Call Me Ismay (43 page)

2:07 A.M.

Langston, in the back of his mind surprised at his own fortitude and newfound strength, hurried down the sloping deck in the exact opposite direction that everyone else was headed. Loosening its cork slightly, he hastily put the vial of holy water into one of his coat pockets, and a small wooden stake in another. He knew from Lillith's frantic gestures that he had to be practically right on top of where something especially dreadful was occurring. He stopped more than once, trying to listen for signs of a struggle, but he knew it was in vain, as the sound of water invading spaces that were never meant to be flooded increased. The ship itself occasionally groaned, and the screams of people who knew they were likely to be dead in mere moments assaulted him from all directions. He was fast approaching the bridge wing, which was as far as he could possibly go, when suddenly something moderately large, black, and possibly winged flew right past his face, missing him by mere inches, and darted into the bridge. Discombobulated, he swatted at the air in front of him. As he stumbled, his eyes fell downward, and although the light was dim, he could plainly see the water on that part of the deck was suddenly turning dark and cloudy. He rubbed his face and looked again, his eyes travelling into the bridge wing. He saw the inky cloud was spreading, and that a ship's officer was badly hurt. Blood was turning the seawater black, and the victim was not moving.

He snapped his head around to the bridge, at once frightened and angry. He moved immediately in that direction, coming round the door just in time to see Bartholomew Gidley, who was in a far corner of the tilting bridge, waist deep in the increasing water. In the half-light, Langston felt Gidley's demonic eyes upon him, and he could see what appeared to be dark corners or edges coming up from his shoulders that seemed to be receding and folding into the dark cloth of his coat. Most surprisingly, Gidley was also in the very manner-of-fact act of eating an apple.

“Good evening, or should I say more accurately, good
morning
, lad,” Gidley said between smacking, slurping chews of his fruit in a tone of voice that was anything but warm. “Just enjoying Myself a Granny Smith apple. It is extremely tart, when compared to a Laxton's Superb. I've kept it on Me in the event of hunger. Now, you're probably wondering why I just engaged in that dramatic bit of physical change. I usually do not care for transformation because it uses too many blood credits, in fact that little move cost Me just about everything I had, but there are times when it's appropriate to move quickly.  You're a brave one to follow Me in here.”

“Bartholomew Gidley,” Langston shouted in a clear, strong voice, freezing water covering his feet and holding the vampire kit the same way a preacher might hold the Bible. “I know
exactly
what you are, and on behalf of my brother Masons, the time has come for you to face the consequences of your actions.”

2:08 A.M.

Edward Lyons had been skulking the decks for roughly ten minutes now, drinking in the chaos that had been relatively simple to initiate. He was also keeping a possessive eye out for Lillith. After observing the crew's stubborn refusal to help the men while grabbing the women against their wishes, he was concerned that a member of the overzealous crew had pitched her into a lifeboat. Gidley's unclean killing had pierced Lyons's ears a few moments earlier. He assumed that meant Gidley had in fact been successful in getting into the Marconi room.

His leisurely, studious stroll stood in stark contrast to the panic that surrounded him. He noted to himself casually the walk aft had been getting a little bit more steep with every passing minute, and gradually he surmised that retrieving Lillith was probably, by now, a moot point. The night, with its deception, intrigue, and its scale of revenge on both Ismay and Lillith, had been a masterpiece.

As the ship's slow but steady plunge downward continued, he selected a vantage point aft where he could glance down and forward at the fruits of his labor, and perhaps catch a fleeting glimpse of Lillith, for all it was worth. What made it impossible to enjoy, however, was that Father Thomas Byles, an English Catholic priest, had also taken up residence in that part of the ship. He was about to grant absolution to the terror-stricken passengers who had been left behind. Lyons scowled as Father Byles began to lead passengers through the rosary, and it occurred to him with a slight touch of dread that a crucifix or two might actually be present in the area. He made a point of turning his back on the priest, folding his arms, sighing loudly in disgust, and staring resolutely forward.
I can't even relish My finest hour without Jesus Christ stepping in to ruin that, too,
he thought.

2:09 A.M.

Gidley had stepped out a bit from his corner, sloshing through the rising water, amazed and amused at Langston's brazen statement.

“You, lad...
you
are to hold
Me
accountable for My actions?” he asked, incredulous.

“Once a reporter, always a reporter,” Langston replied. “Someone has to keep an eye on the likes of you.”

“The
likes
of-!” Gidley exclaimed, tossing his half-eaten apple aside. “Young man, I could regale you with stories of the many reporters I have dispatched in My time, but it seems that this ship is sinking.”

“Yes, it's something I might not survive,” Langston stated urgently, the lower half of his legs immersed in seawater and the rest of his body now dripping with sweat. “But it seems that
you
might- although there are ways to stop that.”

“And what do you suppose those are to be?” Gidley asked menacingly, stepping even closer.

Langston moved with speed that surprised even Gidley. He hurled the box at him with all his might, striking him directly in the face. As the box splintered, fell open and spilled its contents all over the flooding bridge, Langston grabbed the vial of holy water out of his coat pocket. He pulled the cork with his right hand and then lunged forward with the vial in his left, splashing water on Gidley's upraised hand by his face.

Gidley shrieked in pain like a wounded animal. It was a reaction with such intensity that it sent Langston stumbling back a few steps. Gidley turned away from Langston, clutching his left hand while watching some of its skin peel away as if it had been exposed to a corrosive. “You bastard! You simpering little bastard!” he screeched. Little pockmarks quickly formed on his forehead and temples where a few drops of the holy water had made contact near his face. He turned back to Langston, who could clearly see some of the white bones in Gidley's hand.

“There will be no heroes tonight!” he bellowed. “When will you deluded fools learn?” He breathed heavily, then with his good hand pointed to one of
Titanic's
polished brass dials- specifically, the speed order marked DEAD SLOW.

“Life's but a shadow, man's but dust, this dial says die we all must. Words to live and die by, mister.”

Langston felt his stomach drop as the bridge continued to tilt forward. Faced with an opponent- and, as he now fully understood, an entire night- that was deadly, he immediately clutched the wooden stake in his right pocket, drew it out and lunged at Gidley.

The vampire grabbed Langston's hand, and slowly, slowly allowed a kaleidoscope of fire to spin in his eyes. Their faces were just inches apart, Langston desperately trying to push the stake somehow forward, Gidley not budging.

“Reporters,” Gidley whispered. “So easily dispatched.”

He whipped him around, pinning him to the bridge's starboard wall, crushing his hand until he dropped the stake. He opened his mouth, let his fangs descend, and plunged them into the left side of Langston's neck. He then promptly and messily pulled them out, causing blood to spurt like a stream. Langston, coughing, gasping, and wincing in horrible pain, clutched his hand to his neck in an attempt to stop the blood, but it was futile.

“Your blood's not even worth drinking,” Gidley growled at him, stepping away from him as his body began to slump, and exited the bridge on the starboard side.

Kerry Langston died with his eyes open, the now-empty vampire kit floating nearby, his blood creating a crimson cloud in the rising seawater.

2:11 A.M.

She was in a daze, on her hands and knees in a few inches of water when the piercing shriek came. It exploded through her head and this time it shot into her heart.

As if electrocuted, Lillith jolted straight up- her throat closing and not allowing her to breathe.

She spun around, knowing full well what had just occurred, realizing it was entirely too late. She began to run aft on the port side, her hair wild and her face streaked with tears of blood. Her stumbling body contorted in anguish and pain.  The strains of “Song d'Autmone” drifted over her shoulders as she ran frantically past members of the ship's orchestra, devoting themselves to just one last song.

2:13 A.M.

Bartholomew Gidley had pulled himself over the edge of the starboard bridge wing, and was now treading water with dozens upon dozens of others. Lights on the forward part of the ship burned eerily underwater several feet below. He allowed himself a chuckle as he realized that those already in the water with him were swimming frantically towards the lifeboats in the distance. While personally oblivious to the cold, he knew that none of those fleeing had a chance of living more than a few minutes in the 28-degree water. “Extraordinary, isn't it?” He called out to no one in particular. “Finding ourselves in this position after spending so much money for a ticket!”

He spat out the salty seawater that seemed annoyingly determined to fill his mouth, as he dog-paddled in the sea. Unbeknownst to him, about fifty yards away in the water on the port side, a frantic Marcus was being faithful until the end. “Sir! Sir!” he called out in desperation as he flailed his arms and tried to stay above water, still trying to find his master.

As Gidley surveyed the situation, paddling over the bow and toward the port side, from behind him came several loud reports not unlike gunfire. “Who's the crew bloody shooting at now? The boats are gone already!” he declared.

He turned about and realized the source of the noise. The wires supporting one of
Titanic's
funnels- namely, the one directly behind the bridge- were starting to fail and they were snapping down into the water with tremendous force. He quickly realized that the funnel was warping at its base and beginning to collapse, and was, in fact, about to land right on top of him.

“I always wanted to see the bottom of the North Atlantic,” he said with sarcastic understatement.

All 62 feet and 60 tons of the funnel came tumbling forward. It smashed violently into the ocean, crushing dozens of people and nearly destroying or capsizing several lifeboats.

Bartholomew Gidley's body- if he did indeed part with it- was never found.

2:14 A.M.

Edward Lyons, trying to maintain his balance with the ship at a nineteen degree angle, had by now covered his ears in frustration. He was increasingly agitated by Father Byles, with his prayers and his hearing of confessions. While successfully avoiding the sight of any crucifix, the recitation of the rosary was making Lyons's skin crawl. He continued to stare forward, trying to take in the destruction he had caused. He pressed his hands to his head even tighter in an attempt to block out any sound of holy absolution, when a distinct, shrill, female cry of pain that could not have been muffled by anything made it through to him.

There came a figure- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, becoming clearer as the seconds passed. It first seemed to drift, stagger, then move ahead with purpose, and Lyons knew that he had a completely distraught Lillith on his hands.

He felt rage, then confusion. Had the collision somehow driven the woman to the edge of insanity? As she approached him, his mind reeled with thoughts of domination and outright hatred.

But as he stepped towards her, before a single word had left his lips, Lillith delivered the most vicious slap to the face that he'd ever received.

“You bastard, what have You done to Kerry?” she screamed.

“Kerry? Kerry who?” he responded, his vision jarred by Lillith's assault.

“Kerry Langston, You bastard!”
she screamed, slapping him yet again.