Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

They stood behind the mainmast looking down at the aft well deck, just as they had on Friday night where they had spotted Elise Brennan.

“You didn’t think you were getting away that easy,” Margaret said, smiling as wide as her hat.

“Forgive me. I didn’t see you at the service.”

“That’s cause I wasn’t there. It’s such a beautiful morning, I decided to sit outside and finish some letters over breakfast.”

“That sounds pleasant.”

“It certainly was,” Margaret replied. “Anyway, I meant to pull you aside last night after dinner and thank you for being so understanding of me, and to apologize for my rudeness. I shouldn’t have done what I did yesterday—interrupting you like that while you were working.”

“It’s quite all right. I know you were just concerned, as was I.”

“Yes, and I’m glad we put those concerns to rest. Still, I have a tendency to get a bit worked up at times, if you haven’t noticed. It’s a good thing I’m not looking for acceptance, because I’ll probably never be accepted by many of my peers. But you’ve been a good friend to me on this trip, Mr. Andrews. You’ve helped keep my mind off my grandson. For that, I thank you, and I hope you accept my apology.”

“I’m sure your grandson will be fine, Margaret. I also value your friendship, and I often find myself envious of your candor. The way you speak your mind so boldly and without fear of rejection. You stand up when all of society is telling you to sit down, and I really admire that.”

Margaret glared at Andrews through dead serious eyes. “Are you gonna accept my apology or not? I ain’t got all day.”

“In that case forget everything I just said,” Andrews replied. Margaret found his comment funny, as he had hoped she would. “And I’ll accept your apology only without further discussion of it.”

Andrews parted company with Margaret feeling both surprised and relieved. Surprised because she obviously had no idea what happened last night, and relieved because she had no idea what happened last night. He had assumed when she stopped him that she had sought him out for information, as she had yesterday, but that wasn’t the case. Somehow, Margaret of all people was totally in the dark on this one, quite amazing since the rumors were spreading like wildfire. The terrifying nature of the stories forced Andrews to abandon his commitment to ignorance and seek out the truth. No need to bring Margaret along. She’d find out soon enough, hopefully from someone else.

Andrews entered the door to the third-class stairwell. Chief Officer Henry T. Wilde sat behind a small wooden table opposite the general room.

“What is going on here?”

“If you don’t know,” said Wilde, “then it’s nothing you need to be concerned about.”

“Everything that happens on this ship is my concern.”

Wilde shook his head. “Not this .”

Andrews made a motion toward the door to the general room.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Wilde took his hands off his lap and rested them on the table. In his right hand, he held a small revolver. Andrews looked down at the gun and then turned his attention back to the door. As he reached for the door handle, he heard Wilde pull back the hammer on the revolver.

He glanced back at the chief officer, the gun still flat against the table, the barrel pointed at him. “You’re really going to shoot me?”

“I don’t know,” said Wilde, sweat glistening under his eyes. “I’d prefer you not put me to the test.”

“This is more serious than I thought,” Andrews whispered to himself. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to open it. I know more than you think.” He could easily hear the chorus of moans spill through the door. “You’re using the general room as a prison for the infected, and by the sound of it, there’s quite a few in there. Tell me...how did this happen?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

After a little more cajoling, Wilde finally gave in and told the whole story. When he was done, Andrews left feeling sick to his stomach. He hung his head all the way back to his stateroom, where he sat at his desk and imagined the headlines that would follow once the Titanic docked and word began to spread. Boy, the editors would be happy, and the White Star Line would take hell trying to explain how they allowed such a deadly plague to pass through inspections. With only a maiden voyage under its belt, the Titanic name would already be scarred. The ship that Andrews built, the ship of dreams, was slowly turning into the ship of nightmares. Whether caused by plague or not, he was disgusted by the horrific acts of violence displayed on a ship he had put his heart and soul into constructing.

“What else could go wrong?” he asked the quiet emptiness of his stateroom.

It offered no response.

SMITH

The wireless room was located on the boat deck not far from the bridge and officer quarters. Inside, twenty-five-year-old Jack Phillips, and his twenty-one-year-old assistant, Harold Bride, worked to get caught up on the backlog of messages after the wireless set had broken down during the night.

Jack and Harold were not employed by the White Star Line, nor were they official members of the Titanic’s crew. They worked for the Marconi Company, named after Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of the radio telegraph, and once at sea, the pair took orders only from Captain Smith.

The use of radios on ships had only recently begun to take on more popularity, particularly among wealthy passengers, who marveled at the novelty of such an invention that would allow them to send out personal messages from the ship.

While many captains were hesitant to greet the new technology, Captain Smith tried to keep an open mind, seeing the potential of the device to become a valuable tool for navigation, or at the moment, for the reporting of ice in the area.

Smith stood behind Jack and Harold and read the latest message from the White Star steamer Baltic. Earlier, he had received a similar message from the Caronia. The reports of ice weren’t unexpected this time of year, however, the Atlantic was unusually calm today, and as dusk fell, icebergs would become harder to spot. After what happened last night on D-deck, the ice warnings only reinforced the two bad choices facing Smith.

Keep the ship on its faster pace and risk the ice, or slow it down and risk further infection.

There was no right answer.

He left the wireless room and headed down to A-deck, where he ran into Bruce Ismay talking with George and Eleanor Widener, owners of the Philadelphia Traction Company. The Widener’s had organized a dinner party for this evening in the á la carte restaurant on B-deck, which Smith had previously agreed to attend.

Smith apologized for the interruption, and handed Ismay the message from the Baltic. Ismay glanced down at the little yellow slip of paper, and then without word shoved it in his pocket.

Smith walked away satisfied.

Later in the evening, just after seven, Smith found Ismay in the smoking room and asked if he still had the telegram.

“Yes,” Ismay said, and pulled the yellow paper from his pocket.

“Good. I need to put it in the chart room with the others.”

Ismay handed it over. “And what of this virus? I trust you have it contained.”

“For now,” said Smith.

Ismay took a drag from his cigar. “Good, let us try and keep it that way.”

“It’s not only your reputation that’s on the line.”

“Your reputation doesn’t matter, Edward. You’ll be retired when this voyage concludes, so what do you care? Don’t pretend to relate to my quandary.”