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

Chapter Eighteen

Battson

ONCE OUTSIDE THE PAGE’S tent, Battson leads Hays through camp. He rubs his chin, bruised by that nasty stump’s big head. His blood thumps in his veins. Finally, he and his fellow grunts—the Blumers—are going to see some real action. All the better that it involves stumps.

“Why so heavy back there?” says Hays, the dumb hick. “We don’t know what the dwarfs did.”

Battson’s tempted to punch Hays in the face, to finish what was started at that dingy bar in Hays’ shit-house town. Instead, he grabs Hays’ shoulders.

“They’re guilty of being filthy stumps, pinky. They deserve whatever punishment they receive.”

Hays stares back at him. Until this idiot’s recruitment, Battson was the Blumers’ pinky, or newest recruit. The other soldiers are always hard on the pinky, which is all part of earning respect. They sure as hell were hard on Battson, but most of the grunts have already warmed to Hays. And Captain seems unusually fond of him, which only irritates Battson all the more.

He leads Hays into the woods, tries to ignore the deep holes of shadow. Behind every tree, he imagines the bane of his childhood bedtime, Rip the Tearer, lurking, waiting to strike. Rip only killed here in the Eastern Kingdom, but even as a child in the Western Kingdom the murderer’s deeds haunted Battson’s dreams. Even now, he pictures hateful eyes watching him, a jagged blade twitching to rend his flesh, and a crooked smile eager to mock his suffering.

They soon catch up with the Blue Meridian platoon. The path is lit only by lanterns and moonlight. He walks beside Captain. Steps ahead, Smiley and Monk take point. The rest of the grunts are paired off behind them.

Battson stares into the flickering shadows. “Little spuds probably have booby-traps.”

Captain says, “Uh-huh.”

“Probably trained the squirrels to attack us.”

“You ever see what a squirrel can do to a man?” Monk whispers. “I had a cousin once . . .” He continues ranting about shadows and dwarfs and rabid squirrels, but Battson tunes him out. Mostly. “. . .their chatter. No animal alive can curse like a squirrel . . .” Above, the moon weaves in and out of the clouds, casts a slowly strobing light. “. . . I once met a guy who passed out with a bag of nuts in his—”

“Monk, shut your meathole.” Captain stops, holds up his hand. “Everyone shut up.” He stands there, eyes closed, head cocked. Finally, Captain says, “I hate this forest. I miss the ocean at night and the salty morning air. Here in the East, there’s no waves—just crickets and hairy things scampering in the trees. Bats fluttering overhead. Snakes wiggling under the tents. But listen. Do any of you hear any of those things now?”

Captain’s right. The silent forest makes Battson think of the stories they heard in the nearby lumberjack shithole Abundance—stories of bones found near the river stripped clean of flesh yet bearing no teeth marks. The locals had hired a hunter—a giant of a man—to slay this beast. He thought it superstition at the time, but now he’s not so sure.

The Blumers left Abundance and found the mine yesternight. Of course, no road led here. It was Tattoo and Hays’ dog Yanky who tracked the mine. After camping for the night, the Prince insisted that he visit the cottage alone come morning. After the Prince left, Captain spent the day running his grunts through training drills. By nightfall, still no Prince.

“Do you think the Prince is really dead?” Battson says.

Captain shrugs. “At this point, I almost don’t care. Go. Know. Bow. Row. Foe. Bestow. Glow. Doe. Toe. You know what these words have in common, son?”

Battson sighs. “Yeah, Captain. They all rhyme with Snow.”

The soldiers within earshot chuckle.

Captain nods. “Yeah. They sure do.”

The love songs. The worst part about this mission with the Prince has definitely been the love songs. Back when they first left the Western Kingdom, the Blumers were under the mistaken impression that theirs was an urgent diplomatic mission related to Queen Adara’s rumored disappearance. Or perhaps related to the approaching winter—because the Prince kept speaking to his foppish Page about snow, snow, snow. While the Prince met with King Francis in Platessa, the soldiers learned from a chef at the Chamber House that Snow was a girl who worked in the kitchen. The Prince had been sending her love letters since spring until she disappeared. Of course, the Prince’s love for Snow didn’t keep him from trying to bed every maiden in the Eastern Kingdom, but it did prompt him to compose—and perform—a number of love songs.

Smiley looks back at Battson and laughs, his breath strong with drink. “You see Tattoo’s new ink?”

Before the dwarfs arrived, Battson, Smiley, and Monk had been playing a game of Goldeneye. Battson had flipped a golden coin into Smiley’s mug, and Smiley had dutifully drunk it all down—including the coin.

Battson shakes his head.

Smiley grins. “It’s the Prince. Well, it’s him from the waist up, but it’s a cross between a jackrabbit and a jackass below. I won’t explain the beast’s privates—”

“Thank you for that.”

“But he’s being ridden like a horse by—”

Someone screams down the path—a horrible noise punctuated by a gargled choke. The Blumers immediately take defensive positions, swords and spears at the ready.

Ahead, rapid footsteps approach. The full moon peeks from behind a cloud, its pale light illuminating the path. Battson squeezes the handle of his sword, imagines the metal thirsting for dwarf blood.

Whatever’s coming, it’s fast.

Captain holds up a hand. “Easy, grunts. It’s Tattoo.”

Battson squints. Tattoo sprints toward them, panting. His leather chest armor is torn, exposing his tattoos and something else. Blood? Looks as if the ink frozen under Tattoo’s skin has come alive: wet and dripping.

“Monk,” Captain says. “You have the medic kit?”

“Yeah, Captain.” Monk waves to Tattoo. “Tattoo, you alright?”

No. He’s not.

Tattoo hisses and tackles Monk at full speed. Monk thuds to the ground. Smiley grabs Tattoo’s shoulder.

“Smiley, watch—” Battson’s words come too late.

Tattoo lunges at Smiley’s face as if to kiss him. He hears flesh being torn from bone. Smiley convulses.

“Hold Tattoo,” Captain shouts.

Tattoo charges Captain, but Battson kicks the rabid grunt to the ground. Even through Battson’s boot, Tattoo’s body radiates feverish heat. Two more grunts grapple with Tattoo but quickly curse, shout, then hiss.

Battson hears footsteps behind him, turns just in time to see Cracker charging. They collapse in a tangle. Cracker shoves his face at Battson’s neck, but the soldier keeps his hands around Cracker’s throat. Where Cracker’s nose should be is now a torn hole dripping blood. It spurts onto his hands, hot and sticky. They’ve wrestled before, but Cracker’s never been this strong. Cracker gnashes his teeth, spitting blood and drool into the air. Battson struggles, but loses traction.

He closes his eyes, waits for the bite.