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

Chapter Nineteen

Captain Ritchards

CAPTAIN RITCHARDS SEES CRACKER take Battson down, and he hopes that the young soldier will take care of himself. Of course, he doesn’t.

Ritchards sidesteps a flailing grunt and plunges his sword into Cracker’s chest. The blade shakes as Cracker convulses, gurgles, and goes limp. His own grunt, one of his own. Damn it. He kicks the corpse aside and offers a hand.

“On your feet, grunt. We’ve got monsters to kill.”

All around them, soldiers shout, fight, hiss, curse, and bite. The darkness makes it impossible to tell friend from foe. Glass shatters as someone steps on a fallen lantern. Flames sprout and gobble at dead leaves and bushes.

Something grabs his boot. He looks down, just as Cracker—somehow still moving—bites into his boot. He grunts at the pressure of the bite, kicks free with his other leg.

He steps away, tries to process what his senses just told him. He stabbed Cracker through the heart. Cracker’s eyes were glazed. He was dead, but somehow not. Ritchards blows his whistle, but the Blumers are in chaos.

Tweeeeet.

“—that Shrub? I couldn’t tell if—”

“—okay, Jellyfish. Let me—ow, the spud bit m—”

“—the hell off of me—”

Grunts run in all directions. The scents of smoke, blood, urine, and burning leaves assault his nostrils. His boys jostle together. Chewie chases Teddy-Bear into the forest. A soldier knocks Hen to the ground. Hen screams and then hisses. Nearby, Antler screams, and Hays turns to assist. Except the grunt Jellyfish is already huddled over Antler, apparently helping. Antler screams. Jellyfish bites into Antler’s wrist. Bones crunch, yet Antler doesn’t scream. No, he hisses. Hays pukes, hot bile projecting onto the ground.

Ritchards grabs Hays and pulls him back. Jellyfish and Antler lunge, but Ritchards stabs Antler in the chest. Battson slices Jellyfish’s throat.

“Brilliant time to join the Service, pinky,” Battson says.

“To the mine,” Ritchards yells. “Now.”

Battson, Hays, and Monk sprint back down the path, and Ritchards scans the crowd for any other survivors. He has no choice but to retreat. He’s lost grunts before from not knowing when it was time to pull out. He won’t make that mistake again.

He puts the whistle to his lips. Normally, it tastes like cold, hard truth. Right now, it tastes like fear.

Tweeeeet.

“Retreat to the mine.”

He turns, follows his soldiers to the mine. His lungs feel like worn rags in this thin mountain air. Behind, dozens of footsteps drum the earth—no telling how many are friend or foe. More screams stab the quiet night.

Ahead, the ghostly tents of camp. Almost there.

Behind, pounding footsteps close in. Abruptly, a choking scream replaces those steps. He doesn’t know which of his fellow grunts falls. If the soldier had been a little faster, the monsters would’ve grabbed Ritchards instead.

Finally, he reaches the mine. Across the entrance spans a metal gate—thick metal held closed with a built-in lock—smiling wickedly at them like a toothy grin. Monk tugs the gate, but it won’t budge.

Ritchards smacks the metal. “Damn.”

Battson wiggles his dagger into the lock. Metal scrapes against metal, but to no avail. Ritchards nudges him aside and thrusts his own sword into the lock, wrenching his blade left and right. The lock clicks open. When he removes his sword, the tip is split like a forked tongue.

Behind them, sprinting footsteps approach.

Battson turns and swings his sword. The runner ducks and slides feet first into the gate with a loud clang. If the monsters didn’t know where the soldiers had fled, they know now for sure.

“Dammit,” the runner says, “it’s me, Shrub.”

Ritchards yanks Shrub—so named because of his copious body hair—to his feet, and Hays pulls open the gate. Ritchards pushes his grunts through the gate, but a strong hand grabs him by the neck and yanks him backward. He trips, falls on his ass. Standing over him is a soldier—its face rendered unrecognizable by bites. Blood drips hot onto Ritchards’ face. With a hiss, the monster reaches down for him, but Hays spins the soldier around, kicks it on its back, and stabs his sword through its stomach and into the ground. It gasps a choking gurgle and then collapses.

After Hays pulls him to his feet, Ritchards pats his pinky on the back, pulls him into the mine, and slams the gate. “C’mon. These monsters don’t stay dead.”

As if to prove his point, the faceless soldier’s hands twitch. It struggles to sit up, its torso sliding up and down Hays’ blade. The sword saws against the monster’s ribs and makes wet clicking noises, like a stuttering cricket. Propped up on its elbows, the thing stares at them and moans.

“That ain’t natural,” Hays says.

Battson shrugs.

Shrub and Monk curse.

Ritchards shakes his head slowly.

“I think that’s Bruiser,” Shrub says.

Ritchards sighs. “Not anymore it isn’t.”

A gold coin plops out of the soldier’s guts.

“No,” Battson says, “it’s Smiley.”

Down the path, a few straggling grunts scream and plead for what seems an eternity. His grunts. His boys. The cacophony ceases abruptly. Smiley moans. Leaves scatter. A solitary hiss pierces the dark, and then a chorus of hisses and footsteps swarms toward the mine.