That Risen Snow: A Scary Tale of Snow White and Zombies (Wattys 2014 Award Winner)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Snoozy

SNOOZY SITS AT THE top of the spiral passage, stares at the undulating shadows. He stuffs another root into his mouth, where a well-worn wad already waits. His numb gums tingle and his teeth work steadily at the gritty, glorious glob. He fumbles with the long fuses, swats them when they wiggle or snap their teeth at him. He’s already drilled holes in the wall and ceiling, each big enough for one stick of explosives. Bubble. Seed. Boom.

At first, the noises do not jar the thick syrup between his ears.

Not the horrified screaming.

Not the pounding feet.

KUHH-KLLLANGGG. Not even the meal bell, though his belly does stir at the sound.

No, these noises simply fizzle in the background like the smell of his own beard or the evening songs of crickets that become the fuzzy tapestry behind all summer memories.

Nearby, the mining cart—a large metal box on four wheels used to transport ore, gems, and dwarfs down the spiral passage—squats on parallel rails running the length of the spiral. At each of the mine’s three lower levels, the dwarfs have installed a rail switch to divert the cart from the spiral onto rails running all the way to the vertical shaft. Snoozy’s lantern hangs from a hooked metal pole that extends upward from one side of the cart.

Whistling, he twists the cotton string fuses around his fingers, making an elaborate web. A net. Cabin net. By candlelight, there’s no boundary between his flesh and the rock walls, between the lines on his burnt palms and the fuses.

He is of the cave.

In the cave.

Within the cave.

Wait. Now he’s not in a cave at all. The dark walls are rotted fruit. He’s inside an apple hanging on a tree. Weight. The sickeningly sweet air contrasts horribly with the earthy spice of the roots in his open mouth.

A line of drool pools in one of his open palms. Gradually, he recognizes the distant hissing, screaming, and pounding not as sounds, but as colors spilling inside his skull and infusing his senses.

A terrible crash jars him.

It sounds as if the mine just broke its spine. He drops his web of fuses and rises, stuffing the extra fuses and his last root into his pocket.

Has the tree fallen? Has the apple fallen? The world is upside down. Sour juices ooze out of the rotten walls, pooling at his feet. He tries to run, but he’s stuck at the apple’s core.       

He staggers toward the vertical shaft, but then hears desperate screaming. Patience. A raspy hiss bounces down the passage, seemingly aimed at him. Several Horrors emerge from the darkness. Patients. They move as one undulating mass of legs and arms, a tangled mess of worms scrambling toward Snoozy.

Turning, Snoozy runs, throws himself into the cart. He slaps the brake lever as he lands. His forward momentum shoves the cart down the spiral passage.

Now he’s a seed tumbling inside the apple that’s rolling down a hill. No, he is inside the seed, trapped in this smothering shell as strong as iron. Outside the shell outside the rotted fruit outside the apple’s horrid skin, the spinning world is filled with hungry worms—eager to devour and shit and devour and shit still more. And here’s one now.

A soldier Horror leaps onto the descending cart’s rear, hanging onto the metal with gore-encrusted fingers. It hisses and snaps with its bloody mouth, its cheek torn open to expose gnashing teeth. Red spittle lands on Snoozy’s pants, hot even through the heavy fabric.

The cart picks up speed. The lantern swings frantically. Erratic shadows undulate on blurry, glittering stones. Below, wheels screech against the tracks. The Horror’s head smacks against the low ceiling. The soldier snarls. Worms pour out of its nostrils. Maggots writhe in its mouth. The grisly soldier grabs for Snoozy with one hand. Snoozy stomps the other hand. The Horror grasps the brake. Snoozy kicks harder. The monster hisses. Loses its grip. It splats into the rocky wall. The cart zooms downward, now leaning on two wheels. Snoozy reaches for the brake, but it’s gone. 

There’s no stopping him now.

The cart tears into the spiral’s final curve, and he pushes all his weight to the inside to keep the cart from tipping. The walls flicker past as a twirling river of sparkling stone. When the cart finally dashes into the lower level, something blocks the tracks up ahead.

It’s Hays.