Call Me Ismay (40 page)

“Lillith, where is this happening? Do you know?”

“Th- They could be anywhere on this ship,” she gulped, her face wincing in pain.

Langston stood, and saw activity on the roof of the officer's quarters, behind the wheelhouse. The collapsible lifeboats were being prepared.

“Lillith,” Langston said, urgently thinking his plan through, “perhaps from up there I will have a vantage point where I can spot them. It's as good a chance as any, and I suspect that the decks below are now awash with water. Lillith,” he said tenderly, kneeling down before her, “will you be all right if I should try to go up there? I won't be too far from sight, I promise.”

“Y- Yes, please, go,” she replied, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. “Even if- even if all this was an accident, it's becoming a slaughter.”

1:26 A.M.

Bruce Ismay, his skin now reddened by the cold, had done all in his power to help, but the horrible math involving the number of lifeboats and the profusion of passengers had already been calculated in the back of his mind, and it was too terrible a thing to contemplate. He had taken a step back from his self-appointed post on the starboard side of the forward part of the Boat Deck, momentarily distracted by the sound of the Engelhart lifeboats being shoved about on the wheelhouse roof above him.

It was the split second of opportunity that Edward Lyons needed. Grabbing Ismay by the scruff of his neck, he practically lifted him off the deck and carried him with lightning speed back into the empty gymnasium. He tossed the head of the White Star Line to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Ismay, confounded and frightened, landed on his hands and knees. He skittishly looked up at Lyons, who was slamming the gymnasium's door behind him.

“Wh- what the bloody hell do you want with me now?” Ismay demanded.

“I should like to kick you in the ribs, draw blood from you through your ears, maybe take inspiration from My man Gidley, strip you naked, and impale you rectally on the rowing machine there,” Lyons sneered. “But, since all of that is something tangible, something plain, I shall do worse and strip you of your pride and your honor.”

“I have done nothing so offensive as to warrant this untenable treatment!” Ismay shrieked in outrage.

Lyons pounced and landed in a kneeling position just inches from Ismay's face. “I shall be the determiner of that,” he whispered menacingly. “It's all right, Mr. Ismay. We men always have Our one special lady that We suffer for. Mine is Lillith. And your lady will be
Titanic
.”

Before Ismay could protest, Lyons hollered the transfixion charm “
This blood shall be enough!”
and snapped his fingers, instantly plunging Ismay into a stupor.

“Now, listen carefully. Your memories of this night will be few. Your motives will be questioned, and any respect and sympathy that you might have gained will be lost forever. When you are called forth to explain and describe this night, and trust Me, you will be, your answers will appear self-serving, and baffling. Any attempt on your part to recall information that might help to recover your reputation will be like trying to restore water that's been pulled away by the ocean's tide. Only traces of it will remain, and, even if it returned to you, it would never quite be the same. Have you got all of that?”

Lyons knew he wouldn't be receiving a response. He was mostly enjoying the fact that J. Bruce Ismay- one of the most powerful men on the ship- was currently in a trance resembling an opiate-induced stupor, and completely under his control.

“I think I shall leave you here for awhile. There is quite a bit more damage to inflict.”

Lyons stood up and left Ismay behind. The head of the White Star Line would not save another life that night.

1:31 A.M.

After wading through seawater for several minutes, all that remained of the gruesome blood spatters that had left Bartholomew Gidley looking like a butcher was a large, fairly pinkish stain on the dress shirt underneath his coat.

He made his way to the Second Class stateroom where Lillith was to have remained secluded. The electric lights in the deserted hallway flickered.
Titanic's
continued slow plunge downward was becoming more and more keenly felt. As the ship's wood and ironwork faced increasing, unanticipated strain, the twisting and groaning sounds became louder, and even seemed to reverberate throughout the ship's hull like echoes in a haunted cave.

Gidley approached the door to Lillith's stateroom and growled under his breath. “Time to return to your Master, wench. I'd just as soon make a figurehead out of you.”

He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it, opened the door, and found the berth completely empty.

“Twelve apostles in a stockade!”
he snapped. “Where has that cursed wench gone to now?”

1:36 A.M.

Lifeboat No.11 had just been lowered from the aft end of the starboard side, and Edward Lyons looked on in smirking amusement as the situation on the Boat Deck was becoming more desperate. A scramble had broken out amongst passengers seeking a spot on the lifeboats, and Officer Murdoch was now the second member of the ship's crew to fire warning shots from a revolver into the night sky in an attempt to restore order. The crowd was silenced momentarily by the gunfire, but after only a few minutes, the shouting and the swarming continued.

It's an unceasing level of chaos
, Lyons thought to himself. Those left on the ship were so focused on the lifeboats, that the crackling sound of water continuing to take over the bow just twenty yards away gained scant attention.

In an unusually sympathetic move, he quickly decided that his feeding was done for the night. He knew that in all likelihood the unclean killings in steerage had paralyzed Lillith with a shrieking pain in her ears, and knew she would be limp in the aftermath of such a slaughter. The people in the crowd before him, however, were just too tempting a target; they were so perfectly vulnerable, and he knew he must somehow exploit them. As he stood on deck rubbing his forehead in frustration, trying to ignore the blood cravings set off by the swift attack below, he was granted inspiration by an improbable source.

One of
Titanic's
many immigrants, a middle-aged Italian man, had realized he would not be allowed on any remaining lifeboat, and that his best bet for survival might be to swim for one of the half-empty lifeboats already in the water. He proceeded to straddle the ship's railing and, without a lifebelt, dove into the freezing sea twenty feet below. Lyons shot towards the rail in wonder, just in time to see the last of the splash created by the jumping passenger. It seemed to take the man several seconds to resurface, and when he did, Lyons could tell from his labored attempts at swimming that he was probably not long for this world.

The perfect crime
, Lyons thought;
no marks, no mess, not a lot of light on the decks, just cold and certain death. And a good way to stave off any bloodlust.

Virtually everyone before him had their backs to him. After waiting for the small mass of humanity to stop writhing about like a snake, he struck. With astonishing speed and strength, he grabbed one man by the back of his neck. He carried him a few feet up to the railing, and then pitched him overboard into the black abyss. He looked from side to side, certain that absolutely no one had seen him take the man's life, and then grabbed another. And another. And another. It became such a gleeful, dashing sport for him, he started to vary his approach from victim to victim. He gave some a violent bash in the head, or a vicious blow to the gut, before pitching their helpless bodies into the darkness.

1:40 A.M.

What Lyons had failed to notice was that he was being watched from above. Kerry Langston stood on the roof of the officer's quarters, as other men struggled with the collapsible lifeboats. He'd had to pull his glasses off more than once, rubbing them on the sleeves of his jacket because the lenses were constantly fogging over due to the cold. Despite his poor vision and the less-than-optimal lighting, he was fairly certain that a man who appeared to be Edward Lyons was striking down passengers one at a time.

He hurried over to the port side of the roof and looked down, where a distraught Lillith had taken a half-fetal position on the bench below. To Langston, she looked like a carelessly discarded porcelain doll.

“Lillith? Lillith! Can you hear me?” he called out, over the din that continued unabated on both decks. Lillith had by now closed her eyes. While she was not thrashing about as she had been before, she still appeared to be in substantial pain.

She opened her eyes, blinking them in the half-light, trying to focus on him. “Wh- what is it?”

“It's Lyons!” he shouted. “I'm almost certain he's on the other side, and he appears to be attacking others at random!”

Lillith rubbed her ear. “He's- He's not biting them?”

“No, no I don't believe so,” Langston said, turning to look over his shoulder to see if Lyons was still in action. He just barely caught a glimpse of Lyons struggling with a tall man who was putting up quite a fight. Ultimately, the man failed and Langston watched in horror as Lyons successfully turned his victim upside down, then rolled him over the railing.

“Lillith, he's pushing them off the ship!” he cried out, in desperation. “And he's moving with lightning speed- what do I do?”

“The tools,” Lillith moaned, aching with sadness and fear. She wished she could force herself to sit up from the bench, and take Langston into her arms. “The-the-the tools, y- you must use them.” She realized that, to Langston, she must have sounded like a stroke victim.

Langston looked down at the box he was carrying- the box that had caused him so much torment, so much pain, so much uncertainty. For an instant he marveled at how small and insignificant it felt in his hands, on this icy cold night in the North Atlantic, surrounded by screams, fear, and a massive, unforgiving sea. He gently opened it and looked at the .45 caliber pistol.

“I've never even fired a bloody gun!” he protested in despair.

1:44 A.M.

Lyons was giving himself a bit of a breather. The pool of potential victims was thinning, and he was becoming concerned that he might have to explain his actions to a meddlesome observer. Still, he was pleased with the results. At least eight or nine men the world would never miss were now adrift in an ocean that would consume them at any moment.

Standing with his back to the wheelhouse, he felt a tap on his shoulder. His closed his eyes in tired disgust.

“Bartholomew Gidley, time and again I've advised You to never once touch this particular Vampire unless You are a woman and Your intent is of an erotic nature. What is Your objective?”

“It's Your favorite split-tail, gone missing.”

Lyons whirled about to look at him directly. “Come again?”

“Lillith. She's gone. Wandered off like an alley cat, I suppose, her ovaries ringing out for Ismay.”

“Impossible. I've got him stowed away in the gymnasium. Bart, You assured Me that Lillith, the infuriating woman, was going nowhere!”

“But, indeed, she has! It's hardly surprising, now, is it, Mr. Lyons?”

Lyons grabbed Gidley by the collar. “Listen to Me, Gidley. If the time has come for Us to shuffle off this mortal coil, it is better for Us to at least be in the general proximity of each Other. I had wanted Lillith, My property, beside Me. Nothing can stop it now if We are indeed meant to move on to the Next Life at this juncture. But the fact that at least We are all trapped together on this damned vessel is the only reason that I am going to allow You to move onto the Next Life this time.”

Gidley's eyes flickered with hate. “You are right about not touching another Vampire, Edward. Get your hand off Me.”

Lyons removed his hand by shoving Gidley away. “I'll have no more of this, Gidley! That simpering fool of a ship owner is more important to Me right now than some loathsome blood leech such as Yourself, who has suddenly decided to appoint Himself cock of the walk!”