Richard Brown - Titanic With ZOMBIES

A gunshot.

Then another, and a scream.

Lightoller turned and looked down upon the boat deck. A dozen or so passengers scrambled back in a half-circle, fearing that they’d be accidently shot if they stepped in to help First Officer Murdoch. An infected man had him by the collar, dragging him down and nearly off the side of the ship.

Lightoller climbed on top of the small white railing that wrapped around the roof of the officer quarters and then leapt off, soaring directly over many of the scared passengers. He held the axe with two hands over his head, and as he landed, brought it down hard into the back of the infected man’s skull, splitting it in half like a rotten block of firewood.

The force from Lightoller coming down on them caused Murdoch to roll off the edge of the ship. He managed to catch himself just in time, holding on with both hands as his body dangled over the side. Lightoller pushed his most recent kill aside and then reached down to grab hold of Murdoch.

“I can’t hold on,” Murdoch cried.

“Yes, you can.”

Murdoch was able to plant a foot on the frame of a window from the partially enclosed promenade deck and use it to help climb up.

“There you go,” Lightoller said, pulling and lifting the first officer the rest of the way back on to the boat deck.

Now that he no longer needed to use both hands to hold on, Murdoch put one against his neck. Blood trickled out between his fingers.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yes. He bit me.”

“Damn,” Lightoller muttered, leaning over the first officer. “I’m sorry, Will. I should have gotten down here sooner.”

“It’s not your fault,” Murdoch replied, wincing in pain. The blood kept coming out of his neck. “Could you hand me my gun?”

He had dropped the Webley revolver during the fight with the infected man. It was now lying a few feet away. Lightoller handed it to Murdoch.

“One left,” Murdoch said, flicking open the revolver and checking the cylinder. Then he looked back up at Lightoller and offered the gun.

“You keep it. I don’t need it.”

Murdoch struggled to hold the gun out, taking short breaths. “But would you help me, Charles?”

“No,” Lightoller said without a moment’s consideration. “Don’t ask me to do that. I wouldn’t blame you if you did...but there are some things a man has to do on his own.”

“You’re right.” Murdoch finally brought the gun down and rested his arm on his chest. The other hand remained pressed against the wound on his neck. “Go now. Leave me. There is still hope for you.”

Lightoller left the first officer lying on his back by the edge of the boat deck, and climbed back up on to the roof of the officer quarters to finish what he had started. Not thirty seconds after he walked away, he heard the gunshot, and knew Murdoch was now free from the nightmare.

He went back to work removing the last bit of rope holding down collapsible B. It was a grueling balancing act, as the ship was now leaning forward at a severe angle, raising the stern ever-upward like the lighter side of a seesaw, with the Titanic’s three giant propellers emerging from the water.

Below him, Lightoller could see the bridge was flooding rapidly. He tucked the axe into his belt so he could hold on to the railing to keep from sliding off the roof. Collapsible B, with nothing now to hold it in place, succumbed to gravity and slid off, flipping upside down as it connected with a rush of water splashing up over the bridge. Lightoller watched as it floated off to the port side.

Then behind him, the cables holding the forward funnel began to snap one by one under the pressure, followed by a great sound of tearing metal.

No more holding on for dear life.

Lightoller took the same path as boat B. He slid feet first into the cold water, instantly forced under by the encroaching waves. As he swam to the surface, he could still hear the inharmonious sound of ripping metal, muffled by the water but still delivering a painful resonance. He made it back up to the surface and gasped for air, the cold water already beginning to put a vice grip on his lungs.

Above him, the forward funnel with its base now crumpled and sheared apart, began to lean like it would fall over at any moment. So he swam faster and with more incentive than ever before to get out of the way.

Seconds later, the funnel broke off and plunged forward into the water, narrowly missing the second officer, and producing significant waves on both sides. Lightoller was again swept underwater.

Dark and disoriented, he held his breath and tried to swim back up, failing to get very far. He tried a second time, again forced back down. He was near an engine room air intake, he now realized, and as the water rushed down it would suck him against the grate.

Feeling defeated and in need of oxygen, his head began to swell. Any moment now, he would blackout—take in a big breath of liquid death.

But then a rumble from below.

An explosion.

The cold water rushing through the air intake had hit the boilers, and with enormous speed and force, blasted Lightoller off the grate and propelled him back to the surface like a torpedo shot from a submarine. He coughed up some water and then took in as deep a breath as he could, still dangerously lightheaded. He could hear voices nearby in the water, and after taking in five or six strong breaths, began to swim toward them.

He came upon three men trying to scale the bottom end of collapsible B. It was a tough task, but once the first managed to climb on, he helped pull the others up and out of the water. As he swam closer, Lightoller thought two of the men looked familiar.

“Got room for one more?”

“Sure thing, mate,” one of them said, and reached out a hand for Lightoller. He hauled him up on to the overturned boat. The other two that Lightoller had recognized were Jack Phillips and Harold Bride, the Marconi wireless operators.

“Is there help on the way?”

“The Carpathia , Baltic , and Olympic ,” said Bride.

Then as a group, the four men turned and looked back at the Titanic.

SMITH

The ship was now submerged up to the third funnel, its lights still casting a glow over the water. There was a series of thunderous crashing sounds, as any mobile items on board such as pianos and trunks, or smaller things like china and silverware, all fell forward. People were also sliding down the deck, spinning in circles, screaming or moaning all the way to their deaths. The rest desperately clung to railings or staircases or whatever was within reach, trying to delay the inevitable.

Captain Smith had his back flat against the wall to the tank room between the third and fourth funnels, facing up at the stern. From where he stood, he spotted only one infected nearby, a tattered looking man in a long coat hanging on to the foot of a woman from steerage. Most of the other infected had either already been dropped in the drink or were down on lower decks losing their balance along with everything else.

The woman from steerage had her back turned to Smith, showing her curly blond hair and long beige dress. The thing behind her dangled face down on the wooden deck, trying to pull itself up, while she held on to the railing with one hand trying to break free, screaming for help.

As sad as it made him to listen to the woman’s pleas, Smith wouldn’t dare try to climb up the steep deck. Perhaps if he was a younger man. She was a good thirty feet up from his position. But then, what would be the point of it anyway? The lifeboats were gone. In minutes, the Titanic would be plummeting to the bottom of the Atlantic. Even if he could save her, she’d die in the freezing water. It was, as he had said to Jack and Harold, every man for himself.