They walked back to the kitchen in silence. Grace felt horrible. If only she hadn’t let go of the door. If only she’d seen the other one coming. She could have saved him. She should have done something. But what could she have done?
Grace replayed the whole incident over and over throughout the rest of the day. She openly talked through different scenarios that would have resulted in more favorable outcomes, but Roy wasn’t in the mood for listening. He’d already accepted his fate. Grace, however, was still talking about strategies, schemes they could have employed that would have kept them both out of harm’s way. She simply wouldn’t let go.
After an hour of listening to Grace’s hindsight planning, Roy talked her into a game of poker in order to take her mind off of it, but it was of no use. She stared at the red-soaked towel (he’d gone through a dozen at this point) on his arm as he shuffled. Even when he dropped and picked up cards, her eyes followed the wound on his arm. They decided to call it quits after the third time she’d ended up with seven cards during a game of five-card draw.
She crawled up onto a chair, tucked her knees to her chest, and stared out the window. Roy kept himself busy by cleaning the wound, redressing it, and pacing around the hut. He checked the doors every now and then just to make sure they were still locked. They didn’t say a word to each other until after nightfall.
Roy prepared dinner while Grace sat curled up in her chair over by the window. She didn’t notice he’d set the table. She didn’t even notice when he walked up next to her.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said.
She jerked her head, snapping out of the trance she’d been in all afternoon.
“You okay?” he asked.
She regarded him with disheartened eyes and only shrugged.
“Yeah,” Roy said plainly. “It’s been a tough day.”
Grace was shocked by Roy’s carefree demeanor. It was like he hadn’t just been bitten by a zombie earlier, like his death sentence hadn’t just been written hours ago.
She leaned over the arm of the chair. “Aren’t you scared?” she asked.
“What’s to be scared about?”
Is he for real??? “You’re gonna turn!” she said. She pointed toward the window. “You’re going to become one of them.”
“Yeah, but not for a little while just yet.”
She looked at him curiously.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“It all depends on the severity of the wound,” he said. “This one is barely a scratch.”
Grace’s eyes wandered around as she recalled the mess that was Charlie’s neck and shoulder after Rose had attacked him.
“I’m guessing your husband probably looked worse?” Roy asked.
Grace shuddered when the image of Charlie, lying on the floor, blood pulsing out in quick bursts.
“Well, the more serious the wound, the quicker the uh—‘virus,’ enters the person’s body, kills them, and ultimately, reanimates them. If the wound is less severe, the virus still gets into the body. It just takes longer.”
Grace was appalled. “Are you sure?”
Roy nodded. “I’ve seen it happen,” he said. “I’ve seen a man turn from human to—” this time he motioned toward the window, “—that. It ain’t pretty, but it doesn’t happen in a matter of minutes, not usually.” He wanted to stop there, but Grace was still staring back at him with her eyebrows arched, prompting him to continue. “Here you go again, wantin’ to know things you do not want to know.”
“It can’t be any worse than what you’ve already told me,” she said.
Roy sighed. “Well, first there’s gonna be some nausea. Then the nausea is going to turn into severe pain. I’ll probably start throwing up blood sometime after—”
“Okay, okay,” Grace said, putting her hands up in surrender. “You’re right, that’s enough. Let’s just stick with nausea and go from there.”
Grace put her feet down and sat forward in the chair, her elbows resting on her knees. She closed her eyes and shook her head in an effort to eliminate the visual of Roy vomiting blood.
“Ultimately,” Roy continued, “the body has to die first. As I said, it’s like a virus. Once the living tissue is destroyed and the soul leaves the body, the body itself can reanimate.”
Grace stared blankly, her head resting in her palms. “It’s still just so unfuckingbelievable.”
“I know,” Roy said. “But as they say...it is what it is.’”
Grace looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. It was a bullshit reason, but she knew it was true. It’s just what happens, she thought as she stared into his knowing eyes.
“Well, come get it while it’s still hot,” Roy said, turning away from Grace.
He walked over to the steel table they’d been using for meals. Grace slowly got up from the chair. Her muscles ached as she labored across the room, as she hadn’t eaten all day. Her body had sustained more physical and emotional strain than she’d realized.
She sat across from Roy, who’d already begun to eat. She watched as he hungrily fed one forkful after another into his mouth.
“You’ve got quite the appetite,” she said.
Roy looked up at her solemnly. He set his fork down and finished chewing a large bite of food before speaking.
“All kidding aside, this is my last meal,” he said. “And time is not on my side.”
Grace understood. In fact, she felt stupid for making such a comment. She’d only been trying to make small talk, but she was aware she’d chosen the wrong words. Roy looked at her sternly for a few seconds before he put his head back down and continued eating.
“I—I’m sorry, I just—”
Roy waved his hand. “No need,” he said between bites. “I still wouldn’t trade your company for solitude.”
He looked back up at her while he was still chewing. He winked at her. Grace shot back a half smile, still feeling guilty about the comment, but relieved that he hadn’t taken offense.
They dined quietly after that, both of them enjoying the meal, ham steaks and cut green beans. Grace would later write about this in her journal as being, “surprisingly peaceful and humbling.”
After dinner they both took to their “posts,” as Grace now called it: looking out the window at the thinning horde of zombies. The number had dwindled considerably since last night. Grace was sure there were now half as many as there had been when she’d first looked out the window four nights ago.
Grace and Roy stood there for hours, much longer than any of the previous nights. They shared idle talk, but nothing of substance or significance. Roy had asked what she was going to do once she got off the mountain. Grace told him that she would get in her car, head south toward home, and never look back. He asked her what she would tell Charlie’s family. She told him she hadn’t even thought that far ahead yet.
Amid the small talk, Grace wondered how long Roy would stay before he...checked out. It hadn’t even occurred to her what his plan might be. Is he going to shoot himself? Is he going to leave the hut? I hope he doesn’t expect me to do it. While these thoughts swirled around her head, she was sure that Roy was simply drawing out whatever time he had left as a human being, spending as much time with another living companion for as long as his living body would allow. And the truth was, she was happy to be by his side until the end.
It might have been about three a.m.—Grace had lost track of the time—when she saw the first signs. Roy’s breathing had gotten a bit heavier and faster. He’d begun exhaling from his mouth, much like an expectant mother practicing Lamaze. He held his stomach, as if in pain.
“How ya doing?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
He turned to her. Even in the low light she could see that his face had turned dreadfully pale. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead.
“I think it’s time for me to go,” he said between breaths.
Grace had known that this moment was coming. She’d known it since hours earlier when the zombie
had bitten his arm, but she couldn’t hold back the tears once again.
Roy put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “You’re going to be okay, and that’s what’s important. It’s what your husband would have wanted, right?”
She couldn’t even nod or shake her head. Her body simply convulsed as she sobbed harder. Roy leaned in and wrapped her with his arms.
“It’s all right now, child,” he said, his voice soft and calming. She cried hard against his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You just have to stick it out here for as long as it takes, okay?” She nodded her head against him. He rubbed a soothing hand along her back as her cries receded to sobs, and then to whimpers. He released his hug and held on to both her shoulders.
“Look at me,” he said.
Grace looked up. She could barely see through the tears.
“It’s gonna be lonely, but you keep a good head about ya and you’ll be fine, you understand?”
Her eyes dropped down to the floor as she nodded.
“Okay then. You gonna walk me out?” he asked, this time with another of his trademark half-smiles.
She nodded again slowly.
They walked down the hallway, toward the main entrance. Roy held onto his stomach as his insides burned and churned. He coughed into his hand several times. He wouldn’t say it or show it, but Grace knew he was coughing blood when he started wiping his hand against his pant leg.
When they got to the end of the hallway, Roy peered out the window in the door to assess the zombie activity.
“Okay, there aren’t too many now,” he said. “We should be able to do this, no problem.”
Grace was still fighting back sobs as she turned to him.
“Don’t you need something?” she asked. “Aren’t they going to come at you?”
“They’re not going to hurt me,” he said with pity. “By now, they’ll already know I’m one of them.”
Grace squeezed her eyes tight, and curled her lips, fighting back another waterfall.
“Now, I’m going to walk out the door,” Roy said. “You just have to close it behind me. Do it quick, but don’t slam the door, okay?”
Grace wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“All right partner, I guess this is it.” Roy held out his hand. “Thanks for not thinking I was some crazy old man.” He smiled.
Grace half chuckled as she shook his hand.
“Thank you for saving my life,” she said.
She pulled the revolver she’d found in George and Cheryl’s room from her waistband and handed it to Roy. It was loaded with only one bullet. Grace kept the rest.
“Leave it where I can find it,” she said.
Roy took the gun.
“Don’t worry,” he said, motioning toward the door. “They’re not going to touch it.”
After one final look out the window, he opened the door quietly and walked down the steps. When he had cleared the door, Grace pulled it closed quickly, allowing it to latch quietly.
She watched from the door as the other zombies observed the newcomer walking among them. Roy stumbled forward, holding the gun with one hand, his stomach with the other. Grace looked on as Roy continued merging with the surrounding zombie traffic. He headed toward the back of the horde, opposite the hut and closer to the lake, where there were fewer of the undead.
Grace came away from the door and walked back down the hall toward the common room. She resumed her post, watching from the huge windows. The night sky was clear; the stars lit up the lake and the surrounding grounds. She was sure she’d be able to make out Roy in the well-lit night, but with his slow gait and awkward limp, he blended right in with the undead. She’d completely lost him. She was sure he’d made it beyond the horde at this point though. She scanned the lake and the trails; there were a few stragglers here and there. But she couldn’t tell which was Roy.
Then, a spark of light and a loud crack off in the distance. Grace saw the figure by the water’s edge. It fell to its knees and slumped forward. It lay completely still. Grace watched it lie there.
When the sun came up, she was still watching.
Chapter 19
Day Five Lockdown
Roy, my friend, died early this morning. He died trying to protect me. Actually, it might be more accurate to say he died the previous day, just after he was bitten by the zombie. Because it was at that moment he knew his life was over. I knew it, too. He stayed with me, though, and I with him, right up ’til the end. I gave him the gun so he could go quickly. He talked at dinner about how he didn’t want to come back as one of them, so I told him about the gun I’d found in George and Cheryl’s room. He said he’d walk out past the horde, somewhere out in the open, to draw attention away from the hut, and do it there. I saw him. He was way out there, but I’m sure it was him. The shot was loud and the light from the gun, although brief, was bright enough for me to see.
I didn’t sleep at all last night. After Roy died, he fell forward, and I could barely make out his figure as anything more than a tiny, darkened mass off in the distance. I saw some of the zombies walking back toward the lake. It’s very surreal. It’s like they’re drawn to it. I’m not sure what it means, if anything. Maybe nothing. Either way, it’s eerie as hell. They seemed to congregate, to meet about something. Who knows—maybe they know I’m still inside, and they’re just trying to figure out a way to get to me.
I’ve now seen two men die trying to protect me. One was the man I love, the other a man I’d come to call a friend. Both were kind and caring. Both were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which makes me wonder: Why did I make it? How have I been able to survive? Is it simply because I was under the protection of another? Am I smarter? Just lucky? Maybe with nobody left but myself, I’ll be the one attacked. Then again, as long as I keep the doors locked, I shouldn’t have to worry about that.
Grace sat in her chair, staring out the large common room windows at the grounds and the lake. The zombies were certainly dying out now. The once enormous sea of the living dead was now drying up. The numbers had been cut by more than half; about a third of them remained, pacing around the hut in hopes of catching the last of the living. Grace wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.
She jogged laps up and down both halls to pass the time. She jogged from the main door, down the hallway, through the common room, down the second hallway to the non-functional door, and back. She wasn’t able to keep time, so she counted the number of laps. She decided to count off a hundred laps, thinking that would pass at least an hour of time.
In the beginning, she would look out the large windows between laps every time she passed by the common room. She didn’t honestly expect to see fewer and fewer of them; she just felt she needed to keep a constant eye on the problem. Granted, it wasn’t a “problem” until it became one, and that was what she was watching out for.
After the first twenty laps, she gave up watching the windows and concentrated on her breathing. She stared straight ahead, down the empty corridors. As she ran, her mind raced. She began to wonder what might happen if a zombie broke down one of the doors to the rooms. She imagined the undead piling in through a window, breaking down a bedroom door, right in her running path. She’d have no chance to survive. This vision didn’t stop her, but it heightened her awareness enough that she slowed her pace. She didn’t want to be running at too fast a speed just in case the unexpected should happen.
At fifty laps, she’d broken a sweat. She was certainly fit, but with the lack of fresh air circulating inside the hut, the air grew stale. Her breathing was slightly more strained than she was used to. She was accustomed to jogging outside daily in the fresh, ocean air. Charlie would jog with her. He had been able to keep up with her before his knee injury. After, he would hang back and jog at his own pace. He’d had the stamina to go the distance; he just didn’t have the equipment to move at the same speed.
At seventy-five laps, she had to start pushing herself. She
wasn’t able to take in air as deeply as before. Breaths were shorter now, much like her stride, which she’d slowed down even more in order to extend the duration of her run. Her chest began to burn with that familiar flame as she reached down as deep as she could for each breath.
At eighty laps, she wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her day. She hadn’t bathed in almost a week and she was aware of her own stench. She couldn’t use the bathhouse; she’d certainly be killed. Perhaps she could bathe herself in the industrial-size sink in the kitchen. That would consume all of five minutes.
At ninety laps, she’d wished she had more energy to go on. She would have loved to run another hundred laps, but it seemed as if the air had been all but sucked out of the hut. She was straining for each breath. She could rest up and do another hundred laps in the afternoon.
At ninety-five laps, she was happy to be almost finished. In fact, she thought about quitting at lap ninety-five, but she knew quitting wasn’t in her. She would finish this race. Much like her survival in the hut, she’d come this far; she might as well go the distance.
One hundred laps.
She finished where she’d started, at the main entrance. She leaned over and supported herself by putting her hands on her knees. She coughed a few times as her lungs begged for fresh air. When she regained a bit of her wind, she walked back down the hall with her arms up, her hands on top of her head, forcing her lungs to expand as she gasped for as much air as she could. She felt a sense of pride in completing her jog, an otherwise meaningless task.
She came into the common room with her hands and fingers still locked on top of her head. She looked out the common room windows.
She dropped to the floor immediately.
What the hell was that?
Had she really just seen what she thought she’d seen? Her mind raced as her eyes scattered across the floor in front of her.
What the fuck is going on outside?
She stayed close to the floor and spider-crawled to a sofa nearby. She slowly got up on one knee and raised her head just enough to see over the large window sill.
Dead Summit (Book 1): Dead Summit Page 19
