Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

“No, of course not. But I don’t think we should just wash our hands and leave them to die either.”

“They can’t be saved.”

“How do you know that? We haven’t even tried. We expected them to be dead by now. But it’s been over twenty-four hours since they last had any food or water. Are we to just let them starve to death? It’s inhumane. Who are we to play God?”

“I’m not playing God,” said Lightoller. “There are two-thousand other passengers on this ship. Somebody has to look out for them. I won’t risk endangering their lives. I won’t have that on my conscience. If three people must die to ensure their safety, so be it. I’m sorry if a few of them had to be your friends, I truly am, but your job here is done.”

O’Loughlin stared at the floor. “What do you know about saving lives?”

“I have a job to do just like you. Need I get the captain to remind you of your responsibilities?”

O’Loughlin shook his head and sighed.

“It’s time to go, doctor.”

April 14, 1912

O’LOUGHLIN

Time to go back, O’Loughlin thought, checking the time.

It was after midnight, over two hours since the confrontation with Second Officer Lightoller. Since then he had been going over everything in his head, hatching together a plan.

The pros and cons.

The risks and rewards.

There was a lot to consider. The second officer was right in that they couldn’t let the virus get beyond the confines of the hospital, and O’Loughlin was determined to not let that happen. A catastrophe like that would be career ending. Where they disagreed, where their professions collided, was in the treatment of the patients.

Lightoller wanted to simply walk away, a valid approach last night when a quick death seemed imminent, and one that O’Loughlin had accepted at the time. The virus had taken hold so monstrously fast that he’d never imagined they’d still be alive twenty-four hours later.

But somehow they were.

And that changed everything for him.

If they’ve been able to survive this long, perhaps they could make it until they reached New York. There was a limited amount of testing and evaluation that could be done on the ship. On land, they could have access to much better medical services and equipment. More doctors. More opinions. Maybe even find out who the mystery man was that infected Elise. If they could find out the origin of the virus, maybe they could find a way to treat it.

Maybe.

Or maybe it would all be wasted time.

O’Loughlin had never been one to settle for the easy answer. In medicine there were few. Around every corner lay a tough decision. This time was no different. But if there were even a slight chance he could save those three, two of them his colleagues, then he would do whatever he had to do, even if he had to do it alone.

He wouldn’t just let them starve.

So he gathered together a tray with two loaves of bread, three empty glasses, and a large pitcher of water. Not a meal worthy of first-class, but it was something. And then he quietly headed back to the hospital.

The stairwell was empty when he arrived. Most in steerage were probably sleeping, and those that weren’t were probably one deck up in the general room. O’Loughlin carefully set the tray down by the stairs and then unlocked the door to the hospital. Before going back for the tray, he made sure that no one, particularly Lightoller, was inside the hospital waiting for him.

He brought the tray inside and set it on the exam table and then shut and locked the door.

His friends were awake and active, as usual. The virus had a stimulating effect.

A heavy wooden bench sat directly between the two patient rooms. O’Loughlin pushed the bench over until it was in front of the door to the first patient room, hoping the bench would act as a barrier just in case he wasn’t strong enough to keep his sick friends from pushing the door open completely.

The plan was simple.

He would open the doors just far enough to slide the bread into the rooms, and then do the same with the water. As long as he kept his limbs out of the door, everything would be okay.

Simple.

He grabbed the food tray from the examination table and placed it on one side of the wooden bench. Then he moved the bench out about six inches to give space for the door to open, and then sat down next to the tray.

The door trembled in its frame as Dr. Simpson and William Dunford went to work playing the drums on the other side. They voiced their discontent with the most unnatural of sounds.

O’Loughlin ignored their warnings, and went ahead and turned the doorknob.

The door came open in a hurry and slammed against the wooden bench, pushing it out a few extra inches. A second later, an arm emerged through the opening. The fingertips were worn down to the bone, oozing congealed blood.

O’Loughlin froze, staring at the arm he was sure belonged to Dr. Simpson.

A ghastly odor wafted outward from the room—the stench of death and decay.

And it was in that moment that O’Loughlin realized he had made a huge mistake.

He pushed back hard against the door punishing the arm in the doorjamb. He continued again and again, pushing back, expecting his assistant surgeon would eventually retract his arm and allow the door to close. But it seemed their sanity wasn’t the only thing the virus took.

Dr. Simpson showed no willingness to retreat, no sign that he felt any pain at all, despite the grotesque popping sound that accompanied the breaking of his forearm. He kept clawing outside the door, moaning more voraciously than ever, determined to seize O’Loughlin between his ruined fingers.

O’Loughlin looked down at the tray of bread and water next to him, and wondered how he could have been so foolish. He might not have been in the room last night when Elise went crazy, but he saw firsthand the destruction she had inflicted—the dead look in her eyes that followed it. Yet he allowed his good feelings toward his former associates, perhaps even his ill feelings toward Lightoller, to cloud his better judgment.

And now here he sat looking down at a useless tray of bread and water. Trapped. While the former shells of his associates pushed back against the door, wanting to get out, wanting to get him.

The useful tray was across the room sitting on his supply cart.

He’d only have a few seconds.

He used all his strength to push the bench back as far as he could—Dr. Simpson’s arm still dangling battered and bruised in the doorjamb—and then darted across the room. As he came to the supply cart, he could already hear the sound of the wooden bench’s stumps rapping against the floor behind him. His friends were slowly inching the door further and further open. Luckily, O’Loughlin found what he needed right away. It was right on top where he had left it, still filthy with blood from the previous night.

The amputation saw.

He got back to the bench just as Dr. Simpson was wedging part of his shoulder and head around the door. What O’Loughlin saw then nearly caused his heart to stop beating.

The right side of Dr. Simpson’s face looked like it had exploded, leaving a gaping hole where most of his teeth and some ragged remnants of muscle tissue were left exposed. Because of this, his mouth was locked in a permanent, drooling snarl. A few scattered hairs of his mustache remained on the other side.

But his eye was the worst part.

The right eye looked strangely like a fishing lure bobbing on the surface of a lake. Only the lure was a bloody elongated eyeball and the lake was the skinless socket of a half-wrecked nightmarish face that belonged only in the furthest reaches of hell.