Tip of the Iceberg Page 20

  The rotting figure of the ship’s nurse opened her mouth to speak, but the loud splattering sound of her decomposing bowels falling to the floor beneath her uniform drowned out anything she may have uttered. Sister O’Malley looked down at the mass of congealed body tissue seeping out from below her full-length skirt with confusion, as if some latent knowledge of human physiology told her she should be dead, not standing outside Doctor Sampson’s cabin face-to-face with another of his young harlots. She shuffled towards Esme who retreated into the cabin, sobbing in terror.

  Esme’s foot brushed against the doctor’s body and she fought the urge to scream. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. The situation she found herself in would be hard to explain away, and this was the second rotting member of the Devil’s crew she had encountered. How many more would come if she screamed? She eyed the open doorway behind the lumbering nurse and knew if she were to escape her deadly clutches and avoid being dragged into Hell, then she could afford to delay no longer.

  Esme charged at the approaching O’Malley, evading her outstretched arms and smashing her shoulder into her soft, plump body, driving her out of the cabin and slamming her into the wall. The force of the impact caused thick, vile smelling sanguineous fluid to spray from the dead woman’s open cavities. Her now ill-fitting uniform left a glistening dark smear down the wall as she slid to the floor. Esme, knocked off her feet by the initial impact, scrabbled across the deck to evade the stunned nurse’s flailing arms before regaining her feet and hurrying towards the stairway at the end of the corridor.

  As she passed the suite that formed the ship’s hospital, she heard a loud crash. Checking over her shoulder she witnessed O’Malley, still lying on the ground, eating her own intestines. Content she was not being pursued, Esme ducked inside the hospital suite intent on warning whoever had come in search of medical attention about ...

  Esme stopped in her tracks. She had to warn them about what? That the doctor was dead and his assistant, Nurse Stench, had resorted to crawling around on the deck eating her own innards. Who, outside the walls of Bethlem Hospital, would believe such a farfetched story? But still, she reasoned, whoever was in the suite may still be in need of help and she should at least warn them of the dangers lurking in the corridors.

  She approached the swing door to the treatment area and, standing on tiptoes, peeked through the small round observation window. A narrow bed covered in a blood-soaked sheet occupied the centre of the room, and next to it Esme saw an overturned trolley, its contents scattered across the floor. The far wall consisted of a row of glass-fronted cabinets in front of which stood the hunched figure of a man, his back to her.

  Easing the door open an inch, Esme called out softly, “Hello, are you hurt?”

  The man turned to face her, his features obscured by the spider web of ruptured veins below his skin. Blood caked his clothes and matted his hair and when he began to walk towards her, his movements, although swift, appeared unnatural and ungainly.

  Esme let the door swing shut and ran towards the stairs like she should have done as soon as she escaped the nurse’s vile clutches. Whatever had happened to these people appeared to have started on the lower decks and was now spreading up through the ship. She needed to get to Bridget’s cabin; it was obvious they would have to rethink their plans, as it would not be safe for Bridget to hideout in steerage.

  Forty-four

  Callahan opened the gate separating the first and second class areas of the ship from steerage then stepped back to allow Officer Moody to enter. At first, this part of the ship seemed quiet, almost deserted. They locked the gate behind them and walked side by side down the stairs. Davis, whom they couldn’t persuade, ‘not for all the tea in China,’ as he succinctly put it, to stay at the swimming pool, brought up the rear.

  As they neared the bottom of the stairs, they heard a commotion from farther down the corridor; a door slammed, raised voices followed by a scuffle. Moody lengthened his stride and Callahan had to break into a trot to catch him before placing his hand on the officer’s arm, physically holding him back.

  “I don’t think you should be too hasty. If there is something on this ship killing people, rotting their bodies from the inside and leaving their husks to feed off the living, I would not be too quick to encounter it.”

  “We must offer our aid to the living; besides, how many of these living corpses can there be?” Moody shrugged the American’s restraining hand away and continued to walk purposefully towards the disturbance. Reaching a corner he looked down the shorter transverse corridor. He stopped so quickly that Davis, glancing over his shoulder at the safety of the stairs behind them, failed to notice and walked into him at full tilt.

  “I’m so sorry, sir.” His words were instinctive, and he fully expected a dressing-down from Moody, but his superior hardly noticed the collision, so intense was his focus on the crossway. Able seaman Davis looked in the direction of Moody’s shocked stare.

  “What ... the ... fuck ...” His words trailed away as he tried to make some sense of the melee of people filling the short passageway. After the incident in the swimming pool, he thought he had seen enough disturbing sights to last him a lifetime, now he realized that was a mere sample of the horrors to come.

  The corridor contained thirty or so people, all of whom appeared dead, their bodies in varying states of decomposition and most dressed in the plain, practical working class clothes of the immigrants travelling steerage. One wore the remains of a White Star seaman’s uniform although it, like its wearer, only had one arm, the hat set jauntily on a head missing half its face.

  Most had gathered in two groups, their attention focused on shapeless bundles lying on the ground. From the nearest of these two groups, a pair of legs protruded from beneath the general melee. They were smartly dressed in the same White Star uniform the half-faced corpse wore and the shoes were unmistakably well polished.

  Then briefly, as if allowing the crewmen a glimpse of what was in store for them, the throng parted to reveal the eviscerated remains of a member of the search party sent to investigate this section of the vessel. The assembled throng had torn open the man’s abdomen, ripping his organs from the exposed cavity before leaving his entrails pooled in a sticky-looking heap on the blood-soaked deck. Such was the extent of his traumatic death that his identity would have to remain a mystery. A young woman with wild, curly hair the colour of marmalade sat feasting from the ragged neck wound, dipping her fingers into the throat’s open bore then licking them clean, like she was stealing from a honey pot.

  Farther down the corridor, two men tussled over a human leg ripped forcibly from its original owner, several tendons and the straggling remains of its arteries dangled from the jagged stump. Blood still dripped from the severed end, spraying both the walls and those standing nearby, as the feuding monsters swung it back and forth. The others didn’t seem to mind, one even opened his mouth trying to catch the flying droplets on his swollen black tongue.

  Davis sank to his knees and stared at the remains of his fellow crew member with unseeing eyes, his senses shutting down to protect his fragile mind from the atrocity he was witnessing.

  It was Callahan who reacted first. He grabbed Moody by his shoulder and dragged him back from the corner. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement. The undead, which were no longer huddled masses gathered around their fresh kill, were beginning to move towards the three sailors. Only two or three at first, but more were leaving the throng to join them with each passing second. Individually, their movements were ungainly and awkward, but as a pack, they moved with inexhaustible determination, like wolves running down their prey. Determined, relentless and focused solely on the kill.

  “Sir!” Callahan’s voice had risen in pitch, his gestures becoming more frantic as the pack closed in.

  Moody looked at the American tugging urgently on his arm, a moment of confusion clouding his features. Then, comprehending the approaching danger, his expression turn
ed to one of gratitude as the two men stumbled away from the seething mass of death and decay.

  It was only as they reached the relative safety of the stairs they discovered able seaman Davis had not followed them. Pausing, Moody looked back ready to encourage one of the most experienced seafarers under his command to make a final bid for safety. The words died in his throat as he watched Davis, still kneeling in a catatonic stupor, being engulfed by the first wave of diseased corpses. For a fleeting moment, Davis turned towards his fleeing comrades as if pleading for their help.

  Then he was gone.

  Moody watched the feeding frenzy for a few seconds. He didn’t know if it was because he felt he owed it to Davis or whether it was as penance to absolve his own guilt at abandoning a man, although not deliberately, to certain death. If it was the latter, it did not work. With a heavy heart burdened with the guilt only a survivor knows, he turned and followed Callahan up the stairs. They locked the gate behind them hoping to contain the rotting core of the deadly plague before it threatened the entire ship.

  In silence, they hurried to tell the captain of their discovery, their search for the missing bodies all but forgotten. Neither man dared put his fears into words, but both knew the plague had already spread throughout the ship and no amount of locked gates would keep them alive until they docked in New York.

  Forty-five

  Captain Smith was seated at a table in the ostentatious surroundings of the first class saloon. The conversation centred largely on the Titanic herself with Guggenheim firing questions at the three White Star men like an excited child while Andrews and Ismay revelled in the attention. They talked in detail about specifications and costs and regaled the industrialist and the delightful Mrs. Grafton with humorous anecdotes about the vessel’s design and construction even hinting, for the captain’s benefit, about how soon they could be in New York if they lit all the boilers.

  Captain Smith noticed Mrs. Grafton followed the conversation with her eyes and laughed at all the right moments but appeared distant, even checking the time on several occasions. He wondered, absentmindedly, why she, still barely out of her wedding dress, had chosen to dine with the well-known philanderer, Guggenheim, as it would not go unnoticed in the tight circles of high society. A scandal would probably only enhance the industrialist’s reputation; the same wouldn’t be true for the Grafton’s. Still, it wasn’t his concern what the rich and famous got up to. He had his own problems, not least a potential scandal that could ruin White Star’s glowing reputation.

  He thought maybe that was what everything came down to, reputation. What would happen to him as captain of the liner where not only people died, but the deceased bodies then went missing? Perhaps he should have retired when his wife first suggested it. He could be pruning the roses in a cottage garden in Dorset now, not walking the political tightrope of trans-Atlantic steam commerce while searching for an unknown killer.

  “The lamb is absolutely divine, don’t you agree, Captain?”

  Jerked uncomfortably from his private train of thought, he felt slightly embarrassed to find Mrs. Grafton looking at him expectantly. The three other men were still deep in conversation about the price of coal and the effect it was having on the industry and were oblivious to either her question or his confusion.

  “I’m so sorry Mrs. Grafton, I was miles away. Please go on.”

  The attractive socialite gave him an understanding smile and nodded towards his plate. “The lamb,” she repeated, “divine.”

  “It most certainly is, Mrs. Grafton. But one would expect nothing less from the chefs on this, or for that matter, any other White Star vessel.” He returned her smile, grateful she did not take umbrage at his brief lapse of manners.

  “They are to be congratulated,” she raised her wine glass in toast, “as are you, Captain. This is a splendid ship. I’m sure you’re very proud of her.”

  “I am, but also humble enough to know the ship’s splendour is down to Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews; I cannot take credit for that.” He too raised his glass, and with a twinkle in his eye added, “To the Titanic, and all who sail her.”

  “And to the lamb, that she died not in vain,” replied Mrs. Grafton with a polite, but genuine, laugh before taking a generous sip from her glass.

  Captain Smith, out of politeness rather than interest, was just about to ask why her husband had chosen not to dine with them when a steward appeared at his side brandishing a folded piece of paper. “From Mr. Moody, sir. He was incredibly insistent on the urgency of this matter.”

  “My dear, Mrs. Grafton, if you would excuse me for a moment, duty calls.” He took the piece of paper and read the note, aware the other men at the table had stopped their discussion and were looking on expectantly. Ignoring them he quietly asked the steward, “Where is Mr. Moody now?”

  “He, and Mr. Callahan, are waiting in the pantry, sir.” From his calm demeanour, Smith guessed he had not taken the time to read Moody’s scribbled note.

  “Thank you, that’ll be all.” The steward left the table as unobtrusively as he had arrived. “Mrs. Grafton. Gentleman. I’m afraid I must attend to a few matters, if you will excuse me?” Captain Smith rose from the table, gesturing for the others to remain seated.

  Bruce Ismay eyed the captain suspiciously. He had known him long enough to know when something was amiss, and it was out of character for him to interrupt a meal, especially with someone as important as Guggenheim. “Is everything as it should be, Captain?”

  Captain Smith chose to ignore Ismay’s tone, his suggestion being if anything delayed their arrival in New York, he would place the blame squarely on the captain’s shoulders.

  “Everything is on course as expected,” replied Smith with a confident air. “I have a small matter I need to attend to with one of my officers, which, I am afraid, cannot wait.” With that, he hurried away before Ismay could ask any further questions. If what he had read in the note was true, then nothing was as it should be.

  Captain Smith strode into the pantry. He could feel his anger rising and hoped he misunderstood the note from Officer Moody. One look at his Sixth Officer’s ashen face as he hunched over the table sipping tea from a china cup, told him he had understood it perfectly. Smith looked around the small pantry, ensuring nobody else was present. Callahan stood with his back against the wall, just staring at the ground. Neither man acknowledged his arrival.

  “How bad is it, Mr. Moody?”

  It took Moody a few moments to answer, and then he mumbled, “The worst kind of bad.”

  The captain, his mood already fractious from the day’s events, found his patience wearing thin. The two men were obviously in shock but he had a job to do, and they were professional seaman. It was he who shouldered the responsibility for every man, woman, and child aboard ship and he needed answers: proper, informative answers. He raised his voice slightly, hoping his impatience didn’t come through too strongly in his tone, and repeated the question.

  Officer Moody looked him full in the eye, his features dour and emotionless, and said, “They’re all dead.”

  “Who’s dead, for God’s sake man, make sense!”

  “Baines, Davis, the search party in steerage, and probably everybody else down there by now. There are people, no, dead people, a lot of dead people, sir ... and they’re eating the living.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Moody. How can the dead eat the living? That is simply the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”

  Smith’s simmering rage threatened to boil over. How could one of his officers believe, let alone report, such supernatural mumbo jumbo? A few people die, granted in circumstances that did not, on face value, appear normal and he had to accept those bodies were misplaced, possibly stolen. But to believe the dead had risen to claim further victims was insane. Mr. Moody must, he thought, be suffering from some form of hysteria brought on, no doubt, by the stress of the job.

  “He speaks true.” Callahan’s voice was quiet, calm, his stare still fix
ed on a point just in front of his own toes. “We witnessed both Baines and Davis die in the most gruesome of ways, one that, should I live to be a hundred and given what I witnessed, I think that unlikely, will never leave me. The dead just tore them apart before our eyes, a similar fate had already befallen those in the search party. I saw the arm of a friend of mine hanging from the jaws of a passenger who in turn, was missing his left ear and half his neck. A man would be hard pushed to survive such an injury let alone summon the strength to tear another man’s arm from his body.” The American finally looked up, his eyes sunken into his sallow complexion. “The devil has designs on this ship, and we can do naught to thwart his advances, and that, sir, is the uncomfortable truth.”

  The captain looked from his junior officer to the able seaman and back again, weighing the information. The doctor’s earlier words about the third victim’s bites being human in nature provided some credence to their story, but then, Moody had attended that same meeting. Could that have clouded his judgment, fuelled the hysteria? He decided he needed to see things for himself, especially if, as Callahan believed, the entire ship and the lives of everyone on board were at stake.

  Finally, he said, “Will you two gentlemen be so good as to escort me down to steerage so I can see all this for myself.”

  They looked at each other in silence. Both had a faraway look in their eyes as if reliving the anguish and trauma of their last horrifying jaunt into the depths of the ship. As if by some unspoken bond, both men nodded their acceptance of his request.

  “But I’m going to finish my tea first,” said Moody, adding chillingly, “No point in leaving it, I doubt I’ll be back.”

  “Come now, Mr. Moody, we will only venture to the dividing gates. What harm could possibly occur?”

  The captain hoped his voice sounded as confident and calm as he intended. His unflappable, cool exterior, a trait he had become well renowned for among the sailors who served under him, was in danger of slipping away. The evidence pointed to a phenomenon even half a century of trans-world sea travel couldn’t prepare him for, and if there was one thing Captain Edward Smith hated, it was being ill prepared.