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

Chapter Nine

Grouchy

AT THE LOFT WINDOW, Grouchy secures a knotted rope to the windowsill. Outside, the earth takes its first nips at the setting sun. Snow paces in the front yard. Periodically, his Snowflake snarls and lunges at the door hard enough to make the windowsill tremble.

He will fix her. Or die trying.

There’s no sign of Dim or Bones, but now the Prince stumbles into view, his skin pale and blotchy. His mouth hangs open, and a line of bloody drool spills down his chin. Grouchy remembers how it felt to stab the Prince—like he was getting revenge for all his ancestors. For all of the dwarfs now decaying in the ground. For all of the unborn dwarfs who will grow up poor and hungry. In that moment, he understood his father Kiel’s rage and violence. Except stabbing the Prince didn’t ease the anger smoldering in his belly. If anything, his belly burns hotter.

Snow rushes to the Prince, snarls, and sniffs his wounded neck. Grouchy grits his teeth.

“Hello,” Merry says from behind him.

He jumps, then grunts. “You startled me, smiles.”

“That’s a first. I don’t think I’ve ever scared you before.” Merry drags a bag into the room—supplies for the journey to Abundance.

“Only when you start talking.”

“Ah.” Merry’s smile wobbles. Never could take a joke.

His knee aching, Grouchy crosses the room, pats Merry’s belly. “Only kidding. Y’know, for someone who smiles so damn much, you sure as hells take things too seriously.”

Merry shrugs. “And you don’t?”

Grouchy eyes Merry and grunts. “Blushful drink his tea like a good boy?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. I hope it helps him.”

“I’m going downstairs. We’re ‘bout ready.”

Grouchy checks first on his companions in the sitting area. Blushful dozes in his chair, and Snoozy still lies unconscious. He finds Coughy in the kitchen. Already, the cottage reeks of harsh vapors almost strong enough to mask the lingering scent of vomit and blood.

Holding a napkin over his mouth, Grouchy says, “The gas mixture almost ready?”

Coughy nods. “Just about.”

Grouchy’s anxious to get this done, to make his Snowflake better. She was always so tolerant of his impatience, even when he hovered over her—well, under her—in the kitchen.

Like the day she told him about King Francis.

***

IT HAD BEEN ANOTHER long day in the mines. He was hungry, and Snow was still messing around in the damn kitchen. He was hungry, and Merry was prattling on about a better chore system. Furthermore, he was hungry.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m done,” she said. “The stew must be done. We must listen to our meal. Do you hear what it’s saying?”

“Yeah. It says, ‘Get me out of this pot and into Grouchy’s belly.’”

Snow laughed and bonked Grouchy’s head with her ladle. “No, silly. It’s saying.” She slowed and deepened her voice. “‘My flavors are still intermingling. I need to simmer longer so they all can get to know each other. Also, I need more salt.’”

“More salt?” Grouchy handed her the salt shaker.

Snow shook the salt into her palm, then added it to the stew pinch by pinch. “Many a meal has found itself woefully underdressed with a shamefully revealing lack of salt.” She sipped the stew. “I once met King Francis, you know. He traveled often, so it was rare to meet him in person. We were cooking that night—a grand dinner to celebrate his anniversary with Queen Adara. His sixth wife, if I remember correctly. His fifth was Adara’s sister, you know. Anyway, he was limping around the Chamber House halls, trying to find the chamber pot. He was impressively drunk.

“He found me boiling water in the kitchen. As he pissed into a pot of soup, he pointed at my boiling water, ranting about how heat was just the, uh, articles? Particles? Barnacles?” She shook her head, ebony hair flowing like a dark river. “Whatever. He said that heat was just the essence of something moving faster and faster.” Snow laughed. “It was very odd, but made a queer sort of sense. I imagine that’s what’s happening with our stew. All the ingredients are zipping around like hummingbirds, drinking each other’s nectar. Isn’t that lovely?”

Grouchy grunted. “Sounds like fairy tales.”

“Yeah, but it’s nice to think these particles exist. They certainly smell wonderful.” She closed her eyes and smelled the stew, her face flushed from the heat. When she licked her lips, a deeper longing replaced the hunger in his belly.

***

NOW, COUGHY CLEARS HIS throat and pats Grouchy’s belly.

“You okay?” Coughy says.

He nods. “This is a good plan, Coughy. I think we’re finally going to get ahead of this—”

“Uhhhrrr.”

The moan comes from the sitting area. It must be Blushful. Grouchy and Coughy exchange wide-eyed stares.

They’re too late.