17

ORLOP DECK. CARGO HOLD.

SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 9:45 P.M.

Almost an entire day had passed since Weiss had been locked in the cargo hold, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed that no one had yet let him out. Surely, if there had been new cases of the disease, someone would have come for him. Weiss understood only too well that enough time had passed for the infection to spread and for the disease to work its horrific transformation.

And what of his attacker? He was still in possession of the vial, its contents deadly but possibly holding the key to a cure. Weiss had to get out, and he had spent more hours than he cared to count devising fruitless escape plans. His hands were still cuffed in front of him. The hatch door in the ceiling above was locked tight. No one had visited him but Mr. King, who had brought Weiss one meal that morning and had promised to bring another. The weapon options at his disposal seemed almost comical: the room was piled with wooden crates, variously bearing the names of concerns such as Acker, Merrall & Condit and Lasker & Bernstein, which contained only useless items such as anchovies, sponges, and ostrich feathers.

Not to mention, Mr. King was larger by half a foot and fifty pounds at least, and as he liked to point out, he made a living out of “beating down bums.” The scientist was unlikely to overpower him or play on his sympathies. Mr. King had none regarding his captive.

Mr. King had led Weiss down a series of stairwells bustling with crew members after his audience with the captain and Mr. Ismay. Weiss walked slowly and deliberately, searching the passing faces for signs of infection.

“Keep walking or by God I’ll disobey the captain’s orders. You’ll arrive at the bottom of these stairs in a righteous hurry,” promised King. “Don’t think I won’t enjoy watching you bounce a couple times after I grab your no-good neck and send you sailing.”

A shilling-sized spot of black fluid on the next landing stopped Weiss short. “That’s what I’ve been trying to warn you about,” Weiss said. “There! The Toxic!”

The Master-at-Arms pushed Weiss out of the way and got down on one knee. King studied the glistening black bead for a moment before looking up. A broad, satisfied smile creased his face as he ran his index finger through the globule.

“Dear God,” Weiss admonished, “don’t touch that. You’ll become—what did Captain Smith say? A zombie!”

King laughed and stood up. With his unstained hand, he grabbed the chain of Weiss’s handcuffs and pulled him close. “Are you referrin’ to this?” King barked, shoving his blackened digit two inches from Weiss’s nose. The German arched back in fear, slamming into the wall. Mr. King pinned him against it.

“It’s oil, you fool!” King pointed toward the ceiling. “There are huge cranes and fans on the deck above us. They use oil. Oil!”

Weiss took a hard look at the drop. King was right.

“So much for your story,” he scoffed. Then he wiped his finger on Weiss’s cheek and delivered on his promise to make the German’s trip down the steps a short one.

Where is King, anyway? Weiss now thought. He was hungry for news. He’d gladly suffer more of his jailer’s abuse for confirmation that all was well. Do I dare believe the worst is over?

Suddenly, heavy, awkward footsteps sounded outside and above. With a heavy metallic thunk, the hatch door shook, then swung open, and someone started descending the ladder. It was Mr. King. His motions were clumsy, and when he reached the bottom, he turned and tripped, spilling a tray he held in one hand. Food, a plate, cutlery, and a mug of coffee tumbled and spilled across the floor, but King remained slumped on the ground, saying nothing.

Weiss eyed him warily. “Mr. King?” he asked.

King lifted his head, mumbled, and coughed hard. Black spittle clung to his lips. A cold shiver ran up Weiss’s neck. “Mr. King, you’re sick! Let me help you.”

King’s face contorted, and he pressed his palms against his temples.

Weiss crept nearer. Black fluid dripped from King’s nose. A wicked sore was visible at the base of his neck, just inside his collar.

King grimaced and groaned more violently, then he coughed again. Weiss jumped back as dark mucus sprayed out.

“Make it stop!” King shouted, grabbing the dropped coffee mug and throwing it to shatter against the wall.

Nothing can stop it now, Weiss thought, but he said, “How long has it been since you saw the black fluid, Mr. King? How long? Where have you been? Who have you been in contact with?” With each question, Weiss backed farther away till he bumped into a stack of crates. “Did someone do this to you? I have to know where you’ve been!”

The Master-at-Arms vomited a viscous stream of dark liquid over his uniform. His skin was pale. When he raised his head, his eyes turned glassy and dark tears streamed out the sides.

“Mr. King!” Weiss yelled in desperation, holding up his bound hands. “Remember, you are a man!”

King bowed his head again, and for a long terrible moment, there was silence in the cargo hold. Then an excruciating moan rose in his throat, undulating louder and stronger, until the thing that had once been Mr. King rose on unsteady legs. Weiss and the creature regarded each other, and then Weiss made a leap for the hatch ladder. The zombie lunged to meet him, and the scientist narrowly sidestepped his grasp. The confined, crowded space left little room for maneuvering. Weiss raced behind a stack of crates, listening for King’s following footsteps.

When Weiss heard the shuffling gait nearing, he put his shoulder into the pile of wooden boxes. With a heavy crash, the crates fell atop Mr. King, whose head landed violently on the metal floor. The Master-of-Arms lay still and Weiss exhaled.

Then a plank of wood groaned and cracked loudly, and Weiss watched incredulously as King moaned, low and pained, and raised himself up onto his elbows. A deep gash cleaved the skin above his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. Seeing Weiss, King moaned louder still, mouth agape, and got to his feet once more. Weiss darted past and leaped for the ladder. He pulled his feet up onto the first rung, but his bound hands stymied further progress. In desperation, he released both hands at once and tried to grab a higher rung, only to miss and tumble backward to the floor.

Weiss looked up in horror to find the zombie standing over him. The creature lunged. From his back, Weiss frantically jammed the chain of his handcuffs into the hideous mouth, holding off the putrid, black-stained teeth with all his might.

He heard the sound of the hatch above creak open. “Mr. King!” someone shouted, and then Captain Smith, with sword swinging at his side, slid down the ladder in one fluid motion, not touching a single rung along the way. The zombie relented and peered hard at the captain, who grimaced at the sight of his former charge. Smith drew the blade in a flash and cleaved deeply into the zombie’s neck. A second blow fully decapitated Smith’s former Master-at-Arms, whose head bounced twice on the floor.