Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

Smith checked the time. 12:54 a.m.

“Report back in an hour.”

The four officers nodded and then hurried out of the wheelhouse. Smith signaled for Murdoch and Lightoller to follow him outside, beyond the listening range of Quartermaster Hichens who was at the wheel.

“I want you to go down to D-deck and find those three patients. Start at opposite ends and then meet up in the middle.”

“I’ll start at the stern,” said Lightoller, “with the third-class hospital.”

Murdoch seemed more than satisfied with that arrangement.

“Before you go, let me be absolutely clear with both of you. When you find those three,” Smith said, “I don’t want you to try and save them, nor do I want you to try and restrain them. I want you to put them out of their misery.” The two senior officers responded with icy cold expressions. “Get the guns. It’s time we end this madness.”

LIGHTOLLER

The guns were in a locked storage chest in Murdoch’s cabin. White Star policy ordered that there be a minimum of four revolvers on board, one for each of the senior officers—Smith, Wilde, Murdoch, and Lightoller—and that they be held and maintained under the care of the first officer.

Murdoch sifted through the chest and handed Lightoller one of the four-inch-barreled Webley revolvers, and then set a box of ammunition on the floor between them.

“What should I be expecting down there?” asked Lightoller. He broke open the top-loading revolver and began inserting the rounds.

“What do you mean?”

“At the hospital. You were just down there, right? I saw the look on your face when I said that I’d start there. What should I be expecting?”

Murdoch finished loading and looked up at Lightoller. The troubled look on his face told terrible tales worse than any words could.

“Expect hell,” he finally said.

Lightoller nodded. “Better take some backup then.” He pocketed a handful of ammo. Murdoch did the same, and then relocked the remaining contents of the chest.

They left the room and hurried off in opposite directions.

Wilde and the junior officers must have done a good job clearing the way; the ship was as still and serene as Lightoller had ever seen it. The fact that it was so late, and the coldest night so far, also didn’t hurt. His hands, however, ached with each powerful gust of wind, as he held the revolver stoically down by his side.

He ran into Sixth Officer James Moody on the aft well deck. At twenty-four-years-old, Moody was the youngest of the junior officers. Lightoller had served briefly with him on the Oceanic .

“How is it?”

“Quiet. No trouble,” said Moody. “Just finished clearing the general room and smoke room.” Moody noticed the gun in Lightoller’s hand. “And you, sir?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

Some passengers stepped out of the entrance to the second-class staircase above. Moody quickly moved in and began ushering them back inside. Lightoller continued through the door to the third-class stairwell and down to D-deck into the hell Murdoch had said to expect.

It poured out of the hospital.

Dark red blood.

Everywhere.

There were a number of bloody handprints on the floor with small pieces of pink flesh sprinkled about like dead bugs caught in tree sap.

The hospital door was half-open. Lightoller raised the revolver and pushed open the door the rest of the way.

From somewhere came a scream, breaking the eerie silence of the stairwell. Then the sound of stomping feet, running.

For a moment, Lightoller considered taking the bait, but it seemed he wasn’t the only one with that idea. The scream had stirred something else awake.

Lightoller cautiously stepped inside the hospital. The door to the first patient room was wide open, its contents gone except for an arm. The back of the door had long valleys of missing wood where the patients had tried to claw their way out. Tried. And they had come damn near close to succeeding, but the door was otherwise still in one solid piece. They hadn’t escaped then, as Lightoller had assumed. No, someone had come in and opened the door, and the bread and water strewn across the floor gave the guilty party away.

“O’Loughlin,” Lightoller whispered.

The doctor had attempted to do what any doctor would have done in his position.

He had tried to save them.

And I should have known, Lightoller thought.

But where was the doctor now, and where were the patients? Of them only one remained, still hopelessly stuck behind the closed door of the second patient room.

Her.

The first.

Elise Brennan.

The captain gave specific orders on what to do if they found any of the patients.

Put them out of their misery.

Here goes.

Lightoller hunkered into the corner next to the second patient room, cocked back the hammer on the revolver, and then swung open the door. Elise stumbled out into the exam room confused and disoriented, grasping at air. She crashed into a bench and almost lost her balance.

Lightoller slowly came out from his hiding spot behind the door and whistled.

“Hey you.”

He raised the revolver.

Over the course of twenty-four hours, the once attractive Elise Brennan had morphed into nothing short of an abomination. In her diary she had wrote about being stuck in the neck with a needle on the dock at Queenstown. Since then her neck had gone from red to purple to black, and had grown like a tumor out of control into something that now resembled a second head. And this new head pulsed angrily, having already eaten most of her nose and one of her eyes, and threatened to take the rest of her face. Elise deserved death like a caged animal deserves freedom.

She took one step toward Lightoller.

Her last step.

The bullet opened a fissure between her two heads causing a fountain of blood and brain matter to spray up and rain down. She collapsed to the floor and writhed, severely wounded but still moaning and trying to crawl on her hands in an expanding pool of dead blood.

It took one more shot for Lightoller to finish the job—this one sailed directly through her brain stem. She went limp immediately.

One down. Two to go.

He left the hospital.

Crimson tracks led around the stairs to the men’s lavatory. Inside, a corpse lay broken and destroyed in the corner. The victims head looked like it had been smashed against the washbasin until its brains fell out. Despite the face being horribly rearranged, Lightoller knew immediately who the victim was; they had left an arm back in the hospital room.

Put them out of their misery.

Someone had gotten here first.

Two down. One to go.

As Lightoller went to leave, he heard whimpering coming from one of the stalls. He tapped the Webley’s barrel on the stall door and said, “Hello?”

After a brief hesitation, the person in the stall unlocked and opened the door.

Lightoller peered down at the older gentleman sitting on the toilet, fully clothed. Seeing the gun pointed at him, the old man reared back and surrendered his hands in the air. They were covered in blood.

“Christ,” said Lightoller. “So...you did this?”

The old man looked confused for a moment and then shook his head. It was obvious he understood very little English. “I help,” he finally replied, still blubbering like a baby. “Doc—tor.”

Lightoller let the word settle in his brain.

Doctor.

O’Loughlin or Simpson?

Where were they?

“Up,” Lightoller said, backing out of the stall. “You’re coming with me.”