DECK Z, AFT PASSENGER CABINS.
SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 9:10 A.M.
Zombies in their night clothes and dressing gowns continued to pour forth from cabin doors and filled the foyer. Often two and three emerged from a single room. The numbers were skewed far in the monsters’ favor. Andrews shakily raised his Webley pistol. “Stop or I’ll shoot again!” he cried. The zombies moaned at his shouts and lumbered toward Andrews as if he’d extended an invitation.
Smith was undaunted. He stepped in front of Andrews and gracefully beheaded two zombies with short, powerful strokes. “Steady, Mr. Andrews,” he cautioned. “We’ll be done if we lose our heads.”
Andrews aimed true, let out a breath slowly, and squeezed the trigger. A zombie’s head exploded, its body flying backward and knocking over several more.
Behind them, Weiss grimaced as he used his knife-stick to fight off two men in tattered shirts, working the riddle in his mind all the while. Had the Kaiser’s man somehow slipped the Toxic into the ship’s water supply? While not impossible, it was not probable. The Titanic’s fresh water tanks were enormous. Even the Toxic would likely become diluted in such a volume, and Weiss was unsure whether the infection could survive such conditions. But somehow, the disease was spreading faster than he’d imagined possible.
Andrews aimed his gun at a ghoul near Weiss, but the hammer stopped cold. It was jammed! “Can you make it to me, Mr. Weiss?” yelled Andrews. “My gun’s no good, but I can shut this door and confine the zombies behind it!”
“Excellent, Mr. Andrews,” said Smith. “I’m ordering you to hold that door.” Smith waded deeper into the pack of zombies to open an avenue of escape for the scientist. “Mr. Weiss! Fight your way to me!” The captain struck down more creatures with a display of swordsmanship that left the German awestruck, each thrust and slash in tempo. “Behind you, Mr. Weiss,” cautioned the captain.
Weiss spun, fending off a portly zombie in a ragged robe. He jabbed the ponderous monster in the thigh so that it stumbled to the ground, and then put the blade through the thing’s neck. You can do this, thought Weiss. Take the fight to your adversary. Put your fear aside.
“Perfect, your weapon serves you well. Jab them in the head when possible,” Smith instructed. “Now, sir, let’s get back to back and return to Mr. Andrews.” The two men quickly moved tight together. “From here we dance, Mr. Weiss. I will lead.”
Smith began moving in a clockwise pattern and when Weiss didn’t immediately follow, the captain ordered, “Stay with me now, it’s back to back all the way.”
Weiss saw the strategy: Their synchronized movement formed a thrusting, spinning dervish of sorts, with Smith’s rapier surgically cutting a path toward the door while Weiss protected the captain’s back, constantly stabbing as the fiends grabbed at them from all sides. The rotating motion ensured Smith and Weiss could not be assaulted from the rear and were always shifting among their opponents. The crudity of the zombies’ approach aided Smith and Weiss greatly.
Soon they broke through. Smith stopped the circular motion and yelled, “Go, Mr. Weiss!”
Weiss ran, joining Andrews on the other side of the watertight door.
“Now, Mr. Andrews!” ordered the captain. Andrews began lowering the door, as the mob swelled like a river flowing toward the captain. He readied himself to defend the opening till it closed.
“How long will this take to shut?” snapped Weiss.
“Approximately twenty-five seconds,” said Andrews.
“They’ll overpower the captain by then!”
“These demons,” growled Smith, “will do no such thing.” He seemed to be somewhere else while unleashing a brutal torrent of lightning-fast, slashing thrusts that sent limbs and heads flying like they were spit out of a tornado.
“Now, Captain Smith,” Andrews yelled. Smith turned and slid under the door as it closed the last three feet to the floor.
Weiss and Andrews were speechless at the fury of Captain Smith’s final assault. Smith bent over, catching his breath, but otherwise he had emerged without a scratch. Andrews exclaimed, “The beasts couldn’t get at you, sir. They couldn’t even lay a hand on you! Your skills as a swordsman are simply extraordinary!”
“Let’s hope,” puffed Smith, his chest heaving, “that they won’t be put to the test again.”