moment later the huge vessel gradually began to swing north, heading into the northern route’s treacherous ice flows.
“Speed twenty-two knots.”
“Speed twenty-two knots,” confirmed the helmsman.
Captain Smith inspected his pocket watch. The hands ticked towards 11:20. With a weak smile, he addressed the first officer. “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. I shall be in my cabin.”
His voice trailed off as if he were going to say more, but thought better of it. After a brief moment, where the two experienced sailors looked at each other with knowing looks, he strode confidently from the bridge.
Once in his cabin, Captain Smith removed his officer’s peaked cap and sat with his head in his hands. This was not how he envisioned his glorious career ending: sinking his own ship and sending hundreds of innocent people to their deaths at the bottom of the unforgiving ocean, but that’s what it had come to. His only hope was some people would survive and history would show his actions, and those of his crew, to be just. He didn’t want to be a hero, but he could not bear the thought of Eleanor and the family believing he made a fatal mistake, or worse, went insane and tried to murder everyone on board.
At 11:35 Captain Edward John Smith wrote a brief note in his personal journal before making a detailed report of his orders to Mr. Murdoch. He was just adding his initials when the vessel swung hard to starboard. Several quiet seconds passed then the largest ship ever to set sail began juddering; a strange and distant groaning sound accompanied the tremors as they passed through the massive steel hull. This lasted all of ten seconds, but to those who knew what it meant, it felt like a lifetime. When it finally stopped, it left a chilling silence in its wake that would haunt the survivors in the darkest hours of the night for the rest of their lives.
Fifty-two
Frederick Ives, shovelling coal in boiler room six, heard the creaking groan as the massive wall of ice scraped the length of the Titanic’s side. The massive rivets holding the hull plates together popped like champagne corks as the sheer pressure of the ice buckled the metal. He looked up in time to see the double skinned wall above his head ripped asunder. He didn’t even have time to flinch as the mighty wall of water cascaded in. It plucked him from his feet and carried him tumbling and somersaulting in its icy wave, until barely a second later it slammed him mercilessly into a bulkhead, the force of the water crushing the life from his broken body in an instant.
Frederick was the first victim of the ship’s collision with the iceberg, but the rest of the crew working in boiler room six swiftly joined him. Those who survived the initial surge of water did not have time to escape through one of the bulkhead doors such was the force of the water and the speed at which the room flooded.
Death savagely squashed Frederick’s soul from his body before the young stoker even understood his time was up. Others were not so lucky. Harry Blackman, working on the far side of the room, was denied a quick and painless death. Instead, he suffered the horrifying experience of drowning. He frantically fought against the tumultuous torrents of churning seawater, only to find the doors to the adjoining compartments shut. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he inhaled. Water rushed into his lungs, its coldness shocking his respiratory system, causing him to choke. He frantically clawed at the darkness knowing death was just a heartbeat away. Panicked spasms racked Harry’s body until finally, his suffering was over, his lifeless body floating silently in the darkness, suspended for eternity in an icy tomb.
Back on the bridge, unaware of the damage caused below the waterline, Murdoch issued well-drilled orders. “Full stop. Close bulkhead doors!” Then after a brief hesitation added, “Belay that. Bulkhead doors to remain open.”
He repeated the order for the benefit of the helmsman. If they were to sink the unsinkable Titanic they would need to allow the seawater free access to as many compartments as it could flood. He offered up a silent prayer for the men down in engineering who would drown as a result of his order. It was an order he would have to live with for the rest of his mercifully short life. He thought it fitting he would be joining those brave men before the night was out.
As he prayed, Murdoch watched as the massive wall of ice, towering a hundred feet from the water, continued to slide slowly, almost majestically past the ship. Large chunks of ice, dislodged by the collision, rained down on the ship’s deck and crashed into the ship’s superstructure like massive cannonballs.
“Report please, Mr. Murdoch?” Captain Smith’s commanding figure arrived on the bridge.
“We struck an iceberg, starboard side. Engines stopped. Bulkhead doors remaining open, sir,” Murdoch replied without the slightest hint of alarm in his voice.
“Damage?” Smith asked, staring through the windows at the bows, expecting to see the damage for himself, but darkness enveloped the forward half of the vessel.
“Unknown at present, sir. Suggest we sound the
ship.” Murdoch’s thoughts immediately turned to assembling an inspection party to ascertain the damage caused to the hull by the collision, but the captain’s reply stopped him.
“No, Mr. Murdoch, that won’t be necessary. We’ve lost too many good men to this damned plague to send any more to their deaths. Let’s concentrate on assembling the survivors on deck and launching the lifeboats. With luck, she will sink before the night is out.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Murdoch picked up the phone connecting him to the helm. “Steady as she goes, quartermaster. Preparing to launch lifeboats.”
He listened for the reply then replaced the receiver with slow deliberation. As an officer, he knew his responsibilities were to the passengers; the old and chivalrous adage of women and children first would mean there would be no place in the lifeboats for him. Stoically, he accepted the simple truth that he had undoubtedly seen his last sunrise.
Fifty-three
In the melee and confusion of the dining saloon, where hungry, infected immigrants and the overfed, unsullied elite fought one another for survival, they barely noticed the collision. The clean, metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with the rotting stench of death and decay to produce a piquancy that chafed the throat and turned the stomach of those lucky enough to still feel repulsed by such things. Many had succumbed to the hoard, some dying in a pool of their own blood, either physically unable or not quick-witted enough to escape. Some stayed their ground, believing their social standing alone would be enough to secure their safety: that these rabid animals, driven insane by bloodlust, would listen to reason if delivered in a courteous but firm tone.
Benjamin Guggenheim was under no such illusion. He and a few other gentlemen who shared his noble, humanitarian attitude were taking the fight to the diseased, intending to establish safe passage for as many ladies as could be rescued. Guggenheim himself was in the centre of the fray, brandishing a bottle of VSOP Cognac, the contents of which he drank straight from the bottle as he punched and kicked his way across the room. Their positive approach had taken the infected by surprise, although significantly outnumbered, they had already furnished aid to several damsels in distress and incapacitated, at least for a short while, several of the inhuman beings.