Deck Z - The Titanic by Chris Pauls

German struggled to disengage the hook, but it was thick with dried blood and reluctant to give. Timothy shuffled forward. Whether his intent was to seek help or Weiss’s flesh didn’t matter. Weiss pulled himself up on the hook and kicked hard into Timothy’s midsection. The infected man flew backward into the sides of beef before tumbling onto the sloppy floor. He thrashed to his feet, ready to fight back like a crazed animal.
    Thankfully, the swinging carcasses slowed the man’s progress, and at the same time, voices could be heard outside the door. Timothy stopped, dead flat eyes turning toward the sound. Weiss gave the hook a final tug, the mechanism let go, and the gaff hook came free.
    Weiss did not hesitate. He struck hard with the hook, burying it deep into the side of the cook’s skull, which split as the body toppled to the floor.
    Crew members burst into the room, but Weiss was oblivious to everything but destroying the infected man. Weiss withdrew the hook and slammed it into the head repeatedly, unleashing all the frustrations and fears of the previous week, of the previous year. He was no longer trying to kill a man but the specter of death itself. As Weiss raised his arm for another blow, a hand grabbed his forearm, stopping him, and then the hook was roughly yanked away.
    “Murderer!” yelled a large, bearded man dressed in blood-stained butcher’s whites.
    Even though Weiss had killed out of necessity, the accusation was an arrow through his conscience.
    The bearded man punched Weiss hard in the face, sending him reeling into the sides of beef. The butcher called to a companion to go for help and resumed taking Weiss apart, blow by blow, until he collapsed to the floor.
    Moments later, O’Loughlin arrived with the Master-at-Arms and more ship’s personnel.
    “Good lord!” O’Loughlin exclaimed when he saw the scene. “What have you done!?”
    At O’Loughlin’s shoulder, the bearded man insisted, “He killed that man. I saw him do it, and a more horrible death I ne’er seen.”
    O’Loughlin nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t reply. Instead, he donned surgical gloves and crouched down to get a better look at Timothy. Yet the German had so thoroughly destroyed the cook’s skull that it was impossible to discern much of anything. Not all the fluids looked like blood, necessarily, but the light and the mess made it hard to say for sure. The stains on the cook’s clothing, however, matched what O’Loughlin had seen on the bed.
    “Put this man under lock and key,” he said to the others crowded into the room. “Place a guard on him until you receive further orders from Captain Smith. I’ll deal with the body.”
    Weiss raised his head, which throbbed in excruciating pain. “Doctor, tell them. Tell them about the disease. Don’t touch that body, please, whatever you do.”
    The bearded man grunted and dragged Weiss roughly from the room.

15

    CAPTAIN SMITH’S QUARTERS .
    FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1912. 7:45 P.M .
    “Doctor, that’s an incredible story,” said Captain Smith, removing his cap and leaning back into his chair. He sat at his small mahogany table with Dr. O’Loughlin and J. Bruce Ismay, whose cigar filled the room with smoke. “In your professional opinion, how much of it is true?”
    Before O’Loughlin could answer, Ismay threw his smoldering cigar into an ashtray. “Why would we believe a word of it?” he sputtered. “That man is a murderer! He’s trying to save his own skin!”
    Ismay’s shouts were loosening O’Loughlin’s thin hold on his own composure. “Certain elements of the story I can confirm, Captain. Our cook did complain of the symptoms Mr. Weiss described. Of course, those symptoms are quite common. More troubling are the stains on the man’s bed things and clothes. This is not blood, but some black discharge. Prudence dictates we should not dismiss the potential danger. Plagues are not to be trifled with. As for Mr. Weiss’s more fantastical