Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

“I just want a word with your man at the tiller.”

“Is that it? I swear if you leap into that boat as several others have done, I will shoot you and they can put your carcass over the side when the boat is lowered. The last big man to make me angry broke a child’s ribs, he did, and there’s no getting him out of the boat short of shooting him.”

Ransom saw the man who looked to be a good two-seventy, perhaps even three-hundred pounds. He whispered to Lightoller, “If you go off with that tub of lard and the creature is residing inside him, it could hide forever in that elephant.”

“Your dog made no move toward the man. I think he’s clean of the parasite—just missing moral fiber.”

“And what of Thomas Coogan?”

“Placed in charge of more than the tiller—the record, Declan’s journal.”

“And why not Declan?”

Thomas shouted from the boat, “Declan’s gone to the freezers, damn him—and damn you! Damn you both!” Thomas could no longer hold back the tears.

“That’s all I need to know!” replied Ransom, rushing off to find Declan, and as he did so, he ciphered out why Declan, gun in hand, would be going back to the freezer compartment where the bodies lay. Did he mean to get specimens for future study off Titanic in hopes of learning more about the parasite in a contained, safe lab somewhere? Or did he mean to keep out anyone daring to attempt to take anything from the freezer compartments? Or was there another motive? An unspeakable one?

Perhaps suicide was not an option for Declan after all.

As he rode the elevator down, changing out his worn out shoes for those he’d won from Konrath, Ransom wondered at how the engineers aboard Titanic had kept the electrical lights and power going for so long. Soon water was lapping at his new shoes, drenching his toes, and so he hit the emergency stop, pulled back the filigree door and leapt out into a flooded corridor. The same one used by the chamber maids and crew to keep from sight as they did their work like so many invisible beings aboard, some 860 of them he recalled from reading Declan’s notes on Titanic .

Declan had so admired and loved this ship; recalled Ransom.

Now this ship would be his grave.

He worked his way to the stairwell and found it flooded too. There remained one area left that might be free of water, a tubular stairwell sealed off and used by repairmen in the event it was needed—one on either side of the ship.

When he arrived at the sign signaling the deck where the freezers stood waiting for him, Alastair opened the door and was hit by a wave of water that slammed him against the far wall of the tunnel, nearly knocking him unconscious. He found himself floating but fighting to stay above water. He somehow found the door handle in his hand, but his cane and bottle long gone. His watch, waterlogged, had stopped at 1:48am. He cursed this turn of events, while holding onto the hatchway, he saw the top of the freezer compartment wherein lay the bodies of the victims, and where Declan had headed. The power of the rushing water threatened to tear him from the hatchway, but Alastair held firm, withstanding the pressure until it lessened to the point of calm as the room filled with cold sea water that soaked and chilled him. He dropped his feet in an attempt to find footing, and as he did, he saw the whiskey bottle bobbing about near the freezer door, while his cane’s shiny silver head winked at him in the poor light as it swirled in a small vortex.

He half-walked, half-swam, his cane swept away with his watch as his fob and chain had been ripped from him. He was also missing his signature top hat and one well worn coat, but he had on a brand new pair of shoes, courtesy of Mr. Konrath. All the same, he feared for his life here and now amid the rushing water. “I’m going to drown before the damn ship sinks,” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the steel bulkheads.

He managed to get to the door where his cane awaited him. He snatched it up, and taking charge of his hard-won whiskey bottle as well, he used the sturdy base of his cane to bang at the door, the bottle tucked securely under his arm. He began to tug at the door, fighting the water pressure holding it closed. He managed to pry it open an inch, two, going for three when he realized the muzzle of his own gun was between his eyes.

“Ransom! Damn it, man! I might’ve killed you!” Declan pulled the gun away and helped force the door open, water spilling in, the first layers already beginning to crystallize from the cold within even here, the outer chamber to the deep freeze units where the dissected and stacked bodies of the victims lay in state.

“No man aboard a ship of thousands should die alone, Declan.” He held up the brown whiskey bottle.

Declan shook his head and pointed with the gun at his bottle of Vodka and a single glass he’d set up. The gun went off, shattering the glass, inches from the whiskey bottle. And the sound tore into Ransom’s ears and rattled his senses.

“What the hell?” Ransom grabbed the gun from Declan in one swift motion. “You are a dangerous man, Irvin. I’m taking charge of my bloody gun, and I don’t appreciate your stealing it, or making plans like this without my input!”

“You looked in your element at the card table.”

“I was and I just swam through another element, and I’m damned cold, damned cold.”

“Soaked, yes, you are.”

“Another reason to get plastered.” Ransom opened his whiskey and took a long pull on it.

“Now Declan, my boy, would you care to tell me the real reason you’ve come down here to babysit a stack of stiffs?”

“I-I told Thomas—didn’t he inform you? I thought for sure he would.”

“To guard against anyone’s trying to get at those babies inside there?” Ransom indicated the deep freeze, using the gun as pointer.

“That’s right; I figure we’ve come too damn far to let these things get out now.”

“Did ya now? Figure that, I mean?”

“I did.”

“Drink up, my friend.” Ransom swallowed more whiskey, but Declan shrugged to indicate he wasn’t interested in drinking.

“There’ll be time to drink.” Declan shivered and paced.

“You don’t even drink whiskey, Declan. You stick to wine, remember?”

“Situation like this can make a good man go bad,” he replied.

“So here you are with a bottle of Vodka? What’s really going on here? You gonna torch the place? Using the booze and the gun? What, you couldn’t find a match on board the Titanic that you had to steal my gun?”

“Did not… didn’t think you would… you’d need it where you are… you’re going… .Where we are… we’re all going.”

“And why, son, are ya deflecting all my questions? What has you feeling so paranoid and guilty-sounding, eh?”

“What’re you talking about?” Declan’s pacing had become agitated, frenetic.

“To build a fire, using the Vodka as an accelerant,” Ransom repeated, pressing the issue. “You don’t drink strong alcoholic beverages. So why’d you lift the Vodka instead of the Merlot? Is it that you mean to ignite a fire or not?”

Declan stared at the gun now pointed at him. “What for… for what are you doing this? Why are you afraid of me, Alastair? Why’re you afraid of me?”

Alastair took note of the change in voice, the boy’s cadence as he paced, his speaking slowly, enunciating each word either out of care or because he was fighting the thing’s use of him. It both sounded and appeared that Declan was struggling to keep control of his mind and will.

“Well, son, you see, I believe that you came down here to torch the bodies and eggs with the best of intentions.”

“That is correct, Alastair.”