Deck Z - The Titanic (15 page)

TITANIC BRIDGE
.

SUNDAY, APRIL
14, 1912. 8:10
P.M
.

Is there anyone who doesn’t want a photograph with Smith?
thought Ismay upon seeing yet another tuxedo-clad passenger lurking outside the bridge. There were several reasons E. J. Smith was known as the “Millionaire’s Captain”—one was his willingness to accommodate such requests, which had been piling up in his absence. Ismay anxiously awaited word about the situation below, and passenger distractions were the last thing he needed. However, Ismay knew that one particular traveler would not be producing an Eastman Kodak folding pocket camera. It was Emil Kaufmann, and he had something other than snapshots on his mind.

Kaufmann’s arrival was just one more reminder of how long it had been since Smith and his men had ventured onto Deck E, a full fourteen hours and counting. How much longer until they finished the quarantine and the stairwells could be reopened? Passengers could be misdirected for only so long.

“So nice to see you again,” Ismay said. “However, I’m sorry to say that we’ll be unable to reopen access to the lower decks tonight. I’d like to invite you …”

“I won’t be plied with champagne any longer, Ismay,” snapped Kaufmann. “I have no plans to leave the bridge until I’m allowed access
to the lower decks. There’s someone I need to see below, urgently. I’m through being cooped up.”

The bridge telephone sounded. Mr. Humphries, a petty officer assigned to navigation and maps, answered the call. He listened briefly, then held out the receiver: “Mr. Wilde. It’s the captain.”

Ismay lunged for the phone, snatching it before Wilde could respond. “It’s Ismay. Are we clear?”

Smith barked, “Close all watertight doors immediately. Every compartment down here must be barricaded shut.”

Ismay’s mouth opened in shock. When he noticed others watching, he shut it.

We’re only a day’s sail from reaching New York!
he thought.
Won’t closing the doors keep the firemen from fueling the boilers? Does Smith have any idea what he is proposing?
Ismay imagined men with wheelbarrows full of coal standing helplessly on the other side of metal doors as every boiler’s fire died out.
Titanic
would fizzle to a halt in the middle of the sea. And there was Kaufmann, arms folded, waiting impatiently for him to hang up. God, how Ismay hated him. How this man—a competitor! A
German
competitor!—had even been allowed to purchase passage …

Smith growled into the phone. “Ismay, are you there? Do you hear me? We’ve died nearly a dozen deaths trying to get to this phone.” When Ismay still didn’t respond, Smith shouted, “Put Mr. Wilde on immediately.”

Ismay said heartily with false good cheer, “That is
wonderful
news, Captain Smith. And with the engines running at full capacity, everyone aboard will be part of history when we set a new speed record.”

“Full capacity?” asked Smith. “
Speed record?
Are you mad?” Smith was shouting to be heard over some grisly churning noise in the background that Ismay could not make out.

“Very well,” said Ismay, smiling at the crew and the reviled Mr. Kaufmann. “We’ll keep guards restricting access to the lower decks, if you insist.”

“Shut those doors!” shouted Smith. “That is a direct order!”

“Already done,” returned Ismay. “Every boiler is at full steam. We’ll be in New York far ahead of schedule.”

“Listen to me,” said Smith gravely. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but every moment you waste, the more you damn this ship.”

“I agree, of course, the best solution is to push on for New York. Thank you for all you’ve done, Captain. We’re going to make it!” Ismay wheeled around hard to face the assembled crew members, feigning surprise when, in apparent excitement, he pulled the phone cord clean out of the receiver.

Ismay had made up his mind—
Titanic
would proceed at full steam. Smith was wrong. Whatever was happening below, the best chance for the rest of the passengers was to reach land as soon as possible. Ismay would pretend all was well and forestall a general panic as long as he could.

“The captain had an excellent report,” Ismay announced, handing the detached receiver to a member of the crew. “He agreed with my strategy, Mr. Wilde, and wants you to continue at top speed. Let’s do our jobs and not let him down.”

“Aye,” said a relieved Mr. Wilde. “I’ll get someone working on that phone. All of you, back to your posts.” The crew returned to their duties.

Ismay returned his attention to Mr. Kaufmann, who was still waiting with a hard look on his face. This time, Ismay did not conceal his annoyance. “Your place is not on the bridge, sir. It’s time for you to leave.”

“A fine performance,” said Kaufmann, “but I know better.”

Ismay hesitated.
Had the other side of his conversation been heard?

“We’re in the same game, Mr. Ismay. And sometimes what’s necessary is to protect what you’ve so carefully crafted at all costs. I know a lie when I hear one.”

J. Bruce Ismay’s mind was racing.
How much does Kaufmann know? And how does he know it?
“What will it take to get you out of my sight, Kaufmann?” he asked bluntly.

“As before, there is an affair below that requires my immediate attention. You will see that I am allowed access. Either that or I will ensure that your first-class passengers, these influential members of worldwide high society, begin acting differently very soon. That won’t be at all pleasant … as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’ll have your silence in exchange for passage below?” asked Ismay.

“You have my word.”

“Very well,” said Ismay, more than ready to give the bastard what he wished for.

DECK F, BAKERY
.

SUNDAY, APRIL
14, 1912. 8:22
P.M
.

Smith slammed the telephone to its resting spot. His anger circled the air like a thick-taloned eagle. No one in the bakery dared speak.

Even so, the room was hardly silent. The exhaust fan’s motor grinded and groaned as the monsters continued to mindlessly launch themselves into the blades. On top of it all, in the distance a chorus of dogs barked in alarm—were ghouls attacking
Titanic
’s kennels as well?

“Captain,” said Hargraves, finding the nerve to speak. “Was your order obeyed?”

“I was ignored,” grunted Smith. “Ismay has the ship running at top speed, trying to set a
speed record!
We were cut off before I could say any more.”

Shocked silence descended on the group.

Weiss was incredulous. “If the bridge doesn’t close those doors, there won’t be a single human left by the time we get to New York, no matter how fast!”

“Why does closing the doors matter at this point? Certainly after all we’ve seen on the way here, you don’t consider that a real solution,” said Hargraves. “If fleas are also carriers, then what hope is there? Fleas, rats, people—the disease could be everywhere by now.”

“I am as shocked as you,” said Weiss. “At every turn, this disease has defied my expectations.”

“Still,” said Andrews, “we don’t know the extent of the spread for certain. If we can lower the watertight doors, we give
Titanic
a chance. If there are places the disease hasn’t reached yet, they’ll be protected by the doors. The plan isn’t foolproof, but it’s the best we have.” Andrews looked at each of the group in turn; they were slumped exhausted against counters and cabinets. “In my estimation, it’s all we have.”

“That’s all well and good,” Hargraves remanded, “but the bridge has ignored us. Seems to me like the best course of action is to abandon ship.”

“I will decide our next course of action,” barked Captain Smith. “But we’ll need our strength to carry out any plan. Drink. Find food and eat while I take some time to think.”

The ragged group did as the captain ordered: gulped water from the sinks and ate prepared bread from trays that would never be delivered to the dining rooms. Weiss gnawed carefully, trying unsuccessfully not to reawaken the pain in his jaw. All the time, they stole glances at the exhaust fan, which still functioned but sounded more labored by the minute.

As Andrews chewed a roll, he fingered the telephone’s connecting cord. “There might be a way to do it without the bridge,” he said.

Captain Smith perked up. “What are you saying, Mr. Andrews?”

“If I can get to the watertight door just down the hall and inside the controller box, I might be able to rewire it and work all the watertight doors from here. I’m not sure. It’s probably all or nothing. I’ll either short the whole system and render it useless, or I might be able to slam every door.”

“It’s worth the gamble,” decided Captain Smith.

“There are no guarantees,” cautioned Andrews. “And I’ll need tools.”

“Be resourceful then, Mr. Andrews,” said Captain Smith. “Let’s do all we can to stop this thing.”

Andrews got to work. First he cut and stripped the telephone wire with a bakery knife, and then he gathered metal cooking utensils that would serve as tools for prying into the box. Meanwhile, Captain Smith organized the others to carry out a plan, not only to reach the nearest watertight door but to destroy the zombie menace in the immediate area.

Filled with purpose, the group became reenergized. The watertight door was approximately thirty yards to the left down the corridor outside the bakery’s front door. Across the corridor from the bakery was a kitchen. To the right, the kennels. Smith gave the marching orders: Andrews would head left to rewire the control box just beyond the watertight door. Smith and Hargraves would fight off any zombies who tried to stop him. Weiss and Louise would carry out Smith’s plan in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, the shrieking moans emanating from the stewards’ quarters seemed to be drawing every zombie on Deck F. An endless number continued to try to jam themselves into the exhaust fan. The sheer volume of flesh occasionally forced the rotating blades to stop. Any potential openings were filled with eviscerated body parts, so the eager creatures clawed away at the piles of dismembered torsos and limbs. Each time they cleared a path, the blades sped up again. The zombies were too uncoordinated and single-minded to solve this problem, and for now, the precarious blockade held. The motor groaned and smoked from the strain.

Captain Smith anticipated the moment the machinery ground to a complete halt. Preparations were complete, so he put his protective linen back over his head and instructed the others to do the same. He
pocketed a small box of wooden matches he found above the stove. Then he drew Kabul and gave the signal for Hargraves to unlock and open the bakery door. A wandering zombie in a porkpie hat stumbled by at that moment, turning ‘round in time to catch the glint off Smith’s blade just before Kabul separated the creature’s head from its neck.

The German and the girl made for the kitchen across from the bakery at top speed. They opened the burners on every oven, range, and stove, turning knobs as quickly as they could. Lou coughed as she released the gas, invisible but menacing. She managed a “thumbs up” at Weiss, and he grinned back at the girl.

At the same time, Andrews ran down the corridor and took the screws out of the watertight door’s control box with the flat end of a butter knife. As he worked, Hargraves stood guard over him. Smith defended the bakery door, and it wasn’t long before the fan motor finally seized and died. At the sound, Smith raised Kabul. As soon as zombies appeared in the doorway, he dispatched them one at a time. Yet the trickle swelled to a flood, and the captain was steadily forced backward. Hargraves started to leave his post by Andrews to help, but the captain ordered him back. He had just received aid from an unexpected source.

The dogs of
Titanic
barked furiously in their kennels, sent into fits of wild excitement by the dead scent of the zombies. The incessant baying distracted the zombies, who jerked and turned in the direction of the kennels. This gave Smith the openings he needed to detach the zombies’ curiously tilted heads from their shoulders with methodical precision.

Andrews worked furiously at the watertight door, relieved that no undead attackers came from the fore of the ship. He tentatively prodded the exposed telephone wire into the electric lock. A cobalt-blue spark arced, indicating that he’d found the correct node. He snaked
more copper wires inside the box, connecting them to the leads. Hargraves stood at the ready with his fire ax, prepared to do what he must should any fiends arrive from the other direction.

In the galley, Weiss pulled the linen closer to his mouth, coughing violently as the gas filled the room. Their job was done, and it was time to join the others. The German turned for Lou—but the girl was gone.

“No!” cried Weiss. He searched frantically beneath tables and behind moving carts. Had the beasts got her while Weiss’s back was turned? “Louise! Lou?”

However, Lou was neither in the kitchen nor in the dead grasp of a zombie. She had snuck unseen past Captain Smith and to the kennels. She couldn’t help it—she couldn’t leave these animals to die. There was still something worth saving.

Dozens of dogs barked to beat the band—Pekinese and Pomeranians, spaniels and French bulldogs, terriers and Airedales. Their yelps grew louder at the sight of Lou. She crossly put a finger to her lips.

“You want the spooks to get you?” she asked in a hush, clicking open the cage doors and setting the animals free. “Now shut your yaps and run like the wind!”

Andrews finished connecting the wires. He then reached into his coat and brought out the last of his kerosene-filled squash balls. Some of the fuel had leaked through the pucker in the rubber ball, dampening his pocket, but there was still a satisfying heft of liquid inside. All was ready. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he pleaded. The corridor reeked of gas.

Smith dashed for the watertight door, joining Andrews and Hargraves. Not far behind was Weiss, who emerged distraught from the galley.

“Have you seen Lou?” he cried.

“She’s supposed to be with you!” Captain Smith shouted.

From the far end of the corridor, more zombies lumbered into view, and a steady stream continued emerging from the now undefended bakery door.

Andrews wound two copper wires together and touched them to the inside of the metal box. A bright flash followed, but Andrews didn’t even feel the charge singe all the way up his arm.

With a jerk and a clank, the watertight door began to descend, each chain link letting out a
clack
along the way. Andrews put an ear to the wall and listened. “I can hear the door in the deck above closing!” he shouted. “That did it! I think I got them all! “ He looked around at the others, elated. “We’ve got twenty seconds till they finish closing.”

“
Lou!
” Weiss shouted.

Then, as if unleashed by Apollo himself, a scrabbling pack of dogs scurried into the corridor. Some raced through the legs of angry zombies and away, while other dogs leaped to attack the diseased menace.

Weiss understood and yelled toward the kennels. “Louise, you must hurry! The doors are closing!”

Lou released the last dog, a tiny Airedale the size of a puppy. It seemed to sense the danger and latched onto its rescuer. The dog hovered at Lou’s legs as if tied by an invisible leash. She gave it a few gentle kicks, but the pooch wouldn’t run. “Fine, buster, have it your way,” she said. She scooped the dog up in her arms and ran for the descending watertight door.

She stopped short: between her and the safety of the others stood half a dozen zombies. Weiss attacked the first creature he came to, a tall, slobbering monster in a black topcoat.

Lou bolted forward with the dog in the crook of her elbow like a stolen loaf of bread. Her only weapons were two talents the zombies lacked: agility and speed. She zigged and zagged between the monstrosities, darting below and beyond their swinging arms.

Weiss crippled another zombie’s decaying leg by thrusting the knife stick through the side of the knee, trying to clear a path. Then the German fell and rolled underneath the lowering door. Lou sprinted for the opening, tiny dog yapping away in her ear.

“Get down!” shouted Andrews.

Lou slid—and then stopped with a jerk just before the door. The final zombie Weiss had toppled had grabbed Lou’s collar as the girl went by. Even with a severed leg dangling by a tendon, the thick-necked zombie was strong as the man it had been in life. It slowly pulled the girl back.

“Help!” cried Lou.

Before any of the men could respond, the tiny dog leaped from her arms and sunk its teeth into the thick, undead fingers curled round the lacy neckline of Lou’s best dress. The zombie howled at the small creature and clumsily tried to swat it away. But the terrier’s determination was equal to the zombie’s strength. With a low deep growl that seemed to come from an entirely different dog, the mutt tore off two of the zombie’s fingers and broke its grip.

Two feet now separated the door from the floor. Weiss reached beneath the door and pulled Louise through with a furious tug.

“The dog!” cried Lou, scrambling forward and reaching back under the door. The terrier continued attacking the monster, which moaned furiously and swung the dog in an arc along the floor, but could not get rid of it.

Weiss snatched Lou away from the falling metal barrier, wrapping her in his arms so she could not escape again. Smith ignited the wick of the last squash ball and stepped back as Andrews swatted it using Kabul’s broadside, sending the flaming ball through the narrowing gap beneath the watertight door.

Instantly, an explosion louder than thunder shook the air as the gas cloud ignited, and hellish flames belched out from beneath the heavy metal barrier just as it sealed tight to the ground with a heavy
thud.

The ship’s designer looked down and covered his mouth. A single severed hand lay there, flaming and missing two fingers.