Call Me Ismay (34 page)

“The bridge controls the wheel, and that wheel swings the ship,” Lyons whispered back. “But if their last line of defense- and that would be
these
men-” he pointed upward at the crow's nest- “is properly distracted or disabled, then that wheel will keep the ship on an improper course,” he explained, counting on his fingers as if doing math. “We know We have disrupted at least one ice warning, and now if We can mislead the lookouts, We might have a chance at a collision.” He suddenly looked over at Gidley. “We have had Our fair share of exploits, but surely You remember that other new ship that was headed for New York?”

“Of coursssse,” Gidley hissed, holding the “s” sound longer for sarcastic emphasis. “Of course I remember, with those stupid cattlemen, stupid cowboys, none of them much more intelligent than any of those stupid cows on board. On the other hand, I suppose all of that frozen beef is still good, preserved as it is, very nicely on the bottom of the ocean. However, I should not want for a Hamburg Beefsteak so salty-”

Lyons pressed his hand violently into Gidley's chest, clearly imploring him to keep his mouth shut. Gidley knew there was a line within Lyons's patience that he should not cross, and he was dangling on the edge of it.

Several moments passed- the only sound, a spray of seawater constantly breaking under the ship's bow as they sailed along. The two lookouts had quieted down their movements for the time being, although the occasional cough or stomp made it clear that they were still suffering in the cold. Lyons stood absolutely still, his gaze unwavering, looking for any sign of unusual activity. He turned his eyes to the ship's dimly lit bridge, trying determine if there was any commotion or movement that might suggest an encounter with an iceberg was imminent. There was nothing.

He seemed to relax a bit- or was it uncertainty? Gidley eyed him suspiciously, and as for himself, he felt for the first time in many ages personally unsure. He let several more minutes elapse before speaking again.

“This is a big ship, Mr. Lyons,” he stated quietly. “We are making an enormous assumption that she is at all vulnerable to ice. And suppose-
just suppose-
that there might be on board someone that is well-versed in the dark arts. I do not mean to say Lillith could intervene- that craven little bitch is not moving an inch-” Lyons glared at him, but Gidley continued. “There
is
a mass of humanity aboard, it's a cross-section of class, and We might not know what- or whom- to anticipate.”

“We will collect Lillith at the appropriate time,” Lyons replied. “And before I forget- let's not retrieve that damn fool, Marcus. The ship could be falling apart around his ears and he'd still have the mental capacity for doing nothing but spit-polishing a pair of shoes. As for the dark arts, those playthings that We leave lying about in churches, or that were sold to gullible wealthy Americans travelling to Eastern Europe- the holy water, the garlic necklaces or paste- it's all useless unless it's used correctly. It takes someone with an enormous amount of experience and education to even deploy those tools effectively. And that's not something that most of Our kind is privy to. A lot of it is nonsense, meant to keep certain Ones- such as Lillith- in constant fear.”

Gidley stared at him in silence for several seconds. Lyons sighed in fierce exasperation. “Oh
come
now. We've talked endlessly over all of this, don't pretend it's the first time You're hearing any of it!”

“Oh, I've heard it,” Gidley replied. “I just wish I'd known about the garlic three hundred years ago, before I fled from a pack of beautiful and enticing Catholic nuns that were shucking garlic at Me. Their blood would have been sensational.”

After a moment, Lyons slowly shook his head and allowed himself a small chuckle. “Bartholomew Gidley, sometimes You open Your mouth and I haven't the faintest idea of what is going pour forth. I don't know whether to laugh at You or strike You.”

Gidley responded with the same grim smile he'd always managed to muster. “To laugh at or to strike,” he repeated. “In a way it's almost the same thing.”

Both men looked upward. The lack of light and a moonless, cloudless night meant that the stars in the heavens were blazing outrageously, and it was difficult not to momentarily lose themselves in such a glittering canopy. Gidley and Lyons gradually became syncopated in their breathing, with still no visible vapors coming from their mouths or noses in the freezing air.

“This will
not
be a feeding,” Lyons uttered softly. “This will only be a transfixion- a Transfixion in the Third Degree.”

“Is any blood to be Mine tonight?” Gidley quietly growled.

“Plenty. But the first step in converting this ship into a syringe is to blind it effectively.”

Moments passed. Neither moved. Lyons held an expression that resembled a panther in the wild honing down on its prey, seeming to absorb every sound, every vibration, waiting to pounce.

Almost casually, Gidley posed Lyons a question. “Tell Me this. We are halfway across a vast ocean, it is a freezing cold and dark night, and We are about to deliberately send the largest vessel afloat into a dangerous ice field. We carry no weapons, We probably won't put on lifejackets. We might not even survive this desperate bid at revenge- at least, not as mortal men would understand survival. So why are We not afraid?”

“Because We are Vampires,” Lyons replied. “Bartholomew Gidley, open that door.”

He hooked his cane onto his arm and with astonishing speed, Gidley dashed up the ladder, followed by Lyons. He opened the door leading up to the interior ladder up the foremast that led up to the crow's nest. He closed the door behind both of them with the stealth of a ninja warrior, and with that, the entire maneuver had been completed in absolute silence.

Lyons stepped up a few rungs on the ladder before stopping. Above was a small passageway that led to the open air where the lookouts both stood. He pursed his lips together and whistled a note roughly an octave above middle C.

Fifty feet above, the two shuddering lookouts, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee, looked at each other in puzzlement, wondering if perhaps some of the other lookouts currently not on duty were making some sort of weird joke. After a beat, the same whistle came drifting up from where the interior ladder was, and Lee tapped Fleet reassuringly on his hand, indicating silently that he would investigate this. He crouched down to the passageway.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

His voice rang out in hollow fashion down the dark passageway; there came no answer. “Hello?” he once again called.

After several seconds of silence, Lee shrugged to himself and stood back up in the basket-like area. “There's no one there,” he said. However, as the words were leaving his lips, the whistle came up again. Lee crouched down once more.

“Hello? Symons? Lee? This isn't funny. Are you down there or not?” He squinted into the darkness, seeing no movement, hearing no sound.

Exasperated, he stood back up. “Christ, Fred, I don't know. I don't see anyone down there-”

The whistle came again, this time loud and urgent. Angered, Lee hunkered down by the passageway one more time.

“Bloody hell, man- if you're not on duty, then piss off!” he spat his irritated words into the opening. The whistle then returned- this time, constant, uninterrupted, and sustained for an impossibly long time. Lee covered his ears and continued to yell down the ladder. Fleet, his ears now also starting to hurt from the shrill noise, stomped his foot in agitation and pulled himself away from his post, bending down to shove his head into the passageway right alongside Lee.

“What in the hell is going on down there-”

In the darkness, Lyons held up his right hand, his index and middle fingers raised and parted in a “V” sign- and suddenly the tips of his fingers glowered like orange flames in a coal fire.

The two lookouts, facing down the ladder, had their breath pulled out of them- their jaws completely slackened, and they both stayed in motionless terror as a strange chant came from the mouth of Edward Lyons.

“Solemn strikes the funeral chime/from the tombs, a doleful sound/Notes of Our departing time/come men, to view unholy ground!”

A high pitched shriek pierced the ears of the two paralyzed lookouts- a sound that was heard only by them
,
as they remained imprisoned in tunnel vision with those coals of fire. Gidley- well versed in Transfixion, Third Degree- was gleeful in his complete knowledge of the suffering that the men were experiencing. After watching them in frozen pain for a few moments, he continued the chant.

“Mortals, now indulge a tear/This clay must be your bed/For your mortality is now here/For tall, for wise, for reverend head!”

“Dark Lord, is this Our end of days?”
Lyons continued
. “To fit Our souls to fly/Give these poor fools a fitful HAZE-”
he put special powerful emphasis on that last word- “w
hile We rise to the sky!”

For the men in the crow's nest, the shrieking instantly ended. The burning coals vanished. As their muscles suddenly unfroze, they were both hit with a violent bit of coughing as air once more went to their lungs. Fleet was the first to rise, the freezing air burning his spasming throat, coughing and choking for a moment as he tried to regain his composure on the port side of the nest. Lee finally came up as well, folding his arm over his mouth, trying to cover cough after repeated cough. The men panted and blinked their eyes, any clear memory of what had just happened quickly vanishing from their minds. They were left with the dawning realization that they were both out of breath and not paying much attention to the view forward.

For their part, Lyons and Gidley departed from the forecastle, fleeing the scene like black kites on a night sky.

11:38 P.M.

Lee had pulled out a handkerchief and was blowing mucous from his nose in copious amounts, while Fleet, clearing his throat and remaining still for a moment before moving back into place, rubbed at his watering eyes and cursed as he felt tears instantly freezing upon his face.

“Corblimey! Look here!” Fleet exclaimed, catching his breath and peering into the darkness. It seemed a haze had formed on the horizon that was making it difficult to see. “Well, if we can see through
that
we will be lucky,” he proclaimed, readjusting his hat.

“Yes, there's a slight haze,” Lee replied, folding his fouled handkerchief and putting it away. “It's right upon the waterline. But I'm not sure if it's anything to talk about...”

“They should be able to see a haze on the bridge, right?” Fleet leaned slightly forward.

On the distant horizon, slowly approaching the bow, there came an object- small at first- that gradually grew in size, indistinct at such a distance, but becoming clearer as the seconds passed. At first it seemed to drift, then move ahead with purpose- and then, for both Fleet and Lee, its inevitable path became clear.

Fleet fumbled for the lanyard of the warning bell, gave it three sharp tugs and then went straight for the heavy brass wall telephone, ringing up the bridge.

Sixth Officer Moody answered. “What do you see?”

“Iceberg right ahead!” Fleet shouted.

“Thank you,” came Moody's terse reply.

Fleet slammed the phone down then turned to look once more. Suddenly, the haze that was on the horizon had mysteriously lifted, and the blazing stars in the sky now illuminated the proceedings with ease. A menacing black mass bore down on the
Titanic,
which for about thirty seconds maintained its course before any
evasive action was detected. The lookouts stood spellbound, waiting for the ship to make a move,
any
move other than forward. When she finally started to veer to port, she still managed to brush the iceberg, responding with a slight jolt and causing a fair amount of ice to come crashing down on the forewell deck. As Fleet and Lee watched the ice shatter and leave a field of frozen debris on the deck, they shot each other a horrified glance.

“We did all we could do,” Lee said, his voice trembling in fear. “What with the haze and all.”