by Joseph Rubas
***
Another identical corridor brought him to another stairwell, and that in turn gave out on another long corridor, this one nowhere near as nice as the one that he had previously passed. Art was startled to see a steward standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. He saw Art but made no motion to wave, or to yell, but only stood there regarding him with indifference. Art started toward the man, and became aware of the multitude of angry voices, stammering over one another, coming from up around the corner, which the steward seemed to guard.
As Art came closer, some of the words being spoken presented themselves, but many of them were so slurred by accent that he was unable to fully understand them.
When Art reached the corner, standing almost close enough to the steward to kiss him, he beheld the cause of the commotion; to the right was a gangway, which had been closed off with brass fencing, putting one in mind of bars from a prison or an insane asylum. Behind this was a crush of panicked humanity.
When the poor souls saw Art, perhaps mistaking him as an officer, many of them reached their arms through the bars imploringly, howling to be released. From their dress, Art surmised that these were third-classers. Among them were many woman and children; one woman at the head of the crowd was even clutching a small infant to her breast. A few small children were also at the vanguard of the desperate army, holding onto the bars and crying hysterically, out of utter fear, most likely. A few words were decipherable from the din. One that stood out most clearly, from the voice of a young girl (or maybe a young boy) was “water”. A surly Irish man with a tangle of red hair atop his head and one beefy arm shoved through the gate, looking for all the world like a damned soul on the outside of heaven, wailing and gnashing his teeth, managed to silence his friends and family with a deep bellow. When the noise had gone down he spoke:
“Sir, sir, you have to help us, this monster locked us down here and the water’s comin’ fast. I got a wife and daughter; there are babies for God’s sake…” Once again, the frantic prisoners all began shouting over each other, trying to add their own bits and pieces to the picture.
“They’re going to let us drown!” came the voice of what may have been a Hungarian woman; and the children wailed louder and the babies added their own noise, frightened by the terror of their elders.
Art heard this, but from far away. His eyes were glued to the baby in the poor woman’s arms, held protectively against her chest. It was a thin, frail thing wrapped in a tan blanket, quiet and asleep unlike its contemporaries.
How could someone stand there, apathetically smoking with deaf ears while men and women begged for their children to be saved? How could someone stand there up against a wall while babies and children and women (and men) were caged like animals while a ship sank into the frigid waters?
“What’s the meaning of this?” Art asked roughly as he turned on the steward, hot anger rising in his chest. For the moment, Dracula was forgotten.
The steward shrugged and snorted as if he meant to spit on Art. He looked to his left at the distraught crush and then back to Art.
“Orders from the bridge,” he said unemotionally, “we’re to keep them here and give the others a chance at the boats.”
Anger flooded through Art’s veins on hearing this smug little nothing refer to a group of people in peril (children! babies!) as if they were a herd of cattle. Before he could stop himself, he had the gun out of his pocket and shoved into the steward’s face.
“Let them out this instant,” Art growled, “or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The steward, wide-eyed, nodded dumbly and fumbled a set of keys from his pocket, nearly dropping them.
“Hurry!” Art barked. “There isn’t much time.”
Without taking his eyes from the gun, the steward opened the gate and stood flat against the wall whilst those he meant to kill streamed past, throwing hate filled glances in his direction.
One of the last to leave the formerly gated stairwell was a tall Irish youth with a mane of red hair and a knobby Adam’s apple. As he was passing the steward, he reached out one hand, grabbed his shirt, and cocked back his arm for a devastating blow…
But was dissuaded by Art. “It’s over now, leave him be.”
The young boy, really still not old enough to be out of high school, glanced at Art, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed with hate. “Alright, gov; but just because you said so.”
He shoved the frightened steward back against the wall, turned, and held his hand out to Art.
Art took it.
“Thank you, sir, you’re a real fine man; I’ll never forget it.”
Art nodded, and the boy ran along after the main body of the exodus.
“Give me your keys,” Art demanded. The steward complied. “Now go on, I’m sure there’s better for you to be doing than trying to kill people.” Before Art could even finish speaking, the steward was on his feet and fleeing.
For a long time, Art looked after the man, contemplating the blatant exhibition of inhumanity that he had just been privy to. Had those orders really come from the bridge? And if so, the bigwig on the bridge was Captain Smith; would he have done this? No, impossible. Smith was a man of kindness, compassion, and humility; the thought of him even considering such a horrible crime against nature was lunacy. But…
Maybe it was Murdoch, maybe he would be so low as to do something like this; he sure seemed like the type of man who wouldn’t blink an eye at letting children drown. It would have to be; Smith never would have made such an order.
Art descended the stairwell and stepped into a small puddle of water on the bare floor. To his left, water was leaking from the vents along the baseboard; even as he watched, the trickle increased to a steady gush. His first instinct was to retreat to the bottom step; his socks were already wet, and the water was nearly intolerable, but his attention was presently commandeered by a crush of rats fleeing the water, squeaking and scurrying his way. One of them was bigger than the others, he noticed, coal black and limped...
Art raised his gun and fired, but the rat was already airborne, was already turning into a bat, was already a man.
With the force of a speeding freight train, Dracula smashed into Art, knocking him to the floor. Before the latter could even scream, Dracula had him up against the wall, crushing his throat with his large, dead hands. There was the same smile on his face, the same fire in his eyes, the same damned craggy Roman face.
Once again, the air to Art’s lungs was cut, his vision began to darken, and he began to die.
But such a surge of rage and hatred tore through him that he quickly rallied. He balled his fist and slammed it into Dracula’s mouth over and over…and, from the flickering of the fire in Dracula’s eyes, Art could see that he was feeling the pain.
Pain. But not enough of it. He opened his mouth, again reveling his abhorrent fangs.
Unthinkingly, Art smashed his fist into Dracula’s mouth again…and watched in amazement as Dracula’s right needlepoint tooth wiggled, and then fell out in a small squirt of blood.
Face slack with shock, Dracula probed the empty spot in his gum with the tip of his tongue. He dropped Art from his vise grip and fell to his knees in a distraught search for the lost tooth.
“Goddamn you, goddamn you!” he wailed as he searched on his hands and knees. For a moment, Art was so shocked by the turn of events that he almost didn’t seize the opportunity at hand. It was so surreal; not only had he just knocked Dracula’s fang out but the vampire was now on his hands and knees looking for it.
Realizing that this was not to be passed up, Art reared back his leg and drove it into Dracula’s stomach. The beast let out a howl more of shock than pain, and tumbled over to his side, splashing in the ever rising waters. Art took time to notice that the cold drink was up to his ankles, and was just now beginning to creep up the stairs.
“Having fun?” Art growled and then kicked Dracu
la again, and again, and again.
The monster was now in a pitiable heap on the flooded floor, moaning. Remembering the cross in his jacket pocket, Art pulled it out, and, without care or aim, brought it down; it sank into Dracula’s broad back like a butter knife into rock, jarring and sending vibrations up Art’s arms.
“You like to play around, do you?” Art asked barely hearing his own voice over the growing roar of the water. “You like games?”
Dracula was now getting to his knees, weak and shivering (shivering! He felt the cold!). “Here’s for Lucy!” Art kicked him again. “And for Quincy!” Another savage kick, and another fulfilling bellow.
As Dracula rolled over and over in the deepening water, the cross sank deeper and deeper into his chest, but it was not close enough to the heart to kill him. Art kicked him again, and relished the grunts and moans. Kick. Kick. Kick. Dracula was lying prone, defeated. Art pulled his leg back one last time and kicked...
...hitting nothing. Dracula was gone. Just like that. Poof.
Art nearly tumbled over, fought to regain his balance, and turned this way and that, a predator searching for his prey.
He was gone. Escaped. The slippery, stinking bastard.