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

Chapter Twenty-One

Grouchy

“MERCY,” GROUCHY SAYS. “PLEASE have mercy. Just kill me."

But the Page shows no mercy. Instead he prattles on, his eyes lost in an imagined distance. “My first memory is of my Prince. Only four years old, I was in Seaside Castle for the very first time, a brilliantly shiny palace full of vibrant colors, plush furnishings, and massive fish tanks filled with wondrous creatures. My father held my hand as we entered the royal nursery. My Prince, just a baby, was wailing. I asked my father why my Prince was mad.”

 “Most nobles are,” Grouchy says.

In the distance, soldiers yell and scream and—quickly becoming Horrors themselves—hiss. Grouchy can’t even enjoy the sound of dying swobs, because it means that Snow now has an army.

“‘He’s just a baby,’ said Father. My Prince’s nursemaid knelt and kissed my cheeks. She put my palm over my Prince’s head, already covered in dark wisps of hair. She introduced us and told him I’d be his best friend and most loyal servant. And you know what? He stopped crying.” Here, the Page bursts into tears. He stares down at Honey-Stick. “I remember when he received this sword. Such a work of art, not unlike my Prince himself. His initials are engraved on the handle. M.A.M., for Mikael Algore McNimby. But to me, he was simply ‘my Prince.’”

“I’m sure he was a wonderful individual,” Merry says, smile trembling above his chins.

“Balls, we haven’t time for this. Snow. Let us go. Time is short.”

“Time?” the Page says. “What matters now the passing of time?”

“What about the passing of you, you prick? You’ll die here.”

“My life is worthless now.”

The Page places the blade’s tip to his chest and swallows. He takes a deep breath, braces himself.

“There’s better ways to off yourself,” Grouchy says. “Cut your wrists lengthwise. It’s assloads easier. More reliable, too. But for fump’s sake, unshackle us first. We don’t—”

 A horrifying scream—much too close—cuts off Grouchy’s words, followed immediately by a terrible hiss. The losing battle is now in the camp. Yelling. Hissing.

“Your soldiers are dying,” Merry says.

“No,” Grouchy says. “They’re becoming monsters. Horrors. So will we. Just like your Prince.”

“My Prince? If he has become a monster, then so shall I. I’ll follow my Prince to hell, if needed.”

Outside, a twig snaps. The Page drops the sword and gasps. Grouchy tries climbing to his feet. Maybe if he tackles the Horror he can overpower it somehow, use his shackles as a weapon.

The tent flap opens.

There, Snoozy stares wearily at them with his bruised face and split lip. He holds a blood-stained fire poker.

“Snoozy,” Merry says. “You’re alive.”

“And I’m not dead, either.”

Snoozy takes the Prince’s sword from the Page, who gasps again, then slams the blade through their shackles. Sparks fly. Metal snaps. A breeze through the open flap blows out all of the Page’s candles. Grouchy shivers.

He pats Snoozy’s belly, takes the sword. “Good to see you.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Then Grouchy notices that Snoozy’s jaws are chewing something. He narrows his eyes, but Snoozy shakes his head and opens his mouth wide.

“It’s only the Prince’s honey-gum,” Snoozy says. “Let’s go.”

Outside, Horrors chase down the remaining soldiers like wild dogs. Grouchy runs onward, ignores the stabbing pain in his leg. When the dwarfs reach the mine, a sword pins an undead soldier to the ground outside the entrance. The Horror squirms and moans.

Five soldiers stand behind the gate. Swobs. In his mine. And of course, one of them is that ass-pit Battson.

“Let us in,” Grouchy says. “We haven’t much time.”

“Why should we?” Battson says. “This is all your fault. I’m just saying.”

“Like hells it is. Your dandy-ass Prince started this by kissing on our Snow. These woods were fine ‘til you swob idiots showed up.”

“Let them in, Battson,” the captain says wearily. “They know these monsters better than us, and they sure as hell know this mine better.”

“But Captain—”

“Now.”

Battson kicks open the gate, and Merry steps inside.

Grouchy follows, pauses to examine the lock. “You broke the lock? Brilliant.”

“We couldn’t get in,” Hays says.

“What’s wrong with your friend?” The captain nods toward the gate.

Outside, Snoozy stares at the undead soldier pinned to the earth, still sluggishly snapping its jaw. The addled dwarf steps on the Horror’s throat.

"Snooze,” Grouchy says. “What are you fumping doing?”

Snoozy wrestles with the blade embedded in the Horror’s chest. He twists it free with a wet slopping noise and shoves it downward through the Horror’s temple. The Horror twitches once, then rests. Still as a fallen tree.

“That’s how you get to the clapping,” Snoozy says. “Pop the bubble.”

Grouchy grabs the addled dwarf. “Well done, Snooze. Handy tip. Now please get your crazy ass in here.”

Quick footsteps approach. Pivoting, Grouchy raises Honey-Stick, ready to take down whatever’s coming. It’s just the Page, still dressed only in pajama bottoms, his wide eyes stained pink from crying. Grouchy knows that look all too well—heartbreak.

“They’re coming,” the Page says. “So many.”

Grouchy shoves everyone inside and slams the gate shut with a hollow clang that reverberates through the tunnels.

Ahead is the mine’s staging chamber, a wide space used mostly for storing gear, sorting gemstones, enjoying several mid-day meals, and repairing tools. A cramped tunnel—about a dozen or so dwarf paces long—separates the staging chamber from the gate.

His braided beard covered in blood and ash, Snoozy drops the gory sword and sits down in the tunnel. A soldier retrieves the blade, wipes it on a gem bag.

Grouchy kneels in front of the gate. “These ass-pits broke the lock.”

“Wonderful,” Snoozy says. He pulls out a rope. “Let’s put a bow on the present before it becomes the past.”

Merry grabs the rope and addresses the captain. “These Horrors aren’t burdened with great intelligence. It’ll take them awhile to figure out that the gate can only be pulled open. Hopefully enough time to seal the tunnel.”

Grouchy frowns. “That’s a fumpload of hope.”

Something slams into the gate behind Grouchy. A rough hand grabs his hair and yanks his head back into the bars. Sprinkles flutter in his vision, otherwise dark. His skull throbs. Hot breath flushes against his neck. He doesn’t feel the bite, but blood blossoms wet and hot over his neck.