19

CAPTAIN SMITH’S QUARTERS.

SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1912. 11:40 P.M.

Dr. William O’Loughlin paced the length of the sitting room, pulling hard on a cigarette as Captain Smith’s emergency team assembled. Chief Officer Henry Wilde and First Officer William Murdoch joined Thomas Andrews and Theodor Weiss. J. Bruce Ismay, the last to arrive, stopped short and bristled at the presence of the German.

“I fail to understand,” Ismay said, “why this murderer is still among us.”

“Mr. Weiss brought this infection aboard,” Captain Smith said brusquely, “and he’ll damn well help us get rid of it. We need his expertise. I will not allow my ship to be overwhelmed.”

“And I say lock him up for his crimes,” Ismay retorted. “Remember who hired you, Captain.”

“And you may relieve me of my duties when we dock safely.” Smith turned his attention to the rest of the men. “As some of you know, a horrible plague has infected Titanic, and we must take action immediately. I was skeptical of Mr. Weiss’s claims at first, but I regret to say that I have now seen the zombies myself. God help me, I have already been forced to kill four times, including our poor Mr. King.”

“Zombies?” replied Officer Wilde.

Ismay said weakly, “You killed King?”

“King was a man no more,” said Smith.

“I saw King just this morning … “ protested Officer Murdoch.

“King is dead,” said the captain, “and at my hand.”

“A man can’t be killed just because he’s turned ill!” said Murdoch.

“You’re not listening,” said Smith. “King wasn’t ‘ill.’ He had turned into a monster.”

“With all due respect, Captain, saying there’s a disease aboard is one thing,” Officer Wilde said, trying to sound reasonable. “But this ‘monster’ talk is hard to swallow.”

Dr. O’Loughlin piped up. “Seeing is believing.”

O’Loughlin lifted a heavy canvas sea bag from beneath the table and set it on top with a heavy thump. He donned a pair of sterilized medical gloves, carefully loosened the cinched cord at the top of the bag, and rolled its contents onto the table.

Mr. Andrews made a retching sound and excused himself to the captain’s lavatory. Ismay also choked. The rest of the men simply looked on in horror.

The severed, grotesquely transformed head of Mr. King was terrifying. His eyes were open and staring into the void, sunk into hollows the color of violaceous bruises. Dark, dried fluid and blood stained his features and matted his hair. Though King had been dead only a few hours, his forehead was already rotting, and the gash above his eye had widened to expose ivory skull bone. Worst of all was the smell—a noxious odor of decaying meat and death, but somehow fouler yet, as if fired with Hell’s sulfur.

“My God,” managed Ismay. “It’s true.”

“No one touch it!” Weiss snapped. “If that fluid finds a way into your bloodstream, you could become infected, even now.”

All the men but O’Loughlin took a step back. No one said a word. Dr. O’Loughlin straightened his spine and, with a muffled cough, returned King’s head to the canvas bag.

Captain Smith stood. “The three infected were found in the aft of Deck E,” he said. “That seems to be where the disease has taken hold. Our mission is clear: We must take measures to make sure a proper quarantine is in place.”

“What makes you so sure this madman won’t release more on other parts of the ship?” asked Dr. O’Loughlin.

“Neither the agent nor the Germans have any reason to infect Titanic’s passengers,” said Weiss. “He simply needed to authenticate the vial’s contents. Now that he has, he needs to escape with as much of the Toxic as possible to satisfy the German military.”

“Quarantine it is, then,” said O’Loughlin. “What kind of time do we have here?”

“The infection cycle runs in three stages, taking anywhere from seven to fourteen hours, depending on how long it takes for the sickness to reach the brain,” Weiss said. “If we act quickly, math may be on our side. We know of five cases so far, and all the infected have been killed. The contaminated areas have been thoroughly cleaned. It might be too much to hope, but Captain Smith may have stopped the outbreak altogether.”

“I’m not as optimistic,” said O’Loughlin, clearing his throat with difficulty. “Who knows what kind of trail of black fluid the men have left behind? I’ve cleaned what I’ve found, but that might not be all.”

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” interrupted Ismay, “but why are we listening to Mr. Weiss, if that’s truly his name, and treating him as if he’s some sort of medical dignitary? By his own admission, he has brought a disease on board that could kill us all! Who’s to say he isn’t the very same ‘German agent’ he’s warning us about? Can he prove he’s not? Perhaps he’s trying to turn Titanic into some kind of weapon against New York City itself!”

For a moment, each man looked to Weiss, who shifted uncomfortably. Then he squared his shoulders and said defiantly, “If you doubt my veracity, lock me up again. I have no further proof, and every moment we spend arguing my credibility only gives the disease more time to spread. We’re dealing with a fast-acting contagion, closed quarters, and a heavily populated ship. For God’s sake, stop talking and act now!”

Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Ismay, I agree. Mr. Weiss has much to answer for, but this is not the time. We must first contain this disease, and swiftly. Mr. Wilde, you will assign a crew of our strongest able seamen to accompany Mr. Weiss, Mr. Andrews, and myself down to Deck E. Once there, we will do our level best to isolate the healthy and lock up any infected persons until we reach New York.”

“Captain, the sick must be destroyed,” said Weiss. “There is no cure, and they’ll only infect more!”

“You have no cure,” said Ismay. “We’ll find out what American scientists say when we get to New York.”

“Mr. Andrews,” said the captain, ignoring the bickering. “Deck plans, if you would.”

Still pale, Andrews returned from the lavatory. The ship’s designer retrieved a canister from the corner of the room and pulled out a set of schematic drawings, with separate pages for each of Titanic’s ten decks. Seven decks above propulsion crew areas held passenger cabins, with Deck E right in the middle. He unfurled the Deck E plan, and the men closed around it.

Andrews said, “Deck E is one of the most heavily populated areas on Titanic. A very dangerous place for an epidemic.”

“Our hope is that the disease is contained among passengers located here,” said the captain, pointing to a series of third-class cabins lining both sides of the ship’s aft.

Andrews pulled a grease pencil from behind his ear. “There are five ways to access Deck E from the aft part of the ship,” he noted, making a series of circles on the blueprints. “We’ll need two men at each of these stairwells, as well as this elevator. That should provide safety for passengers on the three decks above, and if we do our jobs well, on the three decks below.”

“Many of the men are off duty for the night,” cautioned Wilde. “Some will be sleeping, some might need to sleep off their evening, if you get my meaning. It might take some time to assemble and coordinate such a sizable team.”

“Then get at it,” said Captain Smith. “If we’re quick about our work, we should be able to assess the danger and, if necessary, enact our quarantine before the passengers start waking for the day.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?” asked Ismay, unbuttoning his top collar button.

“With welding torches from the Deck E electrical supply,” Smith replied. “We’ll use a porter’s key to access the rooms. If the passengers inside show signs of the illness …”

“Surely we won’t imprison them inside,” protested Andrews, who was reminded of the stories of “the Tomb.”

“In lieu of other, more permanent measures,” said Weiss, “locking them inside their cabins is in the best interests of every healthy person on the ship.”

None of this sat well with Ismay. “What do you expect me to communicate to the rest of the passengers who request access to their bought-and-paid-for amenities on the lower decks?” he asked. “And what about the healthy? Surely they won’t remain trapped with the sick!”

“We may have to set up some sort of area for them, perhaps in the second-class dining hall,” Dr. O’Loughlin offered.

“Certainly not!” said Ismay. “Imagine the press! The gossip!”

“If this disease spreads,” replied Smith, “the press will be the least of our worries.” Ismay reddened but said nothing.

“Mr. Wilde, you will man the bridge,” ordered the captain. “Mr. Murdoch, assemble an arsenal consisting of guns, clubs, and whatever else might serve. Just in case matters are worse than we anticipate.”

“If I may, Captain?” said Mr. Andrews. “I think it’s important that we give the able seamen joining us a healthy fear of what they could face down below.”

With his grease pencil, Andrews drew a line through “Deck E” atop his deck plans. Then with a careful architect’s hand, he wrote in a new name for the infected area: Deck Z.