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

Chapter Forty-Two

Grouchy

GROUCHY GRASPS AT THE water, which unravels into shreds between his fingers and instantly weaves into a liquid blanket—smothering him. His soaked clothes pull him deeper into the river. He yells an angry swarm of bubbles.

His lungs are on the verge of bursting when a hand grabs his beard and pulls him to the surface. He swallows a deep breath of chilled air, then another.

Still holding Grouchy’s beard, Battson swims the dwarf to shore with an irritating grace.

Abrasive rocks and withered reeds make an uninviting mess of the shore. Trees line this side of the river, and their roots snake out between mud and rock. Grouchy holds on to a root, coughing out water. Debris from the cliff sprinkles the river’s surface.

“Over here, pinky,” Battson yells to Hays, who’s further downstream.

Hays offers a tired wave. Coughing, he wades toward them. Where’s Snoozy?

“I didn’t think we’d make it out of there,” Battson says. “The sky’s never looked so good.”

Grouchy looks at the sinister clouds lurking above. “Where’s Snoozy?”

“Can he swim?” Hays yells.

Grouchy grunts. “There’s a reason dwarfs are shaped like stones—because we tend to sink.”

“There.” Hays points downstream at Snoozy, floating face-down in the water.

“Dammit.”

Hays tosses his boots on shore, throws himself into the water, and swims perpendicular to the river’s shoving current.

Soon, Grouchy and Battson help Hays haul Snoozy onto shore, a chore that leaves all of them caked with mud. Grouchy puts an ear to his friend’s chest and finds a sluggish heartbeat. He puts a hand over Snoozy’s mouth.

“Shit. He’s not breathing.”

“Hang on.” Hays pinches Snoozy’s nose and blows into his mouth. Coughs. Blows again.

Battson grimaces. “That’s disgusting, pinky.”

“Shut up,” Grouchy says.

Hays blows again, and this time Snoozy chokes and hurls water. Happily, Grouchy sees that some of it splatters onto Battson’s cheek.

“You okay?” Grouchy pats Snoozy’s belly.

Snoozy nods feebly.

“We made it out, stump,” Battson says. “Now where the hell are we?”

“Must be the far side of the mountain,” Grouchy says. “Our raft isn’t too far from here.”

“Huh,” Snoozy says between coughs. Still on his back, he points upward at a blackened stain burnt into the cliff. “Lightning bolt.”

Grouchy stares upward. “I’ll be cored.”

A blackened blemish scars the cliff where lightning struck it last summer—the morning Snow bit the apple.

***

THAT MORNING CAME FAR too fast. Grouchy woke at the foot of the spiral staircase from a dreamless sleep. The taste of stale apple whiskey filled his mouth. His stomach was sour, his blood cloudy with mud. Bones stood over him with a knowing smile.

“Planning on joining us today?”

“Balls. I suppose.”

Snow, of course, was nowhere in sight. The loft door was shut.