SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 9:10 A.M. Zombies in their night clothes and dressing gowns continued to pour forth from cabin doors and filled the foyer. Often two and three emerged from a single room. The numbers were skewed far in the monsters’ favor. Andrews shakily raised his Webley pistol. “Stop or I’ll shoot again!” he cried. The zombies moaned at his shouts and lumbered toward Andrews as if he’d extended an invitation. Smith was undaunted. He stepped in front of Andrews and gracefully beheaded two zombies with short, powerful strokes. “Steady, Mr. Andrews,” he cautioned. “We’ll be done if we lose our heads.” Andrews aimed true, let out a breath slowly, and squeezed the trigger. A zombie’s head exploded, its body flying backward and knocking over several more. Behind them, Weiss grimaced as he used his knife-stick to fight off two men in tattered shirts, working the riddle in his mind all the while. Had the Kaiser’s man somehow slipped the Toxic into the ship’s water supply?
