“There’s nothing you can do,” said Lightoller. “Unless you have a cure for insanity.”
Elise was still moaning and trying to escape.
If she wasn’t dead, she sure didn’t look alive. Her face was as ashen and grey as the paint on the walls. Her mouth was open in a snarl revealing the red blood glistening between her teeth—many of which had cracked or broken in half when she bit into Dunford’s hand. Even more blood, globs of it, ran out of her mouth and down her chin.
Dr. O’Loughlin sighed. “I fear you may be right. Somehow, this poor girl has been cheated of an honest death, and further robbed of any genuine mental capacity. When I look into her eyes, I see...well, nothing. No life there. She doesn’t know where she is, or who I am. She doesn’t even know who she is. All that she has left is the most basic carnal instinct, to survive by any means necessary.”
“By attacking us?” Dr. Simpson said from the corner. He had a cloth pressed against his face to slow the bleeding.
“By feeding on you.”
“And now I’m next—we’re next, aren’t we?” said Dr. Simpson, indicating William Dunford sitting nearby bandaging up his ruined right hand. “We’re gonna turn out just like her.”
“There’s still no evidence indicating this is contagious. Mrs. Bell wasn’t sick, not yet anyway.”
“Either way, all this speculation isn’t doing us any good,” said Andrews. “What are we supposed to do with her? Lock her up? We must do something, and soon. I think I can speak for Mr. Lightoller when I say we can’t hold her like this forever.”
“I need to tend to their wounds,” said O’Loughlin. “Put her back in the room for now.”
Lightoller and Andrews led Elise under the doorway to the second patient room and then pushed her in and shut the door. They put their backs against the door to prevent her from opening it. Elise went back to moaning while banging and scratching at the other side.
Dr. O’Loughlin kneeled down between Dr. Simpson and William Dunford.
“John, I’m sorry about this. I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible.”
“Don’t bother. It’s not your fault,” said Dr. Simpson.
“May I take a look?”
Dr. Simpson removed the cloth uncovering the horrific display on the lower right side of his face. Elise had completely bitten through the skin leaving behind multiple sets of teeth marks. While most of the bleeding had stopped, the swelling and bruising had only just begun.
“How is it?”
“I won’t lie to you, John, it looks bad. You’re definitely gonna have some permanent scarring. My biggest concern is keeping it from getting infected.”
“As is mine.”
“I’m gonna have to clean it.”
Dr. O’Loughlin then checked on the steward. The injuries to William Dunford’s hand, while being in a significantly better location, were even more severe than those on the assistant surgeons face. Aside from the obvious visual sign of teeth marks, much of the skin and underlying muscle tissue had been torn and displaced, leaving his index finger hanging loosely at the knuckle. Dunford had also lost a great deal more blood.
O’Loughlin got to work on their wounds.
Dr. Simpson cried out in pain when the tincture of iodine ran down into the hollow teeth-shaped ravines in his face, cried still when O’Loughlin scrubbed and picked out the dried bits of blood. But it was nothing compared to what William Dunford would have to endure.
Catherine Wallis, finally forced to surrender her post at the door to the stairwell, had to assist in the amputation.
O’Loughlin put on some gloves and then got together all the tools he would need on a medical cart. Dunford squirmed around on the examination table as O’Loughlin then injected a shot of morphine in the web of flesh between his index finger and thumb.
“Mr. Lightoller, do you think you could hold Elise off by yourself? I could really use another hand.”
“I think so.” Elise continued her physical assault on the door, though Lightoller seemed to have no problem keeping her contained.
Andrews went to the other side of the examination room, passing Dr. Simpson resting on a bench, and stood across from Catherine.
“I just need you to help keep him still.”
“Okay, I’ll try my best,” Andrews said nervously.
“William, I promise to be as quick as possible. Here, put this in your mouth.” He handed Dunford a cloth to bite down on.
O’Loughlin carefully picked up the amputation saw from the medical cart. Everyone looked away as he then went to work sawing through the remaining bone and connective tissue.
Dunford wailed in misery.
When he was done, O’Loughlin picked up the dead finger and placed it on a towel on top of the medical cart. He used a scalpel to shape the remaining skin and remove the smaller bits of tissue from the amputation site. Finally, he sutured up the wound and wiped dry all the excess blood and iodine. He gave Dunford a small dose of the oral opiate Laudanum for the pain, the same as he had given Dr. Simpson.
“What now?” asked Lightoller, leaning coolly against the door to the second patient room and smoking his pipe. Elise was still active—still going at it with her fingers and hands. Her nails had to be whittled down to nothing by now.
“How much longer do you think she has?” asked Andrews.
“Only God knows,” O’Loughlin replied. “Hopefully soon He will grant her the peace she deserves.”
“Until then, she stays locked up,” said Lightoller. He banged his fist against the door. “Don’t want her taking a piece out of anyone else, aye.”
O’Loughlin nodded. “I think you better go ahead and alert the captain now. If he has no objections, I’d like to speak with him. We will make sure Elise doesn’t get out.”
“You shouldn’t have much of a problem. It’s barely been a challenge. In fact...” Lightoller stepped away from the door. “She hasn’t even tried turning the handle.”
“That is very peculiar indeed. Her mind is even more incapacitated than I thought.”
“That’s good news for us.”
O’Loughlin glanced back at his assistant surgeon and hospital steward both sitting miserably hunched over on a bench and looking weary. “We shall see.”
April 13, 1912
SMITH
Being the ship’s captain meant you were always on duty—even when you were asleep.
Knock, knock.
Captain Smith sat up and yawned. The clock next to the bed said 12:12 a.m. “Who is it?”
“It’s Charles Lightoller, sir.”
“One moment.”
Smith had given specific instructions to his officers to wake him if they had any serious issues, not because he didn’t trust them to successfully handle any situation—he had assembled possibly the finest crew he had ever worked with—but because he felt a genuine responsibility toward every passenger on board. God forbid if something were to happen, something terrible, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hadn’t done everything he could to prevent it. While many among the upper class referred to him as the “Millionaires Captain,” Smith thought of himself a little differently.
He rolled out of bed and threw on a robe before answering the door.
“Charles, you look tired. What’s the problem?”
“Sorry to wake you, sir,” said Lightoller. “But we’ve had an issue with one of the passengers. A young woman from steerage. She’s very sick and, well, she’s lost all control over her actions.”