Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

“Splendid.” Margaret took off around the corner to where the four men were waiting. “Sorry to be a pain in the rear and waste everyone’s time.”

“No worries,” one of the men said.

“How many people can you fit into one of these boats anyway?”

“About sixty-five. Maybe seventy.”

Andrews rejoined the group. “Not nearly enough.”

“Enough for the trade board,” another man said.

“I wanted more boats but I was overruled,” Andrews said to Margaret. “As it stands we only have enough boats for a little over half of the passengers on board.”

Margaret shook her head in disgust.

“Nothing to fear though,” Andrews continued. “This ship is as strong as they come.”

“I’ll take you at your word. Back to work, boys.” Margaret clapped Andrews on the shoulder and then left for the forward entrance to the first-class staircase.

SMITH

“Four hundred and eighty-four was the first days run,” said Bruce Ismay.

Captain Smith nodded. “Yes. We did better than the Olympic .”

“Indeed. Better by twenty-six miles.”

Smith and Ismay sat across from each other in the reception room on the starboard side of D-deck. Two cups of coffee were on a table between them.

The reception room was one of many places on the ship where first-class passengers could go to relax and converse with their companions. The decor was more casual than that of the lounge or smoking room. There was a good number of available chairs, all represented by a green and white color scheme that carried over to the walls and potted plants nestled up next to most of the support pillars. The carpet with its rusty red color and geometric patterns offered an unusual but visually pleasing contrast.

“Yesterday’s run was not quite what I expected. A gain of thirty-five miles over the first day, but fell short of the Olympic . I have nothing but confidence that we can and will do better going forward.”

“There’s still over three days left,” said Smith. “I think tomorrow’s run will be more than satisfactory.”

“There is no reason to think not. Now that we know the boilers can withstand the pressure, I say we make a bold statement,” Ismay said ardently. “We must turn all the heads at Cunard.”

Ismay, being the managing director at the White Star Line, had a lot to gain in the ever-escalating battle over the Atlantic. Britain’s Cunard Line was their main rival in the race, and had absorbed a bit more of the market in recent years with the success of the Lusitania and Mauretania.

Captain Smith took a long sip from his cup of coffee and then said, “I’m not so sure that is a good idea. While everything has gone rather smoothly...” Smith stopped and thought for a moment about the ongoing incident on the other end of D-deck—the unexplainable illness that if not properly contained could threaten all the lives on board and leave an ugly final mark on his otherwise remarkable career. “Hasn’t the ship itself already made enough of a statement, Mr. Ismay? Cunard is on their heels.”

“Imagine the surprise if we arrive in New York on Tuesday. What will the papers say?” Ismay smiled wildly as he built his case. “Everyone already knows that Titanic is second to none in size and luxury. But her speed, captain...her speed should not be underestimated.”

“Neither should the danger of pushing her too fast,” Smith replied. “We could be approaching thick sections of field ice soon.”

“Are there any reports of this?”

“Yes. The La Touraine reported ice yesterday, and the steamer Rappahannock signaled similar warnings as it passed us earlier today. So far, we haven’t spotted anything yet. Still, we will maintain our southerly route around the Grand Banks to avoid excessive fog and thus any hidden icebergs.”

Ismay wore the expression of a man who wasn’t used to being challenged, a man who without even saying a word often exuded confidence and strength just through his appearance. He was rather tall and always kept himself well manicured and dressed in the finest attire. To top it off, he had sharply defined facial features and a dark mustache that seemed to over accentuate the scowling indignation he now showed toward Smith.

“The boilers are holding up. The engines are working well. You said it yourself, Cunard is on their heels.” Ismay spoke slow and assuredly. “You may be retiring after this but the future of the White Star Line goes on. Let’s show the papers that the Titanic is more than just luxury. Let’s give them a headline they won’t soon forget.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Smith finished off the last of his coffee as he gazed to his right out a large arched top window. In the corner of the room, a pianist sat down behind a grand piano and began playing something by Chopin.

Smith scratched at his beard, considering Ismay’s proposal that he increase the ship’s speed. He understood Ismay was simply doing his job, doing what anyone in his position as managing director would do. He had to sell the line, always sell the line. Public image was very important in this business, and so he had to keep reinforcing their strength in the industry, as their competitors would surely reinforce any perceived weakness. All the same, Smith didn’t like feeling as though his opinion as captain wasn’t being respected.

But none of those things—not the fairly routine warnings of bergs in the area, nor the unrelenting diminishment of his pride by Ismay’s less than admirable motives—was the reason he decided to go ahead with the increase in speed.

The real reason, all three of them, lay unusually self-contained on the other end of the ship.

Self -contained. For now.

But for how much longer?

Last report from Second Officer Lightoller before lunch showed no change in the situation from his first report at sunrise, which could be construed as both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because the barrier between the virus and the rest of the passengers on the ship seemed to be holding up, and bad because he had expected the three of them would be dead by now. And as long as they remained alive, the risk of further infection would always be there nibbling on his nerves. Getting to New York by Tuesday, one day earlier than planned, was one less day he’d have to sweat this terrible thing out.

ANDREWS

There was a long moment of silence, easily the longest they had shared since they met.

Margaret had come to his stateroom just as he had asked her to earlier on the boat deck, and then he had told her everything. Over tea.

And now he felt like a traitor.

He had promised Captain Smith that he wouldn’t tell anybody about what had happened last night. Smith had done his part in squelching any panic. He had managed to ward off Margaret’s persuasive personality. When confronted, he had lied.

Andrews caved.

He had considered lying, but Margaret was the kind of woman who wouldn’t respond well to being made a fool. She guarded her emotions closely. She wouldn’t believe his lie anymore than the captains.

And now that the truth was out in the open, he waited on the tip of his chair to see how she would respond—her rare silence puzzling him. Naturally, she was wrestling with the authenticity of the story. He knew how it sounded. It sounded unbelievable.

Crazy.

Margaret stared at him with the fierce, examining eyes of a private investigator. She was inside his head, prying around, searching for clues.