Deck Z - The Titanic (11 page)

DECK Z, ELECTRICAL STORAGE ROOM
.

SUNDAY, APRIL
14, 1912. 8:04
A.M
.

Joe Clench led the able seamen past the first watertight door down the narrow hallway to the storage room, pistol drawn and grumbling all the way. “You ask me, Captain Smith has this all wrong. If there’s more o’ those things to fight, we should be the ones doin’ the fightin’. Who’s going to fend off the next one of those zombie-monsters, the git with the slide rule?”

“Torch tanks are heavy, Clench—don’t expect the little fella could handle one,” sneered Holman.

McGough and Terrell sniggered, but truth be told they preferred retrieving welding torches to another battle with monsters. If Mr. Andrews or Mr. Weiss wanted a go, they could have it. All was calm as the able seamen made their way. Even so, Seaman Holman, as last in line, warily surveyed the hall behind them, his White Star gun at the ready.

Clench wiped his brow with the sleeve of his blue denim shirt. His wool flannel underthings were just right for work on the boat deck, but they were a damned nuisance below; he was too hot by half. He reached the door to the storage room and tucked his pistol into the back of his pants. “Time to haul, boys,” he grunted as he pushed open the door.

There must have been a dozen of them inside the large storage room, feeding on an unfortunate porter who’d come down for a replacement light switch. The creatures were formerly engineers from the looks of their black jackets and white trousers, now discolored from the chaos raging in their bodies. Sickly moans caromed off the corridor walls as the zombies brutally assaulted the seamen. Five of the fiends were atop Joe Clench before the door was fully open. He drove two ghouls against the doorframe, audibly cracking their bones, but he had no way to stop more jaws from latching onto his shoulder, arm, and neck. Though Clench thrashed mightily, within seconds he was overwhelmed.

As more zombies emerged from the room, Terrell and McGough aimed their weapons into the zombies’ decaying midsections, completely forgetting Weiss’s instructions. By chance, two zombies were struck in the head and destroyed, but they were simply trampled over by others in stained white sailor’s caps cocked at crazy angles. Terrell was savagely mauled, as three zombies shoved at one another for the chance to tear into his flesh and brain. McGough emptied his gun into a single assailant, a former junior assistant engineer still wearing wire-rim spectacles and not more than twenty years old. The last shot took the thing’s ear off, but the junior engineer overpowered McGough to return the favor and more.

Holman was last in line and escaped the initial crushing flail. When a zombie sent Holman’s pistol sailing, the seaman had but one thought—run like hell.

He ran for his life, arms pumping side to side, into the potential safety of the room that housed the top portion of the ship’s reciprocating engines. Holman’s labored breathing might have echoed in the machine room had the reciprocating engines not been so deafening, a steady drone of whirring and pumping that turned
Titanic’
s triple screws. He nearly ran headlong into the room’s far wall and panicked,
realizing he’d rushed to a dead end. So he spun back the way he came in search of a different escape route.

Ahead, at the edge of the reciprocating room, Holman saw a stairwell that might offer escape. But he never set foot on the stairs or even heard the moan.

DECK Z, AFT PASSENGER CABINS
.

SUNDAY, APRIL
14, 1912. 9:10
A.M
.

Zombies in their night clothes and dressing gowns continued to pour forth from cabin doors and filled the foyer. Often two and three emerged from a single room. The numbers were skewed far in the monsters’ favor. Andrews shakily raised his Webley pistol. “Stop or I’ll shoot again!” he cried. The zombies moaned at his shouts and lumbered toward Andrews as if he’d extended an invitation.

Smith was undaunted. He stepped in front of Andrews and gracefully beheaded two zombies with short, powerful strokes. “Steady, Mr. Andrews,” he cautioned. “We’ll be done if we lose our heads.”

Andrews aimed true, let out a breath slowly, and squeezed the trigger. A zombie’s head exploded, its body flying backward and knocking over several more.

Behind them, Weiss grimaced as he used his knife-stick to fight off two men in tattered shirts, working the riddle in his mind all the while.
Had the Kaiser’s man somehow slipped the Toxic into the ship’s water supply?
While not impossible, it was not probable. The
Titanic
’s fresh water tanks were enormous. Even the Toxic would likely become diluted in such a volume, and Weiss was unsure whether the infection could survive such conditions. But somehow, the disease was spreading faster than he’d imagined possible.

Leaving Smith’s side, Andrews fought his way toward the edge of the foyer near the first watertight door. He managed to properly unload his gun into the skulls of several would-be attackers, one of whom was close enough to swipe the bowler hat from his head. At last, he reached one of the doors he’d described on the ship’s first night. Andrews turned to see that Weiss was still some twenty yards behind, and surrounded.

Andrews aimed his gun at a ghoul near Weiss, but the hammer stopped cold. It was jammed! “Can you make it to me, Mr. Weiss?” yelled Andrews. “My gun’s no good, but I can shut this door and confine the zombies behind it!”

“Excellent, Mr. Andrews,” said Smith. “I’m ordering you to hold that door.” Smith waded deeper into the pack of zombies to open an avenue of escape for the scientist. “Mr. Weiss! Fight your way to me!” The captain struck down more creatures with a display of swordsmanship that left the German awestruck, each thrust and slash in tempo. “Behind you, Mr. Weiss,” cautioned the captain.

Weiss spun, fending off a portly zombie in a ragged robe. He jabbed the ponderous monster in the thigh so that it stumbled to the ground, and then put the blade through the thing’s neck.
You can do this,
thought Weiss.
Take the fight to your adversary. Put your fear aside.

“Perfect, your weapon serves you well. Jab them in the head when possible,” Smith instructed. “Now, sir, let’s get back to back and return to Mr. Andrews.” The two men quickly moved tight together. “From here we dance, Mr. Weiss. I will lead.”

Smith began moving in a clockwise pattern and when Weiss didn’t immediately follow, the captain ordered, “Stay with me now, it’s back to back all the way.”

Weiss saw the strategy: Their synchronized movement formed a thrusting, spinning dervish of sorts, with Smith’s rapier surgically
cutting a path toward the door while Weiss protected the captain’s back, constantly stabbing as the fiends grabbed at them from all sides. The rotating motion ensured Smith and Weiss could not be assaulted from the rear and were always shifting among their opponents. The crudity of the zombies’ approach aided Smith and Weiss greatly.

Soon they broke through. Smith stopped the circular motion and yelled, “Go, Mr. Weiss!”

Weiss ran, joining Andrews on the other side of the watertight door.

“Now, Mr. Andrews!” ordered the captain. Andrews began lowering the door, as the mob swelled like a river flowing toward the captain. He readied himself to defend the opening till it closed.

“How long will this take to shut?” snapped Weiss.

“Approximately twenty-five seconds,” said Andrews.

“They’ll overpower the captain by then!”

“These demons,” growled Smith, “will do no such thing.” He seemed to be somewhere else while unleashing a brutal torrent of lightning-fast, slashing thrusts that sent limbs and heads flying like they were spit out of a tornado.

“Now, Captain Smith,” Andrews yelled. Smith turned and slid under the door as it closed the last three feet to the floor.

Weiss and Andrews were speechless at the fury of Captain Smith’s final assault. Smith bent over, catching his breath, but otherwise he had emerged without a scratch. Andrews exclaimed, “The beasts couldn’t get at you, sir. They couldn’t even lay a hand on you! Your skills as a swordsman are simply extraordinary!”

“Let’s hope,” puffed Smith, his chest heaving, “that they won’t be put to the test again.”

DECK Z, AFT WATERTIGHT DOOR
.

SUNDAY, APRIL
14, 1912. 11:15
A.M
.

“Here’s your gun, Thomas,” said Captain Smith, handing the revolver back to Andrews. “I don’t expect she’ll misfire again.”

It had been a long time since Smith handled a pistol, much less repaired one, but after twenty minutes of frustration his knowledge of firearms slowly returned. Once he got the action apart and cleared the jam, the gun went back together much more quickly than it had disassembled.

Weiss had stood guard with his knife-stick as time ticked away, but there had been no immediate threat. Perhaps his fear about the disease spreading throughout the ship was unwarranted. Was it too much to hope that the infection was contained on the other side of the door? All was not perfect, however; Clench and the others still hadn’t returned with the torches.

The zombies beat relentlessly against the foyer side of the watertight door. The metallic clanging was unnerving as it reverberated throughout the long corridor that lay ahead of the men.

Weiss remembered the Subject throwing its body recklessly at the walls of the glass encasement on Brocken Mountain, leading with its shoulders, fists, or elbows, sometimes even with its head, in a crazed effort to free itself. Weiss couldn’t decide then or now if the behavior
stemmed from a mad desire for living flesh or if the violence was a desperate attempt to escape a horrific fate.

“Good Lord,” remarked Andrews. “Those things are awfully anxious to have a go at us.”

“Ignore them,” said Smith. “Now that your gun’s back in order, we can’t wait any longer for Clench and the others.”

“Agreed. And given the hour, it’s awfully quiet,” said Weiss. “Could we have trapped all the infected passengers on the other side of that door?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Smith. “We owe it anybody who still might be healthy and hiding to get them to safety. Fan out and check the cabins to see if there’s anyone left to save.”

Andrews peered around the corner to his left. Cabin doors lined either side of a short corridor off the main hallway, and four similar layouts waited ahead. Andrews took one step toward the nearest cabins and stopped short. “Captain, shouldn’t we get you to the bridge? If we run into another murderous bunch, they might finish us. We barely escaped the last one!
Titanic
needs you at the helm.”

“Duty comes before my safety or yours. You’re givin’ into fear,” Smith said firmly. “Don’t be afraid of the fire, Thomas. Otherwise you’ll miss the chance to be forged in it.”

Andrews picked up his lantern and straightened his spine. “You’re right, of course,” he said. He proceeded to the first cabin, turned his passkey in the lock, and slowly pushed the door open.

The cabin was dark. The light from the lantern barely showed that all the sheets were off the beds and chairs were overturned. A bitter stench filled the air. Andrews turned on the overhead light. Nothing but a trunk, a few parasols, and a nice squash racquet or two.

Heavy footsteps in the corridor outside caused Andrews to jump. He drew his gun and rushed back outside the cabin, joining Weiss
and the captain as a distinguished-looking man dressed in a tailored suit and hat ran at them with a fire ax. Smith stepped forward and held up a hand. “Down with your weapon, man. You’ve nothing to fear from us.”

The gentleman, panting and red-faced, stopped ten feet in front of the captain, dropped the ax entirely, and doubled over. His hands braced his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “You’re … not … one of them?”

Neither the captain nor Andrews replied, as Weiss looked the man over carefully. The German found no outward signs of infection and nodded his approval to the captain.

“I’m Captain Edward J. Smith. And you’re under my protection now.”

“Obliged,” the gentleman managed through labored breaths. He spoke with a refined British accent and seemed the type of passenger Mr. Ismay worked hard to court. His dark hair was fashionably slicked back and his thin mustache impeccable. “Hargraves, Oliver Hargraves. Couldn’t sleep so I came down here for a bit of early morning exploring. I’ve been fighting for my life ever since. What the bloody hell is happening on this ship?”

Weiss’s heart sank at the news that the infection wasn’t contained after all. “There’s been an outbreak …”

“An outbreak? A disease? The blokes I saw were eating other passengers! I fended the beasts off with this fire ax! What kind of disease—”

“The worst kind,” interrupted the captain. “As you’ve seen for yourself, it turns men into demons. What some have called zombies. We’re assessing the situation so we can bring things under control. Stick with us. We’ll see you out of this area shortly.”

“
Assessing
the situation?” Hargraves said in shock. “There’s nothing to assess. We have to get off this damn boat as soon as—”

The sound of a door banging against a wall thirty feet down the hall interrupted their conversation. The sound of low deep moans
filled the corridor, quickly followed by the sight of stiffened human forms. Another door banged open, and a second crowd emerged.

Weiss understood in a flash. The sickened passengers, instead of remaining nauseous in their cabins, must have fled for the lavatories, which were more dignified places to deal with their maladies. However, as their transformations worsened, they never returned to their rooms. When newly sickened passengers arrived in each lavatory, they must have delivered themselves into the waiting arms and mouths of those who were already fully diseased. Now a steady stream of male-zombies staggered forth from one side, while female-zombies emerged from the other.

Smith motioned Hargraves to move behind him. The gentleman raised his ax just the same. Andrews drew his gun and pointed it down the hall.

“Mr. Andrews,” said Smith as he lunged forward to meet the first of their attackers, “you’ll take care not to shoot us.”

Smith removed the head of the first drooling ghoul, and then the rapier leaped and sliced, separating sinew and bone. “These demons are slow as tortoises,” said Smith. “But my God, their numbers!”

Weiss flanked him, running his stick-blade right between the red eyes of a foul-mouthed zombie dressed for church, in an expensive suit and silk tie. The German withdrew the blade quickly and jabbed it through the neck of a second female demon in a prim, floor-length ivory dress. With a start, Weiss realized that it must indeed be Sunday morning, though he had lost all track of time.
Have I unleashed Armageddon?
Weiss punched through a third zombie’s forehead with his blade.
I set this in motion. God help me, I won’t let it get off this ship.

Captain Smith dispatched monster after monster. When he wasn’t removing heads with short, powerful strokes, the captain was punching through skulls, using his glove and the rapier’s pommel as protection for his hand.

A massive bearded zombie, missing a shirt and oozing sickness from sores on his back and neck, managed to grab Weiss as the scientist was withdrawing his blade from a fallen foe. The creature threw Weiss into the wall, hard enough to dislodge an electrical junction box.

Weiss fell to the floor grabbing his right shoulder, now dislocated. His cane lay to the side. Blinding pain shot through Weiss as he reached for his weapon.

An anguished moan from above rattled in his ears. Weiss realized he couldn’t grab the cane, and looked up in terror. The zombie’s bearded maw was about to rip open his head.