Dead Summit (Book 1): Dead Summit

by Loubier, Daniel

  Charlie headed toward the staircase. Grace floated behind him. She didn’t seem to have control over her legs and feet anymore. She didn’t care. Consumed by the voice of Cash all around her, in her head, she was now being drawn upstairs as if by gravitational pull.

  She ascended the stairs. The eerie melody was inside her now. It reverberated through her arms and legs. She no longer felt the steps beneath her. She was moving on an escalator; her head and upper torso simply along for the ride.

  Grace took another step.

  And another.

  Cash’s voice was booming now as she and Charlie were halfway up the stairs. Ahead of her, Charlie seemed fifty yards away; tunnel vision had crept into her head and poisoned her vision. She put her head down again and watched as her feet made each step, robotic and uncontrolled.

  She looked up again at Charlie, who now stood at the top of the stairs. He looked out over the room. His eyes had glossed over; his face showed no emotion. Grace made the last few steps and looked out across the room. Her body went numb. She couldn’t blink. She simply hadn’t been prepared for what they found.

  Bodies and body parts lay on the floor, scattered and tossed all over. Detached torsos and appendages lay intermingled in a sick game of Twister. Blood—some dried, some still wet and dripping—had sprayed over most of the upstairs windows. Someone, likely in their final stages of life, had managed to write a message in the bloody windows: “HELP US!"

  The scene on the second floor was absolutely gruesome. Grace was frozen. All she could do was turn her head from left to right and back again, scanning the carnage.

  Grace estimated that there were about a hundred people, all dead, upstairs. Some bodies were still intact; most were not. Some clutched onto their own parts even after they had been savagely ripped off; a final act of defiance.

  A mother and father lay dead, their two young sons next to them. The parents had died trying to protect them, but it just wasn’t enough. One of the sons was missing his entire lower half. The father lay with his head on the boy’s stomach, his arms stretching over his head. He had been reaching for the boy, likely an attempt to hold onto him and keep him from being further defiled by the monsters.

  Another man lay with his arms wrapped around one of his own legs, which had been ripped off and partially devoured. What he held onto now more closely resembled a decaying piece of raw meat with a bone protruding from the bottom into a sneaker. The undead, apparently uninterested in his foot, had chosen to take his lower leg muscle and part of his thigh before moving on.

  Most disturbing was the man’s expression. His eyes were open. And huge. His mouth remained open as well, as if his last breaths had been spent screaming out in pain, a fruitless attempt to draw help. Grace nearly ran out of air before she finally remembered to take another breath.

  Charlie found his legs again and began walking into the room, keeping to the perimeter. Grace followed. She imagined how many of the undead it took to kill these people. Certainly, it was more than they’d already seen.

  Cash continued to sing from a jukebox in the opposite corner of the room as they navigated around the dead, being mindful not to step on or over the bodies. This was a murder scene now. And while it wasn’t likely that police would be there any time soon, it was no excuse to be any less careful.

  There was a man slumped over on a stool in the back of the room. He was wearing a white chef’s coat. He looked peaceful, resting on the counter; his head cradled in his arms. He looked as if he had been placing an order when the attack happened. It also looked like he had been left unharmed, as he didn’t appear to be covered in any blood.

  The music finally stopped. It was silent again. Charlie walked over to the man slumped over the counter. He poked him in the shoulder. The man didn’t budge. Charlie looked at Grace, who shook her head. We shouldn’t be here, she mouthed. Charlie shrugged. He turned back toward the man. He reached out with his hand again, slowly.

  The man shuddered, letting out a loud, wet cough. Charlie and Grace jumped. The man sitting on the stool lifted his head. He hacked and wheezed, blood spraying from his mouth in a red mist. When the coughing fit was over, he rested the side of his head down on the counter, his eyes wide and staring at Charlie and Grace.

  It was then that Grace noticed the man had been attacked; the front of his neck had been chewed into what looked like raw hamburger. Charlie held out his arm, a warning to Grace not to come any closer. But it didn’t matter. Grace’s feet were stuck to the floor. She was amazed and horrified by the amount of blood that had run down the front of his coat. She was further surprised that he was still alive.

  His mouth began to move; his lips attempted to form words.

  “Is he trying to talk?” Grace asked. To their astonishment, the man was speaking. He spoke very low, lower than a whisper. They couldn’t hear what he was saying. Charlie slowly moved closer to the man.

  “P-p-” he stumbled. He obviously didn’t have the energy to speak. He probably lacked the muscles in his throat too, Grace thought.

  Charlie moved in even closer, placing his ear directly in front of the man’s mouth.

  “Pock-et,” the man whispered, exhaling slowly as he spoke. He was clearly weakened and, quite obviously, close to death. Charlie backed away. He looked at Grace.

  “I think he’s telling us to take something from his pocket,” he said. Grace stared back at him. She wasn’t sure they needed to be taking anything from this man’s pocket, regardless of its importance.

  “Pocket,” the man whispered again, this time with a little more strength. He gurgled as he tried to speak; blood bubbled out of the neck wound.

  The both of them stood there, motionless. After exchanging stunned looks, Grace, admittedly, was curious now as to the object the man wanted so badly for them to have.

  “Well,” she said to Charlie. “Check his pockets!”

  Charlie gripped the ice axe, ready to strike down if need be. He moved toward the man, reached out for his coat, and felt both shirt pockets. Nothing. Cautiously, Charlie moved down and felt both the man’s pants pockets. There was something in the man’s left pocket.

  “Here,” Charlie said, handing her the ice axe. He slowly opened the man’s pocket with his left hand and reached in with his right. There was a jingle as he felt the object. He turned to Grace. A thin smile touched his lips. Grace looked down at the man’s pants. Charlie pulled out a set of keys.

  Holy shit, we’re getting out of here! Grace thought.

  There were a few different keys on the key ring: one resembled a house key, another that of a locker key. However, there was no mistaking the key with the “Chevy” logo on it.

  “Did you see a Chevy outside?” Charlie asked. Grace closed her eyes. She tried to take a mental inventory of everything she had seen outside. There was a Toyota, a Ford pickup.

  “Yes!” she said, opening her eyes again. “I think there was a small Chevy out there!” She felt a burst of energy course through her. There may not have been a rescue mission forthcoming, but there sure as hell was a car out there that could lead them to safety.

  She celebrated silently, inside her head, and her smile stretched from ear to ear. Charlie smiled too. He reached out for the ice axe; Grace handed it back and he stored it in his belt. Relief washed over his face momentarily as he looked past her, toward the windows. He appeared to be savoring the moment. Grace just stared at him, thankful that they still had each other, thankful that they were nearly out of this mess. She knew it might be a few more minutes until they found the car, and that they might have to fight off more of the undead, but the imminent danger did nothing to weaken her renewed confidence. They now had purpose. They were supposed to get these keys and they were supposed to take this man’s car to safety. It was the whole reason they had come to the summit. It was destiny.

  But Charlie continued to stare past her. His smile slowly faded away; his face wore a dour expression. Grace became worried about his sudden change in d
emeanor. Did he forget something? Was there not a Chevy outside? She grabbed his hand.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Charlie put a finger to his mouth.

  Be quiet.

  He swallowed hard.

  “I just saw movement over by the windows,” he whispered.

  Grace started to turn.

  “Don’t turn,” Charlie said, keeping his voice low. “Let’s just quietly leave the way we came.”

  Grace turned toward the staircase. She tiptoed around the corpses, careful not to disturb the bodies. From the corner of her eye, she too noticed movement by the window.

  Fuck!

  She quickened her pace but immediately felt Charlie tug at the back of her shirt, slowing her down. She started to take deep, controlled breaths and continued walking slowly toward the staircase.

  She wanted to look, to investigate, as she rounded the top of the stairs, but she forced herself to keep her eyes ahead of her. When they were halfway down, she stopped. She turned to Charlie.

  “What if it’s another survivor?” she whispered.

  “What if it’s not?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “That man just helped us. He gave us his car keys. There could be others.”

  Charlie looked Grace in the eyes.“There is a room full of dead people who may not be dead for very long!” he whispered.

  As Grace attempted to stare him down, there was a noise above them. It sounded like a chair knocking against a table.

  Then there was a moan—an inhuman sound that quickly turned into a growl.

  “Shit!” Charlie said. “Go! Now!”

  Grace turned and quickly found the bottom of the stairs. She rounded the corner and ran for the door as Charlie came down the stairs behind her. When she reached the exit, she quickly scanned outside for any of the undead. There were none. She turned back to Charlie.

  Her stomach dropped.

  Charlie was fighting off one of the zombies. It was Rose. She had burst through the kitchen door and attacked him from behind. She clung to his back, tried to bury her teeth in his skin. Grace screamed. Charlie reached over his shoulder and grabbed Rose’s head and tried to free himself, but she held on. Grace broke into a sprint. It felt like Charlie was a mile away. She couldn’t seem to run fast enough. As she closed the distance between her and Charlie, she pulled the machete from her side.

  But it was too late. Rose sunk her teeth through shirt and flesh and pulled away a large chunk of muscle; Charlie fell to his knees in pain. Tears filled Grace’s eyes as she hauled back the machete and swung hard at Rose’s head.

  She buried the machete a few inches into Rose’s skull. Blood gushed out on either side of the blade, splattering on Grace’s face and arms. Charlie fell forward to the floor. Grace pulled the machete from Rose’s wound, raised the blade, and swung again. And again. And again. Even when Rose’s body dropped to the floor, Grace fell to her knees and continued swinging.

  She continued to attack until nearly the top half of Rose’s head was gone. Blood and bone had mixed with the brain in a viscous stew of grey, red, and white.

  Grace looked down at Rose when she was finished. She still had Charlie’s flesh in her mouth. Grace forced open Rose’s mouth, separating the lower jaw, and pulled out Charlie’s flesh. She scoured the inside of Rose’s mouth with her bare hand. She was so intent on cleaning out every last bit of Charlie, she’d forgotten he lay on the floor, injured.

  “Grace,” he said, his voice weakened.

  Grace stopped. She let go of what was left of Rose and went to Charlie. Tears welled up again as she saw the blood squirt from his wound in short, pulsating bursts. She covered the wound with her hand.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We just have to find a few towels. I’ll fix you up.” She looked around hurriedly.

  “Grace.” He tried to get her attention, but she continued scanning the room.

  “GRACE,” he said again, a bit louder. This time, he caught her attention.

  She looked back at him slowly, unwilling to accept the inevitable. She stared at him, took his head in her hands. He was already turning pale, his face the color of clay. Her face, covered in Rose’s blood, now streaked with tears. He’s already gone...

  “Oh, Charlie…”

  “I’m losing a lot of blood, Grace,” Charlie said. His body started to shake. He was going into shock.

  Grace cried even harder. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. They were both supposed to get in the Chevy and drive down the mountain to safety. They still could. She wiped her face with the front of her shirt.

  “No,” she said. She slipped an arm under his back and tried to sit him up. “I’m going to help you to the car, I’m going to drive us down the mountain, and we’re going to get you help.”

  “Grace, it’s not going to wor—”

  “Yes, it is!” she said. She struggled to get him into an upright position. “Help me! Sit up!”

  “Grace, baby,” he pleaded. “I don’t have much time left. You need to accept that. You know what happens now.”

  Grace let her head hang as she cried. She felt the strength leave her arms as Charlie’s weakened body slid back down to the floor. He rested on his side and stared into her eyes.

  “You’re going to have to kill me.”

  Grace stopped crying. The horror flashed across her eyes and she shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Grace, you have to—”

  “No!” she said vehemently.

  She stood up. She paced around the cafeteria, grabbed whatever napkins she could find from every table. When she’d found as much as she could carry, she went back to Charlie. She began applying the napkins to his shoulder, one at a time. Then two at a time, then more...

  “It won’t stop bleeding!” she cried. She continued to press napkins to the open wound. She watched as the napkins turned a deep crimson and removed them. The blood was coming at such a rapid flow that it covered a large section of the floor now.

  Charlie now lay flat on his back. His breathing was shorter. The color had completely drained from his face, along with much of the blood from his body. His lips had turned bluish, his face a pasty grayish-white. Grace could only stare at him, helpless, as the life left his eyes. With the only strength he had left, he reached for her hand.

  “You... have to... do it, Grace,” he said. “You have to... kill me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Please, Grace.” He slid the ice axe across the blood-covered floor.

  “Just... put it in my head... into the brain. That... ought to do it.”

  She picked up the axe. She held it to her chest.

  “And then... you have to save yourself, Grace,” he said, staring into her eyes as her empty gaze wandered around the room.

  “I won’t do it,” she said softly.

  “Do it,” he said. “For me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I don’t... want to come back... as that,” he said, pointing to Rose.

  Grace shut her eyes tight, forcing out more tears. She shook her head.

  “You still... have a chance,” he said. He wheezed now, and blood trickled out of his mouth. “You’re not hurt... you can make it... I know you can. But you have to... promise me you’ll get out of here, Grace.”

  She stared at him, motionless, through tear-filled eyes.

  “Promise me, Grace,” he said again.

  She exhaled the last bit of resistance from her body and weakly nodded her head.

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Now you have to kill me.”

  She shook her head again.

  “Please, Grace. Do it fast. Because, soon, it won’t be me lying here.”

  She gripped the ice axe with both hands.

  “You can do it,” Charlie said. “You’ll survive, Grace.”

  Grace raised the ice axe over her head.

  Charlie’s final words came out as breath. “I’ll always love you, baby.”


  Grace closed her eyes and wailed as she brought the axe down fast. She felt the metal spike break through his skull. Without thinking or any hesitation, she raised the axe and brought it down again. This time, she felt it sink farther into his head. She raised the axe once more and brought it down with every ounce of strength she had left. She held on to the axe for a few seconds, shaking uncontrollably, before she finally let go.

  Grace covered her face with her hands as she cried. She immediately felt the cold, unforgiving arms of guilt wrap around her. She felt a sickness in her stomach, a pit of anguish that temporarily debilitated her. The anguish quickly turned to nausea, and she swung her head to the side and vomited on the floor. The acids burned in her stomach, all the way up her throat. But she wanted to feel the pain. Even when she was finished, she forced herself to vomit more. She wanted to suffer, to feel her insides coming out. More than anything, she wished there was still one bullet left in the gun. She’d have ended it right now if she could.

  But then, that would have been too easy—a simple way of getting rid of the pain. No, she had to feel the pain, she needed to feel it.

  In her periphery she saw Rose’s body lying still, her head completely destroyed. As much as she didn’t want to look to her left, she didn’t want to leave Charlie there with the ice axe buried in his skull. She closed her eyes tight, reached out her left hand until she felt the handle, and grasped it tight. She then reached across her body with her right hand and with a hard tug, the axe came free with a sound like slicing an over-ripened tomato.

  There was a noise upstairs. Grace’s eyes went to the floor above her. She gripped the axe tightly.

  Another noise.

  People were getting up. There was movement now. Confused movement. The dead were rising—walking into chairs and trash cans, bumping into other people. They were a band without a leader, a symphony without a conductor.

  Grace thought about staying where she was. She could simply wait and die at the hands of the undead. She imagined them grabbing at her, biting into her flesh, severing her limbs with their teeth; it would be more pain than she’d ever known. But in her mind, she deserved it, for if Charlie had come down the stairs first, he most likely would have made it out alive. Grace was the faster of the two. She could have easily gotten away from Rose; Charlie would have already been at the door.