by Ash Hartwell
Guggenheim struck one of the creatures so violently about the head with a broken chair leg he heard the skull break away from the neck. The creature’s decayed flesh sheared away as the head, teeth bared in expectation, bounced across a nearby table. Guggenheim put his foot in the bloody remains of the poor soul’s dinner and looked down to see the charlatan, Lord Bernard’s death-mask face looking up, wide-eyed and leering. His pale hand still clasped Katherine Black’s hand to his empty chest cavity, their fingers entwined; her arm severed at the elbow, her disembowelled body lay a few yards away. A young boy of about eight scavenged her remains for any morsel of meat overlooked by those who’d torn the rich widow apart. With a tear in his eye, the impeccably dressed American took a few steps, taking care not to slip in Bernard’s remains, and swung the chair leg like a major league hitter, dispatching the child to a more peaceful death than he had so far experienced.
As the terrified diners fought for their lives against increasingly overwhelming odds, three members of the string quartet continued to play a selection of hymns while the fourth, the cellist, slumped in his seat. A well-known American vaudeville singer, her long dress hiked up past her knees, sat astride his legs ripping the flesh from his face with her teeth. A plump, middle-aged woman screamed hysterically as she witnessed the once attractive soprano stuff one of the cellist’s eyeballs into her mouth. Thick, clear fluid ran down her chin as the eyeball burst open with a popping crunch.
The plump woman stopped screaming and just stared at the ceiling vacantly as Esme, fresh from slaying Violet, broke her neck with one violent twist. She let the plump corpse fall to the floor among the abandoned handbags, gentlemen’s scarves, and body parts now littering the expensive Axminster carpet, before she began to feed on the more choice cuts of meat. It took her a few moments to tear through the subcutaneous fat and locate the oversized liver, but the exquisite taste of the fatty organ made it all worthwhile.
The darkly lined and mottled corpse that, until a few hours ago, had been the bright and engaging maid, Esme Jackson, took her fill of the open platter of warm meat on offer. The vile, blood-soaked monster hunched over the dead woman’s ample remains no longer bore any resemblance to the vivacious young woman who had turned many a young man’s head as she pulled pints in the Belvedere Arms. All traces of her humanity were consumed by the plague that relentlessly ate away at her rotting flesh. When the food supply ran out, she would no longer be able to replenish what it consumed, and she too would die. Although for Esme, and those like her, death would come as a blessed relief.
But she had one more score to settle. A score felt so deep it left a mark on her soul, a mark that only Miss Wilson could expunge. Leaving the empty carcass for the scavengers, Esme staggered to her feet and headed purposefully towards Miss Wilson’s office.
Pandora, her head tilted to one side, watched Esme weave her way through the pandemonium of the saloon from her vantage point on top of the grand piano. Having sniffed the air, searching for signs of danger, she joined the other scavengers stripping the rich, fatty meat from the bones of Esme’s kill.
Fifty-four
A small group of passengers cowered in the lifeboat nearest to Moody. They were shouting at him and the few other crew members he had assembled on the boat deck, pleading with them to lower the boat into the still, dark water below. A few of the infected had already broken out onto the promenade, lured by the scent of fresh meat, and were steadily making their way towards his inadequate band of defenders gathered around the lifeboat’s davit.
“There’s only a few of them. Don’t panic and make your shots count.”
Moody was thankful for the revolvers issued, at the captain’s orders, from the safe in the master-at-arms’ office. Not that the order had come in time to save him or the rest of his search party, but it gave the surviving crewmen a fighting chance of defending the boat deck long enough for help to arrive.
A fresh-faced able seaman in front of him raised his weapon. With shaking hands, he pointed it in the general direction of the nearest plague-carrier, a tall, lanky woman with what looked like a bundle of rags clutched to her chest. He paused, staring at the advancing woman with pain and indecision in his eyes; he had not come to sea to shoot women, even if they were already dead.
“For God’s sake, shoot her, boy!” The shout came from one of the passengers huddled behind the defensive semi-circle formed by the crew.
“I ... I can’t. It ain’t right to go shooting people.” The able seaman’s voice was breaking under the strain as two large tears raced down his smooth cheeks. The woman with the bundle was only a few yards away, her eyes just dark, lifeless voids below her high forehead. The foul reek of death surrounded her like an invisible shroud.
“Move aside!” Callahan stepped up next to him, his arm extended towards the approaching corpse. A loud gunshot filled the air, and the creature toppled over backwards, a large hole in the back of its head. A cloud of white smoke hung in the air, and for a while, the distinct smell of cordite proved a pleasant alternative to the smell of rotting decay that had become so prevalent in such a short period of time.
The bundle the dead woman carried rolled free from her grasp as her body slumped to the deck, the rags unravelling enough to reveal the mangled remains of a baby. The woman, or someone else, had already taken several large bites out of the tiny body and ripped one arm out of the shoulder socket like they were pulling a succulent drumstick from the Sunday roast.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” muttered Callahan as he looked down at the child’s remains. The young able seaman gagged violently and rushed to the ship’s side, barely reaching it before his stomach turned inside out, hurling its contents into the sea below. Several women in the lifeboat, able to see what had just occurred, started screaming, their delicate dispositions already frayed far beyond the norm.
“I say, this is most distressing.” The well-spoken male voice came from the lifeboat. “I order you to lower this lifeboat this instant. I have some important friends at White Star, and I can assure you I’ll see to it you never work for them again.”
Moody looked at the man with contempt. “I do not expect to live beyond tonight. If the undead don’t take me, the sea will. So, you see, I’m not worried by your pompous threats. He lifted his revolver, pointing it at the man huddled among the women in the lifeboat. “Now if you’d be so good to vacate your seat and make room for a lady, I would be most appreciative.”
The man huddled lower in his seat, the bravado of a moment ago, gone. He stared back at the gun in Moody’s hand, his eyes wide with fear. Moody didn’t know if the man was more scared of the gun or the thought of staying on board the ship with the insane victims of a plague that rots the flesh from your bones as you walk. And, truth be told, he didn’t much care. His instructions were to secure the lifeboats; women and children first.
Officer Moody pulled the hammer back with his thumb and hoped he looked like he knew what he was doing. He had never even fired a gun before and certainly never pointed one at someone in anger.
“Don’t make me repeat my request, sir.” The last word stuck painfully in his craw but his hand remained steady, the barrel pointing at the petrified man’s exposed head.
“If I give up my seat in this boat then I’m agreeing to die, you pretty much said so yourself.” The man’s gaze flicked nervously between the revolver’s cold steal and Moody’s steely cold eyes.
“And if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.” Moody’s calm tone belied his anguish. Inside, the responsibility of his decision wracked him with guilt, but he stood resolutely behind it. “Not much of a choice I’m afraid, but that’s where we are.”
Another shot roared from Callahan’s weapon, the sound reverberating in the cold night air, the smoke drifting down the promenade like a ghostly apparition. A few yards away another passenger, his darkly lined skin peeling away from his face exposing a subcutaneous maze of muscles and tendons, dropped to the floor; a clean circular hole in the centre of h
is wide forehead.
“Just shoot the motherfucker in his smug face and have done with it.”
Callahan expertly flicked open the chamber of his revolver and inserted two bullets he fished from the pocket of his massive overcoat. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Callahan clicked the drum back into place, quickly scanning the promenade for nearby threats. He only lowered the gun when he was satisfied their position was, for the time being at least, secure.
“One last chance before I let my impatient friend here shoot you in the leg and leave you at the mercy of those creatures.” Moody nodded towards a small group of the infected lurking around an open doorway close to their position. “I’m sure you would prefer to take your chances on your own terms?”
After a few moments of indecision, the man stood up and began to climb unsteadily from the lifeboat. A woman Moody assumed to be his wife began crying hysterically, her thin hands clutching at his leg, preventing him from leaving. He kissed her on the cheek then firmly pushed her away, deliberately not making eye contact as he swung his leg over the gunwale and jumped down onto the Titanic’s slippery deck.
“I’m entrusting my wife’s safety to your hands. Please see that she gets off this cursed ship before anything evil can befall her.” Without a second glance, he set off up the promenade in the opposite direction to the group of infected passengers. “I think,” he shouted in a proud, strong voice, “I might like a drink and perhaps a fine cigar.” With that, he disappeared into the gloom, leaving his wife crying uncontrollably on the shoulder of the stout mature woman squashed into the seat next to her who, in turn, valiantly tried to console her.
Moody turned to the ashen-faced able seaman who still clung to the railing, the front of his company issue overcoat splattered with his own vomit. “You are no bloody use to me here. Go to the bridge and inform the captain we have secured the lifeboats, but we won’t be able to hold them for long. Take your revolver and bloody use it, on yourself, if you have to. Now hurry!” He watched as the frightened young man scampered away like an errand boy with a bright new penny.
“Good luck lad,” he muttered under his breath before turning his attention to the white tunic emerging from the darkness. A steward jostled a small gaggle of women towards the protective cordon as Callahan watched them suspiciously, revolver at the ready.
“Good evening, sir,” he said in a soft Scottish accent, addressing Moody. “Mr. Guggenheim directed me to escort these ladies to the lifeboats as the saloon, and indeed much of the ship, is no longer a safe refuge.”
“Well done.” Moody couldn’t remember the steward’s name so he quickly added, “Will there be more joining us?”
“Mr. Guggenheim and some of the men are holding those ...” He paused, searching for the right word but evidently didn’t find it, “things at bay; although, I doubt they will be able to hold out much longer, they have already suffered several losses.” He delivered this news in the same measured tone he informed diners of the choice of soup of the day.
“They are protecting several ladies whom I shall return with shortly, God willing.” Having safely delivered his charges into Moody’s protection, he turned on his heel and walked briskly back in the direction from which he had come, leaving Moody and his men to help the new arrivals into the nearest lifeboat.
Fifty-five
Bridget felt numb. She cried when she first returned to the suite, but now there were no more tears to shed. Esme, or what remained of her, had undoubtedly saved her life earlier that evening, and not for the first time. Bridget couldn’t help but wonder what would have become of her had not the beautiful young chambermaid, with a stubborn attitude and a dubious past, extended her the hand of friendship. What if she had not recognized a kindred spirit, separated only by their social position?
William’s body still sprawled across the bed in the other room. It was the first thing she had done on her return, checked to make sure the bastard had stayed dead. She had prodded him several times, the last one in his left ear, with the pointed end of her parasol. She understood over the last few hours the dead had, quite literally, developed a habit of coming back to bite you. Dead or alive, or somewhere in between, she wasn’t going to allow William to wreak his revenge on her, especially if it meant spending her final hours dining on human offal.
Then she had broken down and cried. She cried tears of fear for herself and her unborn child. She shed tears in grief for her dead friend Esme and finally, tears of relief when she comprehended that in all the slaughter and carnage on the ship, the unfortunate death of her husband would, like as not, go unpunished.
After her tears were spent, she went numb. She felt drained and emotionally exhausted.
Bridget sat staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. Lost in the frailty of her own existence, unaware of the dangers she still had to face if she were to escape with her life. The ship, fatally holed below the waterline, had begun sinking bows first into the freezing waters of the North Atlantic, the angle of the deck steadily increasing as more and more water flooded into the ship’s forward compartments.
An intense banging on her cabin door roused her from her stupor. Fear gripped her heart, constricting her chest. She quickly searched for something to defend herself with but could only find her flimsy parasol. By then the banging had stopped. Bridget, parasol poised, approached the door. A sudden and loud knock forced her heart up into her mouth.
“Sir, madame. Please vacate your suite and make your way to the boat deck. Captain’s orders.” The voice was firm and friendly. Cautiously, Bridget opened the door, parasol pointing menacingly at the steward standing in the hallway outside. “I’m ordered to tell you that, for your own safety, you are to come with me to the boat deck.”
“Are we sinking?” Bridget surprised even herself with her matter-of-fact tone.
“I’m not sure, madame. My orders are simply to escort passengers to the lifeboats where other crew members will be there to help you.” He looked uneasy as he spoke, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“I’ll get my overcoat and be right out.” Bridget closed the door as the steward moved down the corridor knocking on the other doors. When she returned, a small crowd had gathered a few doors away and were loudly discussing the evening’s events. The ship listing to starboard and sat bow down in the water, the general consensus among the group was that the great unsinkable Titanic was, in fact, sinking. Many were also voicing their concerns about the hordes of flesh eating monsters roaming the ship in search of food. News of the hordes’ arrival in the dining saloons and other parts of the ship had obviously spread rapidly, several reported hearing gunshots. With all this occurring at once people were understandably beginning to panic, and Bridget Grafton wasn’t immune to the feeling of unease rippling through the small crowd.
The steward rushed towards them, a couple of elderly ladies, struggling to keep up with his pace, trailed in his wake. “Is that everyone from your cabin, Mrs. Grafton?”
“Yes, Captain Grafton joined Mr. Guggenheim for after dinner drinks and has not yet returned.” The lie rolled comfortably off her tongue, a few of the other passengers looked at her awkwardly, wondering whether she was aware of the hordes rampaging through the saloon, killing everyone in their path. Bridget struggled to remain impassive as if unaware of the dangers facing her husband while her insides knotted up with guilt and fear.
The steward looked nervously at the other passengers for a few seconds, debating, no doubt, on whether to tell her of the evening’s events. Then, obviously thinking better of it, began hurriedly directing the group towards the stairway taking them up and finally out onto the upper deck.
Bridget gave a soft, relieved sigh and smiled pleasantly at the two old ladies, offering the most infirm looking one her arm for support. Without looking back, she followed her companions towards what she hoped would be safety, leaving her dead husband’s body to either be tragically lost in the ship’s wreck or, less tragically, eaten by the rotting corpse of a work
ing class immigrant. An ironically fitting end, she thought, for such an arrogant, bullying snob.
Fifty-six
Esme stared down at the torn and broken body of Miss Wilson with cold, lifeless eyes. The woman who had made the last few days of Esme’s life a living hell had hidden in her office just off the main pantry. She had pleaded for her life, grovelling in much the same way she had made so many young women grovel for their jobs throughout her years as a head housekeeper for the White Star Line.
Her death had not been quick, Esme made sure of it. Miss Wilson died a slow and painful death as the chambermaid she had so despised in life broke bone after brittle bone in her aging body until she passed out from a combination of pain and blood loss. After that, Esme dragged the old woman’s unconscious body from the safe confines of the office by her straggly, grey hair, before tossing her into a frenzied crowd of the hungry Hell hoard. She watched as they tore the thin, misshapen limbs from the Old Dragon’s frail torso, finally sending her to the death she so richly deserved.
Then, driven by the instinct to feed, Esme followed the scent of warm blood, her senses picking up the rhythmic beat of life as she moved through the pantry and up the stairs towards the first class suites and the boat deck beyond.