Mortimer's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Mortimer wanted to reach the summit that killed him. Fifty years ago he froze to death one rope-length short of the top. Now he was a walking corpse, half his brain bare to the wind, and he still meant to finish the climb. But a fresh blizzard had swallowed his old route. The snow rose past his frostbitten knees. If he stopped, he would freeze solid again, right where he stood. "Great weather for a funeral," he told the wind. "Mine, probably. Again." Nobody laughed. Nobody ever laughed. He couldn't feel his feet, but he couldn't feel much of anything, so that was normal. The whiteout thickened. He couldn't see three steps ahead. His joints creaked and slowed, like old hinges filling with ice. Panic would have helped a living man. Mortimer just kept telling jokes to the storm and forcing one boot past the other. Something bumped his hip. He looked down. His goat stood beside him, ribs bare, one eye glowing pink in the gray. The dead animal had followed him up this mountain for years. It never ate, never slept, never left him. "You know a way out of this?" Mortimer asked. "Or did you just come to watch me flop over?" The goat turned and trotted into the snow. Mortimer followed. He had no better plan, and his legs were nearly frozen shut. The goat stopped at a low mound the wind had scoured half-bare. Metal showed under the ice. Yellow and black stripes. A heavy hatch, sealed and weathered, set into a buried wall. Mortimer knelt and dug with stiff fingers. His nails cracked off. He didn't care. He found a recessed handle and hauled. Frozen. He braced both boots and pulled until something inside the corpse of his shoulder popped. The hatch groaned open. Warm air rushed out. Not warm to a living person, maybe, but warmer than the killing white behind him. Below lay a small chamber, reinforced panels, dead screens, gear left to rot underground. Some crew had sealed themselves in here long ago and never come back out. A red streak shot from the dark and clamped onto his thumb. A mouse, tiny, its fur splashed with old blood, teeth sunk deep. It bit down like it wanted the whole hand. Mortimer lifted his thumb and studied the little thing dangling there. "Room service," he said. "And it bites back. Five stars." He swung his legs inside and pulled the goat down after him. Then he dragged the hatch shut. The blizzard slammed against the metal and lost. He was not going to freeze standing up. Not tonight. But the chamber was sealed for a reason. Below him the dark ran deeper than he could see, and somewhere in it, the blood-soaked mouse was not alone.