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

Chapter Forty

Merry and Captain Ritchards

WHEN MERRY WAKES IN the all-consuming darkness, his cup runs over with agony. His legs are bags of shredded meat stuffed with shattered glass. Splinters and dust in his lungs provoke coughs that feel like angry fists punching inside his broken chest. He whimpers.

Nearby, something groans, and his blood runs cold.

A human voice speaks, “Hays, is that you? You alright, son?”

“Captain?” Merry coughs. “Oh, good. I thought I might have been dead.”

“Merry? How the hell did you get all the way down here?”

He chuckles. “I fell, Captain.”

“How bad is it? Are you okay?”

“Judging by the agony, I’d say both my legs are broken.” He coughs. “Some ribs, too. Fingers . . .” He reaches into his pocket and grabs his worry stone with twisted fingers. “Can’t forget the fingers.”

“What happened?”

“The Page tried warning us, but he—” Merry coughs again, and thorny hands clench his insides. “He hit his head on the ceiling. By the time I found him, it was too late. The Horrors swarmed us.” His laughter collapses into sobs.

***

CAPTAIN RITCHARDS LIES HALF-BURIED in rubble. His punctured skin is full of cold sand and broken seashells. This must be what it’s like to drown, only instead of water he’s smothered by rocks, darkness, and dread.

Merry’s damp chuckling goes on and on. Ritchards must focus on the dwarf.

“Can you see where we are?” Ritchards says. “Is there a way out?”

Merry sniffles. “Dwarfs can’t see in pitch blackness. But I’m guessing we’re trapped in the alcove on the bottom level.”

“Merry, I have something important to tell you.”

“First, I have a question, Captain Ritchards. Do you have anything to eat?”

How can the dwarf think of food at a time like this? “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

Merry laughs. Or cries.

“Listen to me, Merry. Earlier, I was bitten.”

“Ah.”

“The curse is moving through me. I don’t have much time. You don’t have much time.”

“Of course I don’t. This is all so darn typical.” Merry raises his trembling voice. “Are you happy, darkness? You finally have me.” Now he’s calm, almost conversational. “Go ahead. Eat me.”

“Merry, listen. Come to me. Bash in my skull. It’s your only chance. Shit, it’s my only chance. Please.”

“You know what, Captain?” Merry sighs. “It’s not easy smiling all the time.”

***

MERRY SITS UP ON his elbows, and pain shoots through his pelvis down to the tips of his toes. Tears roll down his cheeks. He collapses and squeezes his worry stone so hard that he’s sure juice will come out.

Not too far away, and yet from an impossible distance, the captain murmurs, “You can do it, Merry. Kill me. I don’t want to become one of them. Save yourself. Kill me.”

“Settle down,” he says. “I’m coming.”

“Come on, little dwarf. Kill me, dammit. Get your grinning ass over here.”

Again Merry’s bruised elbows meet the ground, and he hoists himself over a rock. Something pops in his leg, like a bite of celery. He screams. It’s easy to imagine that scream echoing throughout every crevice in the mine, his boundless agony disrupting the already weakened shaft and causing more rock to spill downward, crushing his head like a grape. Merry’s tears turn to laughter because that scenario would be a small mercy. He laughs not just at himself but at the darkness. With a grunt, he throws his worry stone into the void.

Plink. Plink. It bounces away.

“Dammit, Merry. Focus. What’s so funny?”

“I finally won, Captain. I beat the darkness.” Now he’s cackling—even though each crackle of his voice is a flaming whip snapped against his bloody insides. “It doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“Merry. Now.” Even on the brink of death, Ritchards’ voice is still full of authority. “The curse is taking me.”

“Okay.” If the captain says Merry can do it, it must be so. He pushes. Wooden splinters jab into his back, and his frantic laughter immediately ceases. He grunts with determination. If he can kill the captain, he can dig himself out. It’ll take time, but he can do it. And Grouchy and Snoozy will come for him. They’ll bring Dr. Killington.

“I hear you, Merry. You’re getting closer.”

***

RITCHARDS KEEPS TALKING SO that Merry can find him in the dark—and because Merry needs anger to live through this.

“Get your fat ass over here. You know you want to. What dwarf wouldn’t want to bash in a human’s head? You won’t even need a stepladder this time.”

Ritchards is too cold now even to shiver. His bones are ice. His blood is frozen sap.

“Get your fat ass over here.”

He’s fading. Emptiness tingles behind his eyes.

“Dammit, come on.”

Nearby, rocks scramble. Merry whimpers and grunts. He must be almost within reach.

“You’re right here, Merry. Good.” His speech breaks up as his lungs freeze. “Do it. Find my.”

His body goes limp.

“Voice and.”

His heartbeat is a sluggish murmur.

“Kill me.”

And then, a teasing flash of peace. His veins explode with fire. The emptiness in his belly boils up his throat. Thirst ravages his tongue. Not for water. Not for rum.

For blood.

***

THE DARKNESS THROBS WITH bad intentions. Merry closes his eyes to it, a pointless gesture. Another scoot. Rest. He clutches his belly, not at all surprised to find a broken rib sticking out of his side. The bone’s surprisingly warm.

He reaches out, clutches handfuls of shadow. “Just keep talking, Captain.” He finds a fist-sized rock. “Captain?”

But what answers isn’t the captain. It’s a raspy hiss.

Spittle dots Merry’s face. He swings the rock blindly. It hits softness, and something grabs his wrist. Merry jerks backward, the broken bones in his legs grinding together.

He screams.

The captain hisses in response, flailing at the debris. He’s digging himself out. Merry drags himself backward—agony dancing feverishly in his bones. Maybe he can call for help. The other soldier, Hays, may well be trying to rescue them.

Dragging himself is too exhausting, so he rolls across the debris instead. His legs snap, crackle, and pop. His broken ribs saw at his flesh. The captain keeps flailing until there’s a dreadful silence, punctuated only by panting breaths.

If he can stay quiet enough, perhaps the Horror won’t find him. Choking down a cough, Merry extends one hand into the dark, patting every few inches in hopes of finding a weapon.

Debris. Splinters of wood.

Pebbles. Another hand.

Merry jerks away, but something hot and heavy lunges forward. Broken teeth tear into Merry’s cheek. A hot tongue laps at the blood spilling out of his face. Suddenly, all his fear and dread funnel into one overpowering sensation: thirst.

“No. Oh, please—”