Also on the port side, standing in a circle near the entrance to the first-class staircase, was the orchestra. Led by violinist, Wallace Hartley, the small ensemble would normally be inside providing entertainment to the first-class passengers via the dining saloon or lounge, but Smith had asked them to brave the cold in hopes that the music would help calm the passengers. It didn’t appear to be working in that regard, but the current cheery ragtime number did present a clear contrast to the sound of screaming chaos.
Coming up to the bow, Smith thought his eyes were deceiving him.
“Is that a steamer approaching,” he asked Fourth Officer Boxhall, pointing in the direction of the flickering lights far off in the distance.
“I hadn’t noticed, sir.”
“Try to signal it with the Morse lamp, would you? And have Rowe fetch the rockets. Tell him to fire one every five minutes.”
“Right away.”
The Carpathia was supposed to be the closest ship to their position, roughly fifty-eight miles to the southeast. It would arrive in no better than four hours. This ship visible on the horizon, however, could be no more than ten miles away.
LIGHTOLLER
Of all the places to die, Lightoller thought, striking his final match. He had already smoked the last of his tobacco, so he used the short flame to check the time on his pocket watch.
1:05 a.m.
He fanned the match out and then leaned back and listened to the moans of the infected outside the door. By now, he had expected to be free of the dark linen closet. He had devised the most brilliant of plans very early on.
Wait them out.
Eventually the tortured souls standing guard would go find easier prey, or some unlucky mate would run by and draw their attention away. And then...?
Why then he’d sneak out like a housecat.
He just needed to be patient. Wait them out.
So brilliant.
Forty-five minutes later, they were still there, still driving him crazy. Once the cold water snuck under the door like a snake and bit into his feet, he knew the window of escape was about to close. The water was only ankle high, but was rising fast. He’d have to make a stand soon or drown.
He checked his pockets again for the hundredth time, digging into every corner. Not one bullet.
He searched the shelves one final time. Towels. Bed sheets. Pillows. All still useless.
The best weapon he had was trying to kill him in the coldest of manners.
The water.
No more sneaking out like a cat.
He’d swim out like a fish.
BROWN
Margaret felt like she’d wandered into a time loop. Once more, she was looking for Thomas Andrews, and again he managed to elude her.
After leaving lifeboat seven, she had quickly lost sight of him behind a swarm of passengers. A fight had broken out, preventing her from being able to safely follow him further down the promenade deck.
The infected class refused to go down quietly, their numbers having doubled in the last half hour, and higher numbers meant more violence. Around every turn was another battle, another sickening display of malevolence. The blood of hundreds of passengers stained new patterns into the carpeting, splattered against the richly adorned walls, dripped from the polished brass light fixtures.
The most magnificent ship ever built, with luxury and class like no other, had now become littered with corpses—some slumped over on the floor with their insides hanging out, others defying death and walking around searching for their next victim. In a short time, the Titanic had become the setting for a war between the living and the undead.
And the undead were winning.
Margaret avoided going into battle herself, circling and weaving around the infected as best she could. But such good fortune wouldn’t last long.
The door was unlocked, but Andrews wasn’t in his stateroom. Likewise, he wasn’t in the dining saloon, the reading and writing room, the lounge, or either of the cafes. Margaret went as far down as C-deck before giving up; the number of infected were simply too strong in the lower decks. If he was down there, he was probably either dead or one of them.
The thought of her new friend becoming one of those things made her feel ill. He was such a kind and gentle man. If he had to die, he deserved to die with his dignity, and all of his limbs, still intact.
Margaret hurried back up the aft first-class staircase, hoping there were still lifeboats left. She was almost up to the boat deck when she realized there was one room she hadn’t checked.
The first-class smoke room.
It had slipped her mind, likely due to her having never been inside, as the room was always off limits to women. But that wouldn’t matter now.
Margaret carefully headed inside, amazed as she took in the room for the first time. The smoke room, with its mahogany paneled walls and colorful stained glass windows, somehow hadn’t been touched by the devastation that engulfed many of the other public rooms. There wasn’t one dead body, not even an overturned chair. Everything was as it should be. Immaculate.
It was also the perfect hiding place for Thomas Andrews. He was standing in front of the fireplace, looking up at a painting of Plymouth Harbour hanging above, his back turned to her.
“There you are,” said Margaret. “What do you think you’re doing in here? Aren’t you at least gonna try and save yourself?”
Andrews hung his head but didn’t respond. Outside, a rocket shot off and exploded in the air, cutting through the stiff silence.
“Mr. Andrews? Are you okay?” She began walking toward him. “I know this must be tough on you, but you got to get past it. You have a family to think about. Mr. Andrews?”
She stopped right behind him, suddenly startled by the horrible sound she heard. It was barely above a whisper, like slow, dry breathing, but it was unmistakable.
Thomas Andrews turned around and stared at Margaret with buggy white eyes and a grave face.
Margaret reared back and fell between two chairs. Andrews followed her down, grabbing at her feet as she slipped underneath the table and out the other side. Back standing, Margaret pushed the table over, trapping him.
“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” she said, looking down at him struggling underneath the table. “But I get why you ran now. You knew what you’d become. Maybe I knew then too but didn’t want to believe it. Maybe I just needed to say goodbye.”
Andrews reached out for Margaret like he wanted her hand to help him, but he didn’t try to push the table off. He lay there, full of helpless rage, writhing back and forth, unable to understand why he couldn’t move.
Margaret walked to where Andrews had originally been in front of the fireplace. In a sheath beside the fire was a brass poker with an intricate design engraved into the handle. She picked up the poker and walked back over to Andrews.
“Poor guy, I know you’re suffering, and I can’t stand to see people suffer. I really wish there was a better way of doing this, but I’m afraid this is the best I got. We both have somewhere to go, and not a lot of time. Me...I’ve got a lifeboat to catch. And you...”
She gripped the poker hand over hand and then brought it up slowly over her head.
“Well, hopefully this will help you get where you’re going a little faster.”