ANDREWS
There was a long moment of silence, easily the longest they had shared since they met.
Margaret had come to his stateroom just as he had asked her to earlier on the boat deck, and then he had told her everything. Over tea.
And now he felt like a traitor.
He had promised Captain Smith that he wouldn’t tell anybody about what had happened last night. Smith had done his part in squelching any panic. He had managed to ward off Margaret’s persuasive personality. When confronted, he had lied.
Andrews caved.
He had considered lying, but Margaret was the kind of woman who wouldn’t respond well to being made a fool. She guarded her emotions closely. She wouldn’t believe his lie anymore than the captains.
And now that the truth was out in the open, he waited on the tip of his chair to see how she would respond—her rare silence puzzling him. Naturally, she was wrestling with the authenticity of the story. He knew how it sounded. It sounded unbelievable.
Crazy.
Margaret stared at him with the fierce, examining eyes of a private investigator. She was inside his head, prying around, searching for clues.
Finally, she said, “You expect me to believe that?”
“Unfortunately, as outrageous and disturbing as it may sound, it’s all true.”
“You swear?”
“I swear I’ve told you everything I know.”
Andrews sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. While he still felt ashamed for having betrayed Captain Smith’s confidence, he also felt relieved to have told the story to someone, least of all to Margaret, who more than anyone else on the ship probably had a right to know given her close contact the previous night with Elise Brennan.
“Everything you know?”
“Yes. I left sometime after midnight. I can’t speak for anything that may or may not have happened since then. I haven’t spoken with any of the others today about it, and I don’t intend to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s out of my hands.”
“You don’t care what happens to them? You made it sound like they are basically prisoners.”
“It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that there is nothing more I can do. It’s a medical problem, and a security issue, neither of which are my area of expertise. Elise attacked two people and so she remains in isolation. If Dr. Simpson and William Dunford have since come down with the same condition, then they too should probably remain locked up. For everyone’s safety.”
“So it’s possible the captain wasn’t lying after all?”
“You know, I hadn’t really considered the idea that Elise could actually be dead. Dr. O’Loughlin had certainly doubted she would make it through the night. I just assumed that when you came to me and said that Captain Smith told you she was dead that he was just following the plan.”
“The plan to lie to me?”
“Well, yes. I never gave much thought to the underlining sincerity of his statement. Of course I didn’t hear it directly from him.”
“I can usually tell when someone is feeding me fiction, and he sure sounded like he was telling tales.”
Andrews shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m not going to make it my business to get further involved.”
“I respect that. Thank you for at least being honest with me.”
“Margaret, promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. Promise me you won’t make it your business to get involved.”
“Don’t you worry about that. You have a reputation I wouldn’t dare spoil, Mr. Andrews. You have my word. Will I see you at dinner this evening?”
“I’ll be there.”
LIGHTOLLER
10:11 p.m.
His second watch was over, and Lightoller had only to complete his final walk of the ship before heading to his cabin for some much needed sleep.
Considering the extreme events of the previous night, today had gone smoother than he had expected.
The captain had placed him in charge of monitoring the third-class hospital and the three sick and maniacal patients quarantined therein. He had already checked-in three times today. Once at the start and close of his first four hour watch this morning, and again at the open of his second watch shortly after six in the evening.
While the first visit had yielded some unpleasant news to return to the captain—that the poor souls in room number one had caught the “crazy” bug from the young woman in room number two—the last two reports showed virtually no change.
From the moment he had the door unlocked, they could sense he was there, no matter how quiet or still he tried to be. He figured they could smell him, which he attributed to his smoking. Once they had identified his presence, the three would then begin to claw at the doors and vocalize their feelings toward him in their special way.
He didn’t spend much time with them. Maybe a few minutes each visit. This had just become part of his daily routine; one that he didn’t think would last much longer. He expected soon he’d walk in and hear no movement from either of the rooms, no futile attempt at speech.
Because they would be dead.
And he’d be glad to deliver the news to the captain, and Smith would be equally glad to hear it. Not because these three deserved to die, but because in Lightoller’s mind, they were already dead.
What good is living without the self awareness to control one’s actions, without a mind capable of love or friendship, capable of creating long lasting memories, or to even figure out how to do such simple things like working a door handle? And even if by some off chance they could be saved, they would likely never be the same, in need of constant care and assistance.
What kind of life is that?
Just let them die, Lightoller thought, descending the third-class staircase. Let God cure them of what man cannot.
As he reached the landing to D-deck, a few passengers came around the corner and made their way past him up the stairs. When they were gone, he unlocked the door to the hospital, stepped inside, and then closed and relocked the door behind him.
“Shit,” Lightoller whispered.
They were still alive, with no apparent decrease in energy. They shuffled up to the doors and began pounding and scratching away.
Lightoller slowly crossed the room and sat down on a bench. He pulled a tuft of tobacco from the pocket of his uniform and began to load his pipe, humming to himself. When finished, he took a drag and laid his head back against the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open.
He hadn’t gotten much more than three hours of sleep last night. He managed another hour or two after his first watch ended during the afternoon, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Sleeping in small increments was never as satisfying as a good long night of careless dreaming. Tonight he hoped to catch back up.
But not here.
Definitely not here.
Not with that awful noise in the background.
The sound that stirred him back to attention didn’t come from one of the three living dead though—it came from the main door to the hospital. Someone had inserted a key into the lock.
A moment later, Dr. William O’Loughlin came into the room. He shut the door behind him and walked over to the first patient room, completely unaware that Lightoller was sitting over in the corner.
Lightoller watched the doctor whisper to himself, seemingly grief stricken, and then finally revealed his presence. “Need something?”