by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
While Art spoke with Captain Smith, Seward and Van Helsing stood on the boat deck, watching as more and more people arrived, most of them still clad in their gowns and robes, some of them even wearing lifebelts.
It was thirty after midnight, by John’s watch, when steely faced officers in warm blue coats and caps began uncovering the lifeboats and swinging them out.
A small measure of fear tightly clutching his chest, Van Helsing looked down at a ragged chunk of ice at his foot, regarding it with a sour expression.
The vampire had control over weather, as well as animals, everyone who had even taken a cursory glance at a history of vampires and witches knew. And, unfortunately for Titanic, and unfortunately weather included icebergs.
“John,” Van Helsing said, “this does not look good.”
Seward licked his lips, his chest tight and his stomach sour. “There is still hope, Doctor,” he said, unconvinced even to his own ears.
“Maybe,” Van Helsing muttered.
And maybe not, maybe the ship was going to go down. Van Helsing sadly looked from face to face in the growing crowd behind him; all were jovial and gay; even the nervous ones had lightened up a bit with the approach of good friends. If the ship did founder, Van Helsing knew too well, then the lifeboats, sturdy or not, would only save less than half of the passengers onboard.
Our fault, the realization struck Van Helsing like a ton of bricks. If the Titanic foundered, thus taking lives with it, it would be all his (and Seward’s and Art’s) doing. Had they just left Dracula alone, to do his will in New York …
No, that was unthinkable. While the thought of being a mass murderer, of killing however many people, sickened Van Helsing, if it had to be done to stop Dracula, than it had to be done. Women, men and children dying in the sea, going down with a massive piece of useless metal, was horrible, but so much better than being made into un-dead.
A piece of ice was again at his foot, and Van Helsing stared at it, damning it for being out and about on the sea, within reach of Dracula’s satanic call. This iceberg was just as bad as the man who had stabbed the stoker, and who had tried to throw Art overboard. This piece of ice was a…a…a coconspirator.
With a tiny ball of hot anger in the hollow of his stomach, Van Helsing lashed out and kicked the ice. It instantly crumbled into a thousand little pieces, and slid along the deck in a flurry.
Of course, Dracula had done this. Why was beyond him. Perhaps he hoped to capitalize on the chaos. Or maybe he just wanted to kill as many people as possible out of pure spit.
The bastard.
But, hope was not yet lost. The Titanic may not be sinking, it could float with two or so of its watertight compartments flooded, and that more than one was flooded now was…a possibility, a strong possibility, but merely a possibility nonetheless. Even so, Titanic could surely remain afloat for enough time for a whole flotilla of vessels to arrive and transfer her passengers from danger. With the wondrous Marconi machine on Titanic, hope was not dead until the ship went down.
That was where the problem was. If Titanic went down with no other ships around to quickly rescue and administer to her passengers, there would be a horrible death toll among those who did not escape in a lifeboat; over half. Hypothermia was the main concern. The water was surely below freezing, a human body could not stand such barbaric temperatures for long.
Van Helsing’s stomach turned, and he felt in danger of fainting. All of it, all of this, all of what could happen, his fault.
Van Helsing sighed, and looked down the deck just in time to see Art pushing through the accumulating crowd, which had grown since he last took notice.
“Art,” John greeted, “what did the Captain say?”
From the grave cast of the younger man’s face, Van Helsing knew that the news was dire.
“We have three hours,” Art told them, “at the very most.”
The words hit Van Helsing like a fist to the heart. There had been hope just moments ago, and now even that was gone. The Titanic was sinking.
“Dracula’s too weak to confront us himself,” Art grumbled, “so he did this.”
Van Helsing swallowed. “That may be so, Art; but he wants to see us die personally. To know that Titanic and a good sized portion of its crew have followed him into death is good, enjoyable for him; but I think that he wants to see us squirm and bleed.”
“Of course the son of a bitch does,” Art hissed through clenched teeth. “But he’s got another thing coming. I will happily go down to the sea, if only I can make him squirm and bleed.”
“What is the best course of action?” Seward asked.
“We live to meet Dracula, when and wherever he comes, and we beat him.”
“Amen,” said Art.
As they spoke, the men moved slowly and absently into the smoking room, which was still sedate and tranquil, warm and well-lit. For a moment, drinking it all in, Van Helsing felt a small blossom of doubt. Was the ship really sinking?
Yes, it was.
Sinking gratefully into his chair, a wave of weariness washed over Van Helsing. The others took spots on the adjacent couch; Art lit a cigarette, and passed another to Seward.
“They said that not even God himself could sink this ship,” Van Helsing mused, his eyes closed and his head thrown back, “but it looks as though He is. God would have had to allow this happen, or else it wouldn’t have.”
For a moment, the suddenness of his word-shift left the others without a reply.
“So, God let Dracula sail Titanic into an iceberg?” Art asked skeptically.
“Yes, our God is a jealous God; He said that we were to have no God before Him. And it seems that the men of today are making things such as the electric light and the Titanic their God.”
“God, in a manner of speaking, is mad at us, men, because we basically say that God cannot sink what we make. And…well doesn’t it seem that God Himself is the one allowing our knowledge to progress?”
Van Helsing nodded. “God made the wood, and the metal ultimately melted down, that the Israelis used to build their idols while Moses was on Sinai. There is nothing wrong in making something, but to worship it….”
“But nobody is worshiping Titanic,” Art protested.
“They are not?” Seward turned his head and regarded Art. “They say that God could not sink it, that time and ability has progressed beyond the point of losing liners at sea. They say that we are conquering nature. Concurring God. It is hubris.”
All was quiet for a moment, the only sound the low talking and laughing of the card players. A steward entered from the boat-deck, and stood to one side of the door in case needed.
“Steward,” Art said and raised the fore-and-middle fingers of his right hand. At once the steward was away from the wall and fast-walking across the room.
“Sir?”
“If possible, could you bring me a glass of brandy? It appears that it is going to be a long night.”
“Yes sir,” the steward said meekly and nodded. He disappeared.
“As I was saying,” Van Helsing said, “didn’t I say that Titanic was a symbol of gluttony? Maybe…maybe whatever happens is not our fault. Maybe God moved Dracula to pick this certain ship over others, maybe those here are meant to die, and the Titanic to be lost.”
“So many maybes,” Art said.
Van Helsing was just finishing his pipe, and Seward was just lighting another cigarette when the steward returned.
“The Captain requests that you report to the deck with your lifebelts on, sirs.”
None of them spoke; Van Helsing only nodded, and then sighed again. Once the steward had moved on, he said: “I suppose we better do as he says.”
“What about Dracula?” Art asked, “surely you don’t mean to stand around on deck until he comes out of the shadows, do you?”
“What can we do, Art?” Van Helsing, freezing in the middle of pushing himself up, snapped. �
��The same thing we have been doing for days, walking around hallways and looking under beds. Add to that the evacuation, and it will be impossible.”
Art knew that the old man had a point, but he couldn’t admit it. Standing on deck might be practical, but it was passive, and Art wanted action; he wanted to hunt the rat to his hole and stake him there, now twiddle his thumbs until the twenty-fifth hour.
“I’m not suggesting that we scour the entire ship, Doctor,” Art said as John helped Van Helsing up and they began to walk. “The water will take a few decks out of the equation very shortly, reducing the search area by half.”
“We are on a sinking ship, Art. Not only that, we have the man-in-black to worry about. Waiting before was foolish, but now it is the only way. We pick a spot and stay together. That way, Dracula and his lackey will have less room to play with.”
“Doctor...”
“You said, Art, that we should flush Dracula out. Now...the sea will flush him out. Soon, he will have nowhere to go but into our arms.”
They were on the grand staircase now, descending past a crush of humanity going up to the boat-deck; no one seemed unduly alarmed or frightened, only sleepy and miffed. Many people, like some of those on deck, Art noticed, were wearing heavy coats over their nightwear, wearing their lifebelts in turn over those. A few maids and valets, dressed in their uniforms, followed in tow behind the families they served. Art noticed young Jack Thayer in the crowd, with a young woman on his arm; she seemed in a huff. George Widener escorted his wife up the ornate stairs, he did not seem worried in the least, only angry at having been so rudely awakened.
In the corridor, there was no Dracula or man-in-black, only more people in their pajamas, sometimes two and three abreast. As they passed, Seward heard a few snippets of conversation being passed, and discerned that most of the first-class passengers were under the mistaken impression that the Titanic had only dropped a propeller.
At their staterooms, Art and Seward entered and at once went to their closest for their lifebelts. Van Helsing entered his own room, and switched on the overhead lights. With the aid of his cane, he slowly crossed the room to the closet. He opened the door...
...and something rushed out, striking him like a train and knocking him down; something lean and muscular; something cold and alive and covered with fur.
Dracula.
In the form of a wolf, his eyes yellow, jagged rows of teeth crowding his snarling snout, his hot breathing smelling (and dear God tasting) of sulfur.
Van Helsing screamed, throwing his arms defensively up. The beast snapped but did not bite, poked his left flank with its muzzle, then his right; taunting him, savoring his fear.
Old fool, you stepped into it, old fool, old idiot!
He had made a mistake in opening the closet door. It wasn’t his first mistake, by God, but he took consolation in that it would be his last.
No! Do not give up!
Moving with a speed he didn’t know he possessed, Van Helsing grabbed the monster by its neck. The fire in its eyes momentarily wavered; it was not expecting direct confrontation...not for poor, old, weak, defenseless Van Helsing.
“Dr. Van Helsing!”
Van Helsing turned just as Art kicked the beast in its side, knocking it aside; its rear slammed hard into the wall, dazing it.
Art rushed forward, but the beast ducked past him, crashing woozily into the wash basin and shattering it. Art kicked it again. Sitting up now, Van Helsing watched as John came from his position by the door, his arm extended, a crucifix clutched in his trembling hand. Not seeing him, Dracula frantically tried to escape, but shrank back with a whimper at the majesty of Christ.
Art advanced, his hands balled into fists. The hound turned, and he hit it in the jaw the way one would a man. Angling down, however, upset his balance, and he went to one knee. Seizing the opportunity, Dracula lunged for him, but Art caught him and, rolling, amazingly threw him; yelping, he sailed through the air and came down hard on an end table, breaking it into a million pieces and uttering a hellish shriek.
Van Helsing was on his feet now. He reached into his coat pocket for his own crucifix, but Dracula was back on his feet, his left eye skewered by a sliver of wood; blood dripped onto the carpet.
John came forward again, leaving the door unguarded, poor fool, and Dracula slipped by, turning back to a man as he reached the threshold.
“Get him!” Art roared. He got to his feet and gave chase, yanking the revolver from his coat as he went.
The silence in the cabin was crashing.
Shaking his head and coming alive, Seward went to Van Helsing. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Van Helsing said, shrugging away. Truth be told, his heart was racing and his stomach ached from Dracula’s lupine weight. He moved to one of the wicker chairs and heavily sat.
“Are you sure? I can find the ship’s doctor...”
Van Helsing held up a hand. “I am fine.”
When he had caught his breath, the old man shook his head. “He is weaker than I thought.”