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Violet watched Bridget’s emotional farewell with her fellow American from her vantage point on the grand staircase above the lobby. Once she witnessed the look in her mistress’s eyes at the dining table, she knew the only way she would ever have William was to remove Bridget from the scene, and it was at that very moment the Devil himself intervened to provide her with the perfect opportunity. As Guggenheim heroically pulled Bridget from her seat, Violet and her companions, Sir Bernard and Mrs. Black, were attacked by the deranged hobbledehoy from below deck. Sir Bernard had, after a firm shove in the middle of his back from Violet, taken the brunt of the assault, providing her with the time she needed to slip away, abandoning her new friends to their violent deaths.
As Bridget hurried across the lobby, intent on following Guggenheim’s advice and locking herself in her suite, her late husband’s lover darted, unseen, up the last few stairs. She slipped quietly into a doorway, planning to take advantage of the melee downstairs to finally rid her life of William’s undeserving wife.
Bridget climbed the stairs steadily, but with little haste. It was getting late and the pregnancy was beginning to tell on her. She felt tired, her back ached, and her legs felt weak, leaving her to pull herself up each step with the help of the expertly crafted bannister rail. She kept looking behind her, expecting to see one of those ghastly creatures nimbly climbing the stairs in pursuit, but they were too busy feasting on the diners too slow to escape. A young couple broke from the doorway and sprinted across the lobby, the gentleman almost dragging the woman off her feet, such was his urgency to escape. They ran past her without acknowledgment; it had become every man for himself.
Bridget stepped into the plush corridor of A Deck and took a moment to gather herself, hand on the small of her back, deep breaths in through her nose. With startling realization, she remembered William’s body still lay on the bed in her suite’s bedchamber. But what if he was no longer dead? What if he were one of those undead demons from Hell, waiting for her return? She stood in the corridor looking first one way, then the other, suddenly feeling very alone and frightened, unsure of what to do.
A movement to her left caught her eye but before she could react, strong feminine hands pushed her backward towards the bannister and the long drop beyond. She fought back frantically, but her attacker, with the element of surprise, had already gained the ascendancy. The bannister pushed against the small of her back and she began to rock backward, her head swinging out over the deadly void, one hand clutching at the bannister the other raking her assailant’s face and hair desperately trying to fend them off.
Bridget smelt familiar perfume, her perfume; the flowery scent of opium, a smell she now realized had long lingered about William. She twisted her fingers into the woman’s hair, pulling it free from the pins holding it in place under the wide-brimmed hat, and yanked hard unveiling Violet’s face.
“William’s mine, you stuck up cow!” Violet’s words came out as a high-pitched screech as Bridget frantically clung to her hair to stop herself toppling to her death.
“Too fucking late, you bitch. He’s already dead!” Bridget spat in her adversary’s face, a final defiant gesture as she rocked backward uncontrollably, her feet lifting from the floor as her own body weight began to tip her over the rail.
Violet screamed, her face just inches from Bridget’s. It was not the ecstatic cry of victory as her nemesis fell to her death, but a cry of shock and pain as Esme’s teeth clamped down on her unprotected throat. Esme’s incisors ripped a large hole, tearing through the vital veins and arteries of the young woman’s neck. Blood sprayed through Violet’s fingers as she frantically tried to stem the flow, her attempts to push her lover’s wife to her death forgotten.
Bridget felt a firm hand pull her back from the brink of death and found herself staring into Esme’s lifeless eyes. Her face had become pale, almost gangrenous, and the fire that once burned so bright in her eyes was gone, replaced by a vacant stare. The telltale black web-like rash had spread across her face; it grew from dark trunks at her neck and gave her bloodstained lips a deep purple tinge. Her expression was one of sadness as she stood before her still living friend, one hand still holding Violet’s body which twitched sporadically as her life slowly ebbed away through her trembling fingers.
The fear held Bridget motionless. These abominations were tearing people apart to gorge on their innards in the saloon below, and Esme herself, if she could still be called by a Christian name, had so nonchalantly and brutally dispatched Violet. Bridget believed she was next. That this foul ghoul with the lifeless features of the once vibrant chambermaid would, at any moment, slay her like a deer before feasting on her young succulent flesh.
Esme reached towards Bridget’s face. The American heiress closed her eyes, mumbling The Lord’s Prayer through quivering lips, the smell of death and decay overpowering her senses as icy fingers caressed her cheek. Helpless, sheer terror gripping her heart and twisting her stomach, Bridget waited for the end. Praying it would be quick and final, she didn’t want to become one of them!
Then the fingers fell away from her face. She flinched, unsure what to expect. The harsh sound of material ripping briefly filled the air. Bridget cautiously opened her eyes to see Esme sink her teeth into Violet’s exposed breast, pulling the soft, milky white skin apart to leave a deep gash from which she continued to feed.
Realizing some flicker of humanity within the living carcass now devouring her husband’s lover still recognized their friendship enough to not only spare, but actually save her life, Bridget gingerly edged away. She hurried down the corridor away from the screams of terror and death reverberating up the staircase and away from the sickening sound of Esme gnawing and slurping on her kill.
Rounding the corner, Bridget took a final look back and whispered a silent ‘thank you’ to her loyal friend as Esme pulled Violet’s intestines from her open abdomen like a magician pulling knotted scarves from a top hat.
