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

Chapter Fifteen

Snoozy

FLAMES GNAW AT THE loft’s floorboards. Horrors slam against the door, jarring Snoozy’s mind. No patience. Know patients. Wood patients. Would puppets. Strings. Master. Mistress. Distress. This dress. A wedding. Wetting. Snow. Snow angels. Snow puppets.

The bitter taste of nothingness, like sour chalk, spreads down Snoozy’s throat into his stomach. Emptiness festers under his fingernails, too, as if his bones are burrowing out of his flesh. Chewing the roots has left the inside of his mouth as dusty and hard as the bottom of a mineshaft. He can’t stop grating his tongue against his teeth. He tastes coppery blood.

He spent years fighting off his personal horrors, and now he must start all over. Soon, his body will turn on him. The chills. The nausea. His muscles aching, his bones throbbing. Vomiting at both ends. It’s too much.

He sees only one option out. But how? Hang himself with the rope dangling out the window? Deflated balloon. Slice his wrists and let the emptiness spill free? Bleeding seeds. No, his only redemption now is to go down fighting, maybe give Grouchy and Merry precious extra moments to reach the mine.

He picks up a weathered fire poker from the scattered supplies on the floor, the twisted iron offering a perfect grip. A torn sheet wrapped across his face helps filter the smoke. Next, he fastens rope to a split piece of wooden headboard—a shield. With a kitchen knife tucked into his pocket, he wipes sweat from his brow. Ready.

Wood groans as the Horrors thrash against the door. He inhales deeply. Smoke scratches his throat, and he coughs, then takes another breath.

Wait. Weight. Wait for it.

He pries the doorknob loose, so that the two crossbars are all that’s keeping the door closed. He yanks off the lower bar, then loosens the top.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Nails wiggle out of their holes as the Horrors continue their onslaught. Snoozy pulls the pins out of the hinges, and holds on to the door.

Thud. Thud.

The Horrors knock loose the top crossbar, shove the door inward. Sidestepping with the motion of the door, Snoozy slams heavy wood on top of them. Bones and Snow thud downward, sandwiched between door and floor. He scurries over them and onto the staircase, where Blushful emerges from a blanket of smoke. His beard is charred. One arm dangles—a mess of bone shards and torn muscle. The other arm reaches forward.

Snoozy smacks away Blushful’s hand with his shield. He kicks Blushful backward off the staircase. The burnt and broken dwarf crashes below, hisses angrily.

Something clatters behind him. Snoozy pivots. Bones leaps, but Snoozy sidesteps and shoves Bones off the staircase. Bones grabs Snoozy’s hand—thankfully drenched in sweat—but loses his grip and topples below.

Too close.

As Snow appears in the doorway, Snoozy bounds downward three stairs at a time. Smoke, flames, and gnashing teeth surround him, but more important is what fills him—hunger. Not hunger for raylee root or apple whiskey or puddle weed, but hunger for life.

Fire consumes the furniture and walls. Flames crackle. Snoozy leaps off the stairs. Thick smoke blinds him, but he should have a clear shot to the back door.

A hand grabs his ankle. Blushful.

He topples onto his belly with a grunt. He smacks at Blushful’s hand with the poker, then kicks his charred face. Blushful’s nose and several teeth shatter. The Horror keeps coming. Snoozy stabs his knife downward through Blushful’s wrist and into the floor, and then rolls away.

He’s lost his bearings. He crawls across the hot floor, fully expecting teeth to latch onto his flesh at any moment. Smoke claws at his throat, nose, and eyes. He chokes back a cough. Rapid footsteps thunder this way and that through the smoke. Snow sprints right across his path, one step crunching his right hand.      

After an impossible distance, Snoozy’s head thuds against wood. Bear. Would. Bare. Wood. A cabinet. Cabin. Net. Stuck in the cabin net. He’s in the kitchen.

He scurries onto the counter. Broken glass digs into his palms. Charred wood sears his palms.      Footsteps rush his direction.

He leaps through the smoldering window frame. Bushes slash his face as he crashes to the ground.

A deep breath.

Then another.

And another.

The fresh air stings his split lip, but he doesn’t care. He takes another deep—

A heavy weight falls onto his belly. It’s Blushful, spilling out the window. Gasping, Snoozy rolls out from under the muscular dwarf. The undaunted Horror wiggles forward, but Snoozy thrusts the fire poker into his eye. Pops the bubble. His former friend twitches once, collapses.

Behind Snoozy, dead leaves crunch. He pivots. The Prince lumbers forward, his head hanging improbably to one side. Struggling to get up, Snoozy yanks the poker out of Blushful’s face. Something squishy flies into the air.

Just as the Prince closes in, Snow charges through the window and collides with the undead Horror. They tumble into the bushes with a hiss and a moan.

How the hells is that comb still in her hair?

Before Snoozy can finish taking a grateful breath, Bones scrambles through the kitchen window. Damn. Snoozy hauls himself to his feet and sprints to the backyard. There, clotheslines filled with blankets and mining overalls hang low to the ground like an army of apparitions. Weightless. Snoozy dashes into the clothing, hoping the laundry will distract his pursuers. Waitless.

 A breath later, Bones and Snow thrash in the dangling laundry. Snoozy sprints toward his oak tree. Just steps from the tree, he chances a look over his shoulder, but then bumps into something soft and heavy. He turns, bites back a scream. It’s the punching bag mounted by Grouchy moons ago. He climbs the tree quickly, knows the branches and handholds as well as he knows his own body.

 In the yard, Snow charges through the laundry and halts directly under Snoozy’s dangling feet. He holds his breath as Snow and soon Bones stand at the base of the tree, sniffing and hissing at the swaying punching bag. The tree’s bark bites into Snoozy’s burnt, lacerated palms. It’s only a matter of time before the Horrors look up.

Tweeeeet.        

A sharp whistle in the distance. A bird?

Snow and Bones hiss in unison, then sprint toward the noise. Toward the mine. Snoozy waits until they are gone, then starts climbing down. His muscles ache, and his trembling palms throb.

Near the ground, a cold hand grips his ankle. Snoozy almost screams. The Prince moans, a terrible noise emanating from somewhere deep inside his rotting gut.

From somewhere empty.