Dead Summit (Book 1): Dead Summit

by Loubier, Daniel

  He’s hiding HER in the freezer!

  “I did what I had to, to protect her,” George said, his voice shaking. “You did the same thing.” Charlie could hear noise and commotion coming from inside the fridge.

  “Cheryl’s one of them?!” he asked, ignoring George’s claim that Charlie had acted in kind.

  “She’s my wife!” George pleaded. “My Cheryl! I can’t let her die!”

  Charlie took a step toward George. A fire grew inside of him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was madness. “You’re going to open that door, or I’m going to open a hole in your fucking head.”

  “That’s all right,” George said, raising his chin, challenging Charlie to shoot him. “At least she’ll have been able to live a little longer. I would have given her that much.”

  Cheryl ran toward Grace. Grace clutched the mop so tightly she could feel splinters digging into her hands. She caught Cheryl in the stomach, which slowed her down, but only for a second. Cheryl stumbled back, her bare, blood-soaked feet skidding across the cold, frozen floor. Grace grabbed the mop at both ends and broke it over her knee. She dropped one half and held on to the end with the sharpest edge.

  Cheryl regained her footing and charged forward again. Grace thrust the shiv forward, plunging the sharp end of the stick into Cheryl’s side. Cheryl let out a terrible roar as the wooden spear tore into her body, slicing through skin and tissue. Grace squeezed the mop handle even tighter. She twisted and jammed it deeper into Cheryl’s flesh. Cheryl roared again. She reached down and tried to pull the skewer from her body, but Grace held on tightly. Blood and pus now oozed out of the wound, down the handle, and onto Grace’s hands.

  Cheryl lunged toward Grace and attempted to bite her. Grace stepped to her right, letting go of the weapon momentarily. As she did, her foot slipped on the wheel of the mop bucket and she fell to the floor, landing on her wrist. She cried out as pain shot from her hand, up her arm and into her shoulder.

  “Get the fuck out of the way, George!” Charlie yelled. He could hear Grace screaming from the other side of the door.

  George remained steadfast. “Not until my Cheryl’s had enough to eat.”

  Charlie began to search the kitchen for the key to the freezer. He opened the oven. No key. He shook the pots and pans; several of them clanged as they crashed down to the floor. He paused to look up at George, who was still standing by the door.

  “You’re not going to find the key,” he taunted.

  Charlie ran to the dishwasher and slid the door open. There was nothing inside. Sweat rolled from his forehead and burned his eyes as he continued his search. The fight from within the freezer only added to his consternation. He tried to take comfort in the fact that a struggle meant Grace was still alive and still fighting. He had to find the key fast. He cursed at George for hiding it. Assuming George was telling the truth, and they’d been hiding in the kitchen for hours, then the key had to be in the kitchen as well.

  Frustrated, Charlie rested against a counter for a moment. His eyes caught on a bloody trail on the ground, likely left behind by one of those monsters. Charlie wondered if it had been left by the man who had attacked him and Grace in their room. He wondered whose blood it was. Was it from the little girl he’d shot in the hallway?

  He shut his eyes and focused. He tried to think like George. Where would he hide the key? He couldn’t block out the horrible sounds coming from inside the freezer. He also couldn’t block out George’s taunts.

  “Give up yet?” George said.

  “FUCK YOU!” Charlie yelled, swinging the gun at George.

  “It’s a near certainty that Cheryl’s going to get what she needs—”

  “Fuck you, you fuckin—” The noise from inside the fridge came to a sudden halt. Charlie caught his breath. He and George stared at each other in silence. There was a thud, then scraping. They both screamed their wives’ names at the same time. George ran to the back door of the kitchen. He pushed it open, crouched down, and lifted the mat on the back steps. He picked up the key.

  Grace lay on her back in agony. She held her wrist tight, not sure if it was broken. Her shirt stuck to the floor; the ice-cold swirls of blood smeared on the concrete were like an adhesive. Cheryl, with half a broomstick stuck in her side, lunged at Grace again. Grace kicked at her from the ground, tried to knock her off balance. But Cheryl kept coming. She grabbed and clawed at the air, narrowly missing Grace by only inches. Grace screamed in pain as she mashed her injured hand against Cheryl’s face. Cheryl gnashed at Grace’s wrists, but Grace was quick with her feet, sending kick after kick into Cheryl’s stomach.

  In the midst of the struggle, Grace saw a familiar object out of the corner of her eye: the other half of the broken mop handle. But Cheryl continued to attack. Lunge after lunge, she kept coming. Grace did not have the energy to keep up a defense for much longer. She stuffed a fist under Cheryl’s chin and she finally got some leverage. As she steadied herself, she pushed Cheryl’s face away hard and unleashed a violent kick that caught her in the jaw. As Cheryl stumbled back, Grace reached across her body and picked up the broken stick.

  Cheryl lunged again. Her hands thrashed, reaching for Grace. Grace held the stick out and gripped the handle as tight as she could. Cheryl slipped in blood as she advanced and fell forward. As she fell, the pointed end of the broken wooden handle found her eye socket. It squished into her head, passing through the retina and the optic nerve. The force of gravity alone was enough to drive the mop handle straight through her brain, but not through the back of her skull. It just stayed there, extending from her head like the nose of Pinocchio. She fell forward. Grace rolled to move out of the way, but Cheryl’s now lifeless body fell across her legs. Grace slid out from underneath her. She used both hands to lift herself up off the floor. Stars shot across her vision again as the pain in her wrist caused her to lose her balance. She reached for the shelving in the fridge to pull herself up.

  George ran back to the freezer door, fumbling with key. He froze when he saw the gun pointed at his face.

  “Open this fucking door,” Charlie demanded. George feebly nodded his head, moved to the door, and unlocked it. Charlie stood behind him, gun aimed and ready. Inside, they saw two figures: one to the right, lying on the floor, one to the left, standing up by the shelving.

  “Cheryl?” George whispered.

  “Grace!” Charlie called out loudly, causing George to flinch.

  “I’m right here,” Grace said. She stood by a shelf, holding herself up with her good hand.

  George, realizing that the lifeless form on the floor was Cheryl, slowly moved into the freezer toward the person who was once his wife.

  “Oh, Cheryl!” he cried. He knelt down on the floor beside her. He picked her up by her shoulders, cradling her in his arms. His hands trembled over the wooden spear that jutted out of her head. “Cheryl!” he screamed again, as he held her head close to his chest.

  Charlie stepped around George and grabbed Grace’s hand. He gestured with his head to leave the fridge. Grace stepped away from the shelf that supported her, and followed him out.

  George, sensing he was being left behind, looked back at Grace and Charlie.

  “Wait a minute!” he called. “Where are you going?”

  Charlie pulled Grace completely out of the fridge. Then he turned to George.

  “Fuck you, old man,” he said. “You wanted to be with your wife. Well,” he said curtly, “now you got her.”

  Charlie turned to walk out of the fridge. George crawled after him, through the blood and gore. Charlie heard the movement and pivoted. He pointed the gun at George’s head. George stopped. He sat up on his knees. He put his hands together in a praying position.

  “But she’s dead!” he pleaded.

  Charlie stared at him with soulless eyes. He cared nothing for this man and wanted nothing more than to kill him right now.

  “I guess you can make that phone call now,” he said.

  He
slammed the door shut, turning the key that George had left in the door, and locking it as it closed. He leaned against the freezer and listened to the sounds of George beating the inside of the door. He rested his head against the back of his hand, tried to control his breathing. From behind, Grace tugged hard at his shirt. As he turned to face her, a figure caught his eye.

  No. Two figures.

  There were two more of those things standing in the double doors of the kitchen. Their mouths dripped red; their hands and lower arms were stained with the same uncongealed fluid.

  Charlie shoved Grace hard toward the back door.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  The two monsters ran at them. Charlie reached for the broiler and pulled open the oven. The first of the undead slammed into the oven door, stumbled backward, and knocked over the one that ran behind him. Charlie thought about shooting them but didn’t want to waste bullets if he didn’t have to. He turned and ran toward the back door.

  Once outside, he quickly scanned the yard for Grace. He saw her by the bathhouse. She was waving him over.

  “Come on!” she urged him.

  She disappeared into the shower rooms. Charlie ran in after her. As he reached the bathhouse, he heard the two undead crash through the back door to the hut. He made his way into a shower stall. Grace was there. She was huddled in the corner, motioning with her hand for him to get inside. He thought about looking out to see if the two undead had followed them into the showers.

  “Get in!” Grace whispered urgently.

  Charlie jumped into the shower stall. Grace leaned forward and locked the door behind him. They both sat down on the floor, facing the door. Inside the stall was a small changing space with a seat and a towel rack. Behind them was the shower itself. They were locked inside a concrete cube, safe for the moment.

  Charlie looked over at Grace. Her face was red and drenched with perspiration.

  “Do you think we’re safe?” she asked.

  He didn’t honestly believe they were safe, but he nodded anyway.

  Grace let her head fall forward; her shoulders drooped. Her eyelids fell shut and she exhaled a long, tired breath. Charlie looked over at her. He was happy they were able to finally rest. He could see she was physically and emotionally drained. What was worse; they didn’t have any food or water, and he wasn’t about to risk going back into the hut to look for food. They were going to have to find the energy to make it to the summit.

  Alive.

  Chapter 8

  They spent an hour sitting on the floor of the shower stall, attempting to reenergize for the eventual climb to the summit. They passed the time playing tic-tac-toe on the tile floor using pebbles that had accumulated with years of foot traffic. They stopped every time they heard the occasional shuffling outside. They’d also heard a couple loud bangs, but they never opened the door once, not even to check if it was a survivor.

  They never heard any screams, though. A scream would have indicated that there were survivors. However, at this point, they weren’t sure if anyone from the hut was even alive. At best, they were long dead. At worst, they had become one of the others—one of the undead.

  Grace, feeling somewhat revived but still hungry, was ready to leave the stall.

  “We can’t stay in here forever,” she said.

  Charlie knew this to be true but shrugged his shoulders. The adrenaline rush having long since worn off, his knee now ached from the stress of the morning’s events. But he wasn’t about to let it show.

  “We haven’t heard anything in the last twenty minutes,” Grace reasoned.

  Charlie looked up at her. He was amazed by her resilience. He had been so worried about her mental strength back in the hut. Now, she was ready to put it behind her and move on. And, after all, she was right. They couldn’t stay in the bathhouse any longer. If they were going to make a run for the summit, it had to be during the day. And they had to do it while they still had an ounce of energy left. The longer they waited, the hungrier they’d become. The pit in Charlie’s stomach was growing. Over the last half hour, he’d begun to feel the pangs of hunger kneading his insides. It was only a matter of time before the headaches started and the nausea set in. The burden of having to climb a mile and a half to the summit on an empty stomach would only compound his declining condition.

  “Are you okay?” Grace asked.

  Immersed in his own thoughts, Charlie realized he hadn’t responded to her last comment over a minute ago. He was sure that his face showed his exhaustion, but he tried to mask it anyway.

  “I’m good,” he said, forcing a smile. He knew she didn’t buy it, but he also knew she wouldn’t contest him either.

  “Then let’s go,” Grace said, grabbing his hand.

  They stood up together. Grace put a hand on her knee, steadying herself as she stood. Charlie’s legs and lower back ached as he straightened. It was going to be a long hike.

  Grace placed her head against the door and listened. There was nothing. No shuffling, no banging, no discernible movement of any kind. She looked at Charlie and shook her head. His ear was pressed against the door as well. He nodded to her, indicating it was time to move.

  Grace opened the door. The rest of the bathhouse appeared undisturbed. There was no sign that any other survivors had passed through. There were several other shower stalls, all open. To Grace, the absence of blood and gore was a welcome sight, but it didn’t guarantee safety.

  They stepped out of the stall, walked through the main area of the bathhouse, and glanced outside through the main opening. There was no sign of life. Grace wondered if George was still pounding on the inside of the fridge. Chances are, she thought, the undead probably got to him, too.

  From the opening of the bathhouse, they could see the back of the hut. The door to the kitchen hung loosely by a single, bent hinge. For Grace, it was a dark reminder of the horror from which they’d managed to escape and of the reason they had to get the hell out of there. Above them, the overcast skies had carried over from the previous day, and the dark clouds that hung over the mountains offered little encouragement. Grace knew the chances of a storm were good, but they couldn’t wait. They had to make an attempt at the summit now.

  Without a word, Charlie pointed past her, indicating an opening in the trees. Grace followed the direction of his finger and saw a sign: “Arrowhead Trail.” She looked around, checked both ends of the hut, and stepped out onto the ground.

  It was alarming at first, being that exposed, but they walked quickly toward Arrowhead. They didn’t turn to speak or even look at each other. It was as if they were trained soldiers in a war, sneaking up on the enemy.

  There was no wind, no breeze of any kind. And while this might have seemed tranquil and serene at any other time, the air now felt still and lifeless, mimicking the atmosphere in the hut. It was all very surreal to Grace, who couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened, what was still happening. Had they really just survived nearly being murdered only hours ago? From people who were once alive, now dead, yet somehow—undead? It didn’t make sense. She cleared her mind of it and focused on hiking, on putting one foot in front of the other. It wouldn’t be long before she would be fighting fatigue, so she had to get herself mentally fit in order to deal with the inevitable physical strain.

  They walked along the rear of the hut while staying close to the building. They moved down the forest-facing side of the main hall. As they approached the entrance, Charlie reached out and tugged at Grace’s shirt. She turned to say something, but Charlie put a finger to his mouth. Then, using two fingers, he pointed toward his eyes and then around the corner. Grace understood.

  Charlie stepped around her as she stood with her back pressed against the building. He looked around the corner, checked the front of the hut, and looked out toward the lake. It was clear. Not a person in sight. He turned back to Grace and waved her on.

  Grace took off for the trailhead. She was light on her feet and careful not to step on a twig or
anything that might snap or create noise. Charlie immediately shot out after her. Within the first few steps, he felt a pinch in his knee and fell forward; nearly hitting the ground, but he willed himself to stay up and continued running.

  Neither Charlie nor Grace turned to see if anyone had witnessed them running across the grounds. To their good fortune, they made it to the forest, where they would be able to stay hidden under the cover of trees for a short while. After that, they would be exposed for the majority of the hike.

  Charlie had been so preoccupied with protecting himself and Grace from the undead, he’d completely forgotten about the natural dangers they’d yet to confront. The exposure they’d soon have to deal with would certainly present its own set of problems; without the cover of trees, the wind and weather could weaken them, making them even more vulnerable to attack.

  About ten minutes into the hike, as they hurried through the woods, they came to a downed tree in the middle of the trail. Charlie was lead climber, and he stopped to take a seat.

  “We’re going to have to find water,” he whispered, panting lightly.

  Grace rested her hands on her hips and looked around.

  “Maybe we’ll find a stream or something,” she said. “Otherwise, we’ll just have to break every ten minutes or so.”

  The two of them looked around for any sign of water nearby. Charlie looked through the trees, out into the distance. He strained to listen for moving water—a stream, anything. He felt Grace’s hand rest on his knee. She cursed under her breath and fell fast to the ground. He jerked his head around to see why she’d fallen.

  “Get down!” she whispered. She tugged at his pant leg. Charlie slid off the tree and flattened himself on the ground next to her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There’s someone at our three o’clock,” she said.

  Charlie rolled himself over on his stomach, propped himself up in a plank position, and looked over Grace’s shoulder. It was a man walking in the woods. About fifty yards away.