That Wicked Apple: A Scary Tale of Snow White and Even More Zombies

Chapter Eight

Though really, Margie can’t blame him.

This place is a mess. There’s obviously been a right awful food fight. Ah, well. So goes the Apple Butter Festival. And people think gypsies are so uncivilized. Ha.

Margie arranges ceramic mugs on the countertop: five adults, four children. The gypsy symbols carved into the mugs stir a flurry of memories in Margie’s head. Likely she’s distantly related to the owner. Of course, all gypsies are related, as her father would have said with no small measure of pride. My, he was furious when she married an outsider. Often, Margie’s tried figuring who, herself or Killi, gave up more for their union. Killi forsake his Hopeful religion and moved to a new kingdom, while she gave up her people, her way of life.

No matter.

A hand grabs her ankle. The cellar must be dreadfully cold because the stranger’s hands feel as chilled as a riverbed.

He puts his mouth—also cold—onto her calf.

Before she can jerk away, teeth tear into her flesh. A flash of pain penetrates her to the bone. She bites back a scream. After all, she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.

***

ACROSS THE ROOM, KILLINGTON sits with Lox, searching for the right words. Already, the girl’s face is freezing into a mask of anger. She’s burying her grief with rage. Killington knows from painful experience that rage is a temporary solution at best.

It’s Lox who breaks the silence. “Why does Margie keep calling me Colleta?”

“That was our daughter’s name. She died many years ago. She grew sick, and I could do nothing to help her. I was so angry. I was mad at the world, Lox. That anger would have consumed me if not for Margie.”

He stares over at his bride, his Margie. Immediately, his back muscles jerk straight. Tears run down her cheeks, and she’s trembling. He dashes to the counter as fast as his creaking knees will take him.

He bends over the counter, and his heart collapses into his ribs.

An undead fiend gnaws on Margie’s calf. It stares upward, chewing a mouthful of flesh. Margie’s flesh. She collapses.

“No,” he yells.

From behind him, Hays jumps over the counter, slices at the Horror with his sword. Again and again, he stabs the evil thing’s chest, stomach, and throat. Thick, purplish blood oozes out like pastry filling.

Hays stabs again and again. More blood.

Again. Blood.

Killington kneels over Margie, checks her wound, and pats her hair. He’s vaguely aware of Hays stomping the filthy corpse.

“Easy,” Battson says.

The skull shatters.

“Come on,” Battson says.

Ribs burst.

“I’m just saying.”

A sternum cracks.

“That’s no way for a captain to behave.”

Hays’ sword falls to the floor. The soldier coughs violently.

The Queen’s shadow falls over Margie and the mutilated corpse. She clucks her tongue. “I think you got it."

Killington ties a napkin below Margie’s knee to stop the blood flow and slow the curse. Her skin is already as cold as moonlight.

She mutters, “Surprise, surprise, surprise.”

Oh, no. He can’t lose his Margie like this.

***

MARGIE DOESN’T KNOW WHY she’s on the floor. Dear Killi is fussing over her again. Such a good husband. Good father. He fusses so over her and Colleta, or over sick and wounded strangers.

“Killi, hold my hand.”

And he does, cradling her trembling head. He’s a slight man, but his forearms feel like rocks. She’s proud of her strong doctor.

“I’m with you, dear Margie. Always.”

Ah. His familiar scent of sweat and soap.

“Killi, was it a surprise? Is everyone having a good time?”

“A wonderful time, dear. Indeed."

“I only ask because it doesn’t look like much of a party.”

***

KILLINGTON LOOKS UP. THE dwarfs stand on the counter. Lox and Snoozy have tears in their eyes. Grouchy’s flushed with anger. Dim and the Queen wear solemn masks.

He looks back down at his wife, sees her shining light fade. “Oh, no, Margie. It’s a wonderful party. With dancing and laughter. Isn’t that right, everyone?”

Grouchy clears his throat. “Best party I’ve ever seen.” He pats Snoozy’s belly. “Snoozy, weren’t you playing us a very quiet song?”

“Yes, indeed.” Snoozy holds up his flute and twitters a tune as delicate as wind snuggling between leaves of grass.

Dim extends a hand to Lox, whose lip quivers. He leaps off the counter, and soon the rhythm of dance steps can be heard.        

“What the hell are you people doing?” Battson says, emerging from the trapdoor. He and Hays must have been below checking for more ghouls.

“Shut up and dance,” the Queen says, pulling him over the counter. Soon, more dance steps.

***

GLORIOUS! THIS IS CERTAINLY more like it. Margie taps her toes against the floor and squeezes Killi’s hand. She loves a party. If only she weren’t so cold, her bones carved from ice. Her calf tingles as if asleep, and she’s so tired. Her eyes see only burning darkness.

“Margie, how are you feeling?” Killi says, his hand upon her forehead.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but goes limp.

A tiny pinprick of heat pierces her throat and blossoms urgently into a hot coal. Now her belly burns, churns, and thrashes against her ribs.

“Margie dear?”

She tries to tell Killi that she loves him, but nothing comes out.

***

“SHE’S PASSED OUT,” KILLINGTON says, now rising from the floor. “Please stop dancing.”

“I’m sorry, doc.” Hays puts a dusty box on the counter. “There’s a hidden chamber down there filled with contraband: herbs, some books, this smuggled rum, things like that.”

“I could use some rum.” Battson hoists the box onto Snoozy’s table and pulls out a dusty bottle.

Grouchy comes behind the counter and pats Killington’s belly. “For what it’s worth, doc, she won’t turn for a while. The bite won’t hurt. It’ll be numb.”

“Thank you, Grouchy.” He clears his throat. Salty tears sting behind his tongue. “Let’s get her to Snax To Grind and make her comfortable.”

“Snax To Grind?” the dwarf says.

“The grocery,” Lox says. “You know, lumberjacks. Grinding axes.”

The Queen sighs. “How quaint."

“What sort of herbs are down there?” Snoozy asks.

Grouchy shoots him a dirty look then leaves Killington with Margie. The others keep talking, but Killington doesn’t pay any attention. He kneels again and holds his Margie’s hand, the satin flesh so cold. She jerks, and her skin flushes with warmth, then heat. He hears the hiss just before her head snaps up.

Her teeth tear at his cheek. He screams, but the noise stumbles into a raspy hiss. His final vision is Margie’s face splattered with blood, a wicked sneer carved across her cheeks.