by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER FOUR
That night the men once again joined Captain Smith and J. Bruce Ismay for dinner; tonight they were accompanied by Thomas Andrews, Harland and Wolff shipbuilder; the man behind the Titanic.
He was a rather large man with brown hair and an open face, dark eyes and a tight mouth.
“A fine ship you have built,” Van Helsing gushed when he was introduced to Andrews. The two men shook hands, a sly smile on Andrews’ face, and a soft light dancing in his eyes. “Do you really think so?”
“The best I have seen in all my years,” Van Helsing declared as he eased himself down into his chair, with the ever constant, though protective, specters of Lord Godalming and John Seward behind him.
“Thank you, Doctor; I believe that I am free to say that I take a certain pride in the Titanic. But I feel that it could be better.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” Ismay said from beside Smith. “The Titanic is far and away the greatest liner ever to sail, and without your unparalleled genius in their camp, our competition will never rival us.”
Andrews blushed. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, “but things, especially great things, can always be better.”
“Mr. Andrews is a bit obsessive,” Ismay said in the general direction of the three men. “A perfectionist, he’ll most likely fret over Titanic until the day he dies, ‘this could be better,’ ‘there should be more of this,’ ‘that could have been bigger’.”
After taking a long sip of wine, Ismay announced, “I wouldn’t take a hundred men in his stead.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ismay, but you flatter me.”
“No, it is true. Just look at this ship. I drew the original outline on a dinner napkin, and look what Thomas has done. This ship is far beyond my wildest expectations.”
Van Helsing nodded, “You have outdone the best, Mr. Andrews, you should be proud.”
Lord Godalming echoed this sentiment, and then checked the menu, for his stomach was growling very un-gentlemanly. Veal. Probably the best veal known to man.
“I have already planned some renovations to be made as soon as…”
Ismay groaned, “Oh, what have you got in mind, how are you going to better perfection?”
“I was thinking of converting the first-class ladies reading and writing room into more staterooms.”
After a moment of silent contemplation, Ismay responded, “I don’t think that that would make her any better, but you go on and do what you wish. The ship is fine as it is, right?”
The entire table adamantly agreed.
“Titanic is a pleasure to pilot,” Smith, hitherto quiet, said, “and many of the passengers have come to me with nothing but praise for her. You have a hit on your hands, Mr. Andrews, there’s no need to carve her up.”
“Perhaps,” Andrews said thoughtfully, and took a drink of his wine.
“Where will the ladies read and write if you take their room away?” Lord Godalming asked with a slight smile.
“They can use their staterooms,” Van Helsing said, “one does not need an entire room to read or write.”
“Indeed,” remarked Ismay.
Captain Smith nodded.
“You may have an idea there, Mr. Andrews,” Dr. Seward said, “if Titanic can accommodate more passengers, she will make even more of a profit.”
“True,” Ismay considered, “I’ll have to think on my own feelings. But, Thomas, you do what you will.”
Shortly, dinner was served, the soft sounds of the band playing drifted though the long, packed dinning saloon.
In the middle of the meal, Art’s two glasses of wine made know their desire to leave him.
He tried to hold himself until after dinner had been completed, but sloshing liquid lashed his groin, threatening to force its way out. He had had this problem for well of five years, but he kept it to himself. Sometimes, he would wake up twice or thrice a night to relive himself, and taking more than a few sips any drink at a time, especially wine, was practically begging for an accident.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Art said as he stood stiffly, afraid that this would be the day, that this time he would urinate all over himself. He’d had nightmares in which he wet himself at one crowded social function or another.
It seemed to him that he had a lot of nightmares these days.
“Of course,” said Smith. Ismay was currently in middle of taking a drink, so he merely nodded, the wind sloshing back in forth in his glass like…
Art made a concerted effort not to run through the dinning saloon, past tables packed with smiling and laughing members of high society. He desperately hoped that someone that he personally knew, like Caledon Hockley or Benjamin Guggenheim, would not see him and wish to converse.
Once in the long, well lighted corridor, Art picked up his pace, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that no one saw his strange behavior. He passed nobody as he headed to his stateroom, for they were all at dinner. He rounded a corner and…
…stopped, his heart dropping, only to shoot back up into his throat. The beast Dracula, clad in an overcoat and a top hat, smoked glasses and white gloves, leaning on a wooden cane, stood outside of his stateroom door. His chilly, graveyard smile radiated hatred, and the two needle point incisors hanging down over his pale lower lip gave testament to Dracula’s evil un-dead state.
The pinching need to urinate temporarily forgotten, cold profound hatred, repulsion and anger tempest tossing his entire being, Art growled over unconsciously bared teeth, “You,” his voice dripping with contempt.
Dracula opened his hellish mouth entirely, and Lucy Westenra’s voice issued forth: “Art, Art, is that you? Oh, Art, help me! I’m burning in Hell, I’m melting, I’m scared, I’m a fucking whore!”
For a moment, Dracula and the scene around him wavered as if it were nothing but heat shimmering from desert hardpan. His body began to fade away, and the body of Lucy, in what may have been a long white nightgown, began to form.
He’s doing something to your mind, Art told himself as he closed his eyes against the horror and covered them with his hand. He let out a shaky sigh.
“Art, come to me, Art, come fuck me, Art, stick it in my tight ass-hole…”
“Shut up!” Art roared lion-like, filling the hall with black sound. “You’re not Lucy,” he said, this in a childish voice, “not Lucy.”
“I am, Art, and I’m burning down here, burning down here for you!”
Face red, stomach in knots of fear and hatred, heart slamming against his ribcage, Art let out a bellowing howl and rushed Dracula, who in turn began his own sprint down the hall, back hunched, mouth open, cane discarded on the floor. The two met in mid-stride, the beast slammed into Art’s chest like a locomotive, knocking the wind from his lungs. Before he could resist, Dracula’s iron hands were clutching his arms like a vise grip, his eyes blazing hellishly.
Dracula removed one hand from Art’s arm, and grabbed his throat. He lifted Art off of his feet and slammed him against the wall. Art balled his fist and struck Dracula in the nose twice in rapid succession; it was like hitting granite.
“Bastard,” Art rasped, and drove his dangling right leg into Dracula’s groin over and over, but the monster only smiled and tightened his grip on Art’s neck, squeezing the remaining air from his lungs.
Art managed to work up a nice sized wad of spit, which splattered Dracula’s broad forehead and his tiny smoked glasses. A silvery tread slipped down the bridge of Dracula’s nose, and dripped onto the front of his topcoat. He didn’t seem to notice.
In a final, petty act of defiance, Art knocked the hat from Dracula’s head. The beast went on smiling.
The world was graying before him, a fuzzy darkness was encroaching on the edges of his vision. Was this how he was to die? Murdered by a fiend from the darkest reaches of night? If it was to be so, then fine, he would take his death like a man. But he did not want to die feeling the intense rage and murderous hatred that he now felt.
>
“Say! I say, put that man down!” a man’s voice, filled with outrage, called from down the corridor.
The fire in Dracula’s eyes flickered, and his broad shark’s smile fell a bit. He glanced to his right, toward the voice, and then back at Art.
Art was surprised to see something like fear in his eyes.
With a sneer, the vampire flung him to the ground and fled.