Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

Back on F-deck, Moody stopped suddenly. “Which way?”

“Take a hard left. There.” Lightoller pointed to a second set of stairs just past the squash court. “We’ll circle back up and confuse them.”

Moody charged up the stairs.

“No,” Lightoller shouted from behind. “We need to wait for enough of them to follow us down first.”

“Understood,” said Moody.

“Stay ready. On my word.”

The impromptu strategy seemed to be working. The undead passengers piled down the stairs one after another, their collective moans swelling into a melody of miserable terror.

Lightoller waited for the first of the infected—a middle-aged woman with a beautiful silk scarf around her neck and a bloodied nose and split lip—to get within five feet of him before putting a bullet in her colorless face. She made a gargling sound like she’d choked on the slug and then collapsed. The others continued forward, plodding over her body as though she was just part of the floor.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Moody led the way up the stairs and back around the bend. Across the hall, the last of the infected were heading down the opposite staircase. “It worked,” he yelled, spinning around to make sure Lightoller was still behind him. “It’s clear!”

Had he not turned his back, Moody would have surely seen the infected man come from around the bunker. Instead, it was Lightoller stepping off the stairs that saw him first.

There was no time for any warning.

The infected man seized Moody by the shoulders from behind and went for the open flesh of his neck like some mutated vampire. With less than a second to act, Lightoller pulled the trigger on the Webley.

The infected man staggered backwards.

Moody dropped to his knees.

With no time to properly aim, Lightoller had successfully prevented Moody from being bitten, though not without a price.

The sixth officer winced in pain and put a hand to his right shoulder. The bullet had sheered through his black officers coat, grazed his skin, and then found a permanent home in the infected man’s neck—the infected man who had already regained his footing, oblivious to the kind of pain Moody felt, and who now came forward to strike again.

Lightoller steadied the revolver. Behind him, he could hear the others coming back up the stairs.

This time he didn’t rush the shot. He took the extra second to aim, knowing the only thing standing between Moody and certain death was him.

And yet it didn’t matter.

Click.

Because the cylinder was empty.

Moody looked up at Lightoller just as the infected man came down upon him, his final expression wearing all the remorse that Lightoller felt weighing heavy on his heart.

Lightoller dug deep into his pocket for the last of the ammo. If he could not save Moody from becoming infected, he could still spare him the pain of being eaten alive.

Two more infected came around the corner of the bunker. They had likely been drawn to the sound of the gunshot, or Moody’s screams.

Lightoller looked down at his hand.

Four bullets.

That’s all he had left.

Then an infected woman came up beside him from the stairs and grabbed hold of his arm, causing all four bullets to fall to the floor. Lightoller spun around and struck the woman in the face with the empty revolver, then backed off as more limped toward him.

They had him surrounded, forcing him into a corner. His only defense was a strong will to survive—to elude this deadly plague—to escape this sinking ship—to return in one piece to his wife and children. Whatever it took, he’d keep fighting until the cold end. He’d find a way, even if the only way were through them.

Luckily, it wasn’t.

Not yet.

He backed up as far as he could and felt the hard brass of a doorknob jab into his lower back. A moment later, he was standing in the dark linen closet, while dozens of the infected gathered outside to guard the door.

He used the first match to have a look around the cramped closet. Towels. Bed sheets. Pillows. All useless things given his predicament. Taking a nap was probably out of the question, unless he longed to be buried in a watery grave.

He used the second match to light his pipe. Then he sat down with his back flat against the wall, the pipe in his mouth, and tried to think of a plan. Through the choir of the undead, he could hear Moody’s cries finally fade away.

BROWN

“I’m not gonna tell you again, sweetheart. Get into the boat.”

“No, I won’t go without John,” Madeline said defiantly. “Or without our belongings...what will become of them?”

“They’ll be at the bottom of the sea,” Margaret replied. “Right where you’ll be if you don’t get into the boat.”

“I don’t see you getting in.”

“I’ll get in right after you.”

“I bet you wouldn’t leave your husband.”

“Honey, I left that man three years ago.”

John Jacob Astor finally stepped between the two. “Madeline, please. Think of the baby. This boat is for women and children only. I’ll find another boat. We will be together again soon, I promise.”

Madeline stared into the wooden lifeboat where four dozen other women were already seated inside, some with babies bundled in their arms or small children crammed at their feet.

First Officer Murdoch offered a hand to help young Madeline into the boat. “Come on, miss. We don’t have all night. If you don’t want to go, I’m sure there are others who would take your place.”

“She’s going,” said John. “Aren’t you dear?”

The lifeboat gently rocked against the side of the ship, held in place by a single rope on each end connected to a pulley system.

Madeline sneered. “Look at this wretched thing. Why it’s not even safe. Like this awful lifebelt you made me put on.”

Murdoch rolled his eyes. “Move along then,” he said, and pushed them aside.

“I thought we already went over the lifebelt,” said John. “I showed you how it works. I refuse to discuss it further.”

Not twenty feet away, a skirmish broke out between a number of passengers waiting to get into lifeboat number five and a walking corpse with dark brown hair and high cheek bones. The corpse lost, but not before ruining a few peoples chances at securing a seat.

“You think staying here is safe?” Margaret asked.

Madeline pouted and then looked lovingly up at John. “You swear you’ll find another boat?”

John took his young wife by her thin hips and pulled her close to him. “I will.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” said Margaret. “Now can we get a move on?”

“Don’t worry about me.” John continued speaking directly to Madeline, ignoring Margaret’s request. “I have to head back to the room to get something from the safe first. Then I promise I will find my own boat.”

Madeline finally submitted to the pressure.

As the first officer helped Madeline aboard, Margaret whispered to John. “What’s in the safe?”

“Twenty-five hundred in cash,” John replied without hesitation.

“You think that’s gonna buy you a ticket out of here, do ya?”

“I pray it doesn’t come to that.”

Margaret climbed into the lifeboat next with the help of Murdoch and took a seat beside Madeline. John stayed on the boat deck looking over the side as Murdoch and one of the deck hands began lowering the boat. By the time they reached the open promenade deck one level down, he had disappeared.

Madeline began to cry. Margaret hardly noticed, however, as she had spotted a friend on the promenade deck walking by himself and looking rather unwell. He was the architect of the soon to be famous Titanic , Mr. Thomas Andrews.