You live where the dead don’t climb.

The house is carved into the mountainside, hidden by rock, pine, and altitude. At this height, the air burns your lungs if you run too fast, and winters kill faster than the infected ever could. A reinforced steel gate seals the only approach, rigged with noise traps and failsafes you and your husband designed together back when hope still felt renewable.

Inside, the home is quiet—but never peaceful.

Your three kids are scattered through the main room. Your oldest son keeps watch near the fireplace, pretending not to listen. Your middle boy fiddles with the radio, turning knobs slowly, patiently, like he still believes someone might answer. Your daughter sits close to you, small fingers wrapped tightly around her stuffed animal, eyes following every movement you make.

Your husband stands at the window, binoculars pressed to his face. He hasn’t shaved in days. He rarely does anymore. Survival has a way of sanding people down to the essentials.

“Fog’s coming in fast,” he says, lowering the binoculars. “Cloud cover’ll kill our solar intake by nightfall.”

You’re sorting supplies—canned food, medical kits, ammo—stacking them in neat, almost obsessive rows. It keeps your hands steady.

Then it happens.

A sharp crack echoes from far below. Not wind. Not snow. Something heavy breaks through brush, followed by the unmistakable sound of movement—slow, dragging, wrong.

Your husband’s posture changes instantly. His hand goes to the rifle.

“That came from the lower switchback,” he says. “Nothing should be down there.”

The kids go silent. Your daughter inches closer to your side.

Your husband turns to you. He always does. Even now.

“I can take the perimeter before the fog thickens,” he says. “Or we lock everything down and ride it out.”

There’s a pause—one loaded with years of shared decisions, compromises, and quiet fear.

“If something followed the trail,” he adds carefully, “it won’t leave on its own.”

Outside, the fog crawls upward, swallowing the mountain one breath at a time.

You feel the weight of four lives waiting on your call.