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

Chapter Forty-Six

Grouchy

THE LITTLE GROUP OF survivors files through Abundance’s narrow, muddy, deserted streets. The village smells of apple pie, caramel, and beer. Trash and debris litter the streets. Grouchy sees more than a few children’s toys—carved figurines and cloth dolls of heroic princes, vicious wolves, fair maidens, and, of course, a crude likeness of Queen Adara herself. He steps on a Queen doll and grinds the nasty bitch into the mud. Just like on the river, an unusual number of flies, gnats, and bees buzz here and there.

Grouchy frowns at the always-visible church spire. Swobs. What dipshits want to spend eternity floating in the clouds? And if heaven’s in the sky, why antagonize it by poking it with churches? Fumping swobs.

Dwarfs are not usually outside at this time of day, but the clouds make the sunshine easier to tolerate. Grimly, he remembers the Horrors’ dilated eyes. The clouds will benefit them, too.

“Let’s stick to the alleys,” Battson says. “The stumps might attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“Agreed.” Hays shoots Battson a look. “Looks like there’s been a festival. Maybe everyone is sleeping off a bellyful of wicked water.”

“Wish I was,” Snoozy says as he ducks into the alley.

Drenched sheets and laundry hang from ropes strung across the alley, which stinks of piss and rotten food. Rain patters patiently. Yanky whines constantly, her nose to the ground and her eyes to the sky. Even in the alley, the subtle stench of sticky apple persists. The stink brings to mind the apple that started this curse. He pictures it now, clutched in that nasty hag’s clawlike hand.

Up ahead, the woman Fairess says nothing, but simply watches the sky. Grouchy doesn’t know what to make of her, except that her nose reminds him of his Snowflake’s—both as round and delicate as sugardrops.

Grouchy stays at the rear of the group, where he mutters obscenities under his breath and drags his battered, bitten, twisted leg through the mud. A cloud brews in his belly far darker than any in the sky. That cowpoker Hays finds his long-lost doggy, Battson gets to drool all over a damsel in distress, and even fumping Snoozy gets to be famous. And what does he get? A fumping limp.

Battson’s dim shadow falls over Grouchy. It’s the first moment the boy has let Fairess get out of arm’s reach since they found her in the river.

“She’s a little old for you, ain’t she, swob?” Grouchy points at Fairess, whose curved buttocks nudge hypnotically against her simple dress.

“Is age all that important?” Battson says. “How young was that Snow of yours, anyhow?”

“Shut up.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, past more deserted buildings. Grouchy can tell Battson’s slowing his steps to match Grouchy’s pace.

The boy fidgets with the handle of his sword. “I wanted to, uh, thank you for saving me back there.”

Grouchy sighs. “Which time?”

“Whatever.”

They plod onward. Raindrops and footsteps. Pain nips at Grouchy’s knee, the hurt somehow strengthened by the silence.

“I pulled you out of the water, you know,” Battson says at last. “You were drowning.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could thank me, too.” Battson grins. “I’m just saying. I was damn heroic.”

To Grouchy’s surprise, he doesn’t want to punch the smile off of Battson’s face. His mind fumbles, trying to reconcile his hatred for humans with his growing tolerance for this annoying soldier. Loving Snow is one thing, but buddying up with a human soldier.