Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

Lightoller looked around frantically searching for a better escape route, and that’s when he saw it.

Enclosed within a glass case, hanging on the wall on the other side of the staircase.

The key to his salvation.

A small red fire axe.

Instead of trolling through the water, Lightoller dove under, swam past the stairs, and came up in front of the axe case. He removed the revolver from his waistband and used the butt of it to smash open the glass. Then he took out the axe and held it up out of the water to examine it; one side had a typical flat sharp blade, the other a pick-shaped pointed one.

Perfect, Lightoller thought.

Apparently, the infected man on the stairs didn’t think so, nor was he smarter than the rest, because he finally decided to flop into the water.

“Aye. Come get me.” Lightoller gripped the axe with two hands and waited for the infected man to get within range. “I’ve got something for ya.”

He swung the pointed end of the axe through the infected man’s forehead, cracking and caving the skull in on the brain. It was as easy as poking a finger through an eggshell.

The infected man dropped his arms and stood frozen in the water, held up only by the axe rooted in his head. The axe had fixed itself so deep, Lightoller had to twist and pry apart the skull to get it back out. Once the axe was free, the dead man floated away face down.

Lightoller swam over to the stairs and then climbed up until he was out of the water. Then he sat down to rest.

The cold made his lungs feel like they had shrunk to half their normal size, making it difficult to breathe, and his legs and midsection were so numb he wondered if he’d even be able to stand back up.

He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It had stopped at 1:15 a.m. He sighed and threw the watch in the water. Then he took off his drenched officer’s coat and laid it on the stairs next to the fire axe.

It’s not over yet, he thought, putting his head back and listening to the familiar sounds coming from above.

The staircase he rested upon led up to the third-class open space, which was, as the name implied, simply a large open space designated for third-class gatherings. It was almost the same size as the second-class dining saloon, and was often used as a spot to dance or play music and games. There were tables and chairs all along the perimeter for spectators.

But it didn’t sound alive up there right now.

No.

It sounded dead.

He’d wait and let his muscles reload, let the blood in his veins begin to flow, until the water told him it was time to go.

How long he had, he did not know.

But he’d wait and rest before going back into battle, before throwing all caution to the wind.

SMITH

“Come alongside,” Smith shouted through a megaphone. He waved his arms attempting to get the attention of the eleven lifeboats already launched.

He had ordered the seaman in charge of each boat to row a good distance out to avoid a pile up during the launching process. Now he needed some to return. Many had left without a full load or had dwindling numbers due to the sick sneaking aboard and then later wrecking havoc when the infection made them hungry.

“Come alongside,” Smith yelled again. He knew all of the boats should still be within earshot of his megaphone, yet none returned.

“They’re ignoring you, captain,” said Fifth Officer Lowe, loading lifeboat sixteen. “They’re afraid of being overrun, and I can’t say I blame them, sir.”

Smith bit his tongue and nodded.

Lowe fired off two shots with his seven-shot Browning, killing two infected as they tried to rush the boat. Then he stepped inside the lifeboat and blew away one more.

“When you get down there, try to secure the boats together and condense everyone in to as few boats as possible.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Lowe.

“That’s all I ask.”

Most of the forward lifeboats had now launched, and so passengers began heading toward the stern. Some of the male variety, fearing they wouldn’t get a seat off the sinking ship, jumped over the side and tried to swim out to the fleet of wooden boats. Few survived. Others, both well and unwell, went over the side without consenting. Even fewer of them survived.

Smith walked back to the wireless room to check in on Jack and Harold. The Carpathia kept in contact but was still hours from their position, and the steamer slowly slipping away on the horizon never responded to their signals. As the burst of light from the last rocket burned out, so went all hope.

All the while, the orchestra played on. Alexander’s Ragtime Band, their current tune.

LIGHTOLLER

Chop, chop.

Whether he was ready or not, the water didn’t care; it was actively consuming the staircase, reminding the second officer of its cold vengeance.

He decided to leave behind his coat, as it would only slow him down. He also left the empty revolver for the same reason. The axe, on the other hand, would hopefully speed things up.

Lightoller quietly crawled up the stairs to the third-class open space, trying not to draw any attention from the herd of infected. The open space contained four staircases aligned in a rectangle, with the two staircases leading up to C-deck closest to the bow. It was a straight shot from where he was, but he’d have to pass dozens of infected along the way. There was no way of slipping around them either, no way to lead them in a circle as he had before. Once he came out of hiding, they’d swarm on him like a colony of roaches. He’d have to be swift.

And deadly.

He popped up and dashed directly at the first infected in his path. It was a skinny, middle-aged man wearing a white shirt and suspenders. He didn’t have a drop of blood on him until the fire axe connected with his head. Then the dark red blood splattered out of the hole in his skull like an exploding jar of marmalade, everywhere, exciting the crowd.

That did the trick, Lightoller thought, as every grey faced soul in the room turned and acknowledged him.

After the first kill, the rest wouldn’t have a face. They wouldn’t be wearing this or that, be skinny or fat, or even be male or female. They’d just be things in his way, and he’d chop them down one by one. They’d be a blur.

Like his axe.

The next one lost its head thinking it could sneak up from the side. It rolled away, the mouth still trying to snap at air even without a body, tripping up others following behind.

The third took the butt of the axe to the chest, knocking it backward.

The fourth was lucky it staggered when it did, as the axe missed its target and connected squarely with the shoulder. Lightoller planted a front kick in its sternum then spun and put the pick-shaped end of the axe into the mouth of another.

Two went down with one swipe, and one more said goodbye to its head.

So far so good. Except he had only made it about a third of the way and the herd was closing in fast, surrounding him. They just kept coming and coming. No matter how many of their friends fell, they knew eventually they’d get him, and so did Lightoller.

Change of plans.

There were tables and chairs set up against the wall to the right. Ordinarily, they were an excellent place to sit and play a friendly game with a fellow passenger. Lightoller would use them like squares on a chessboard.

He lifted off a chair to get on to the first table and then quickly hopped over to the second. He didn’t stop to time each jump; he didn’t want to lose his forward momentum, or let the infected catch up.