She brought the poker down on the side of Andrews’s head. It drove through his skull with remarkable ease and came to a sharp stop against the carpet. An appalling odor, and a splash of dark blood, broke free from the crushing hole.
“To heaven,” Margaret said, her hands still wound tightly around the brass poker, trembling. “Hopefully, to heaven.”
Andrews instantly went motionless as all remaining brain activity ceased and his soul was finally allowed to go free.
Margaret left her friend in the smoke room with the poker still embedded in his skull and hurried back up to the boat deck. From the looks of it, the officers were having an even harder time than before at getting the lifeboats lowered. Many passengers finally got the idea that the ship was going to sink and made for the top deck in droves, bringing with them waves of the sick and violent, and despite the crew’s best efforts, they couldn’t keep them off the top deck to save their lives.
Margaret got a seat on number six. Quartermaster Robert Hichens was in charge this time, and she hoped he would be less of a bastard than George Hogg from boat seven.
LIGHTOLLER
The water was up to his waist now, and so cold he felt like he was wearing a pair of ice undies. If he didn’t get moving soon, he might never be able to have any more children, or worse yet, see the ones he already had ever again.
Upon opening the door, a flood of water poured in and pushed him back against the closet shelving. He allowed the water to stabilize and level off before attempting to move.
Had he waited too long?
The water outside was almost shoulder high, but thankfully he didn’t see any infected. They had either moved on willingly before the brunt of the water arrived, or had been swept away with the current when it did. Most likely the latter. They could even be under the water still, drowned or drowning.
Or alive.
Like the one that attacked him on the staircase on G-deck—the one that would have killed him had Moody not decided to come back. He felt ashamed that he wasn’t able to return the favor when Moody needed him, but dying now would make Moody’s death all the more in vain.
I’ve made it this far, Lightoller thought. It’s just freezing cold water.
He took a deep breath and dove under.
It was a good thing he had committed the layout of the ship to memory because he could barely see anything, and the cold saltwater felt like it was burning away his eyes.
He swam straight out of the linen closet and then as deep down as he could. Not five yards beyond the closet, he encountered the first infected. The overhead lights from the stairs leading down to F-deck helped illuminate the water, allowing Lightoller to easily see it in time.
The infected woman was thrashing about under the water, her eyes as open as his, searching for the way out, which happened to be just a little farther down on the right. Not for him, however, as he could now see many sets of legs.
The stairs leading up to D-deck was crowded with infected.
Lightoller came up for a second to take a breath and then went back down. Once he passed the stairs, the water drastically reduced in volume, back to a little over waist high, allowing him to stand again. As he emerged from the water, the infected behind him on the stairs immediately took notice, moaning and floundering in the water to try and get over to him with no luck. Of all things they were—dedicated overeaters—swimmers they were not.
Lightoller turned his focus from those trapped against the stairs and looked down the long hallway up ahead.
More.
Four men and three women hobbled around with their heads crooked to the side like a bunch of dilapidated drunks trying to remember which room was theirs. Water played around at their knees.
“Shit,” Lightoller whispered, knowing he’d have to find another way. The hallway was too cramped to slip past them and he didn’t have bullets to mow them down. Meanwhile, the water had already risen another foot up to his chest.
He turned to his left and looked over at another set of stairs leading up on the starboard side past the master at arms station. It looked free of ghouls from where he stood.
He slogged through the water toward the starboard side and then slowed down as he came upon the staircase. He checked the door to the master at arms but it was locked. Then he gradually inched through the water until he could see on to the staircase.
One infected, standing about a third of the way up, hunched over like he was about to do a belly flop into the water.
Lightoller whistled to get his attention.
The infected man looked up and growled, but didn’t move an inch, as if he knew not to get into the water.
Was this one smarter than the rest? The others on the port side would have tried anything to take a piece out of him. If this one wouldn’t move off the stairs, then he would be difficult to pass without injury. It had the benefit of higher ground, and much less water to slow it down.
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.