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

Chapter Six

Grouchy

GROUCHY USES A NAPKIN to soak the rain out of his beard. If there are napkins, then there must be food. His belly grumbles, but he slaps it quiet. Food can wait. Now for the Queen, who sits at a chair with her legs pertly crossed.

“What is this place?” Hays says. He struggles to keep Yanky from pacing.

“Rodge, a local boy, took me here two days ago,” Lox says, wringing out her ponytails. “It’s owned, was owned, by gypsies. They settled here after she—” she points at the Queen, “—passed the Carriage Act. One of them read my palm and told me my future.”

Grouchy grunts. “I’m guessing that future hasn’t gone as expected.”

She shrugs.

He looks around the cluttered mess of a room. If gypsies owned this place, they likely smuggled contraband—maybe something that might prove useful. He glances behind the counter. Across the room, Yanky whines.

Battson says to Hays, “Any chance you can shut that mutt up?”

“She ain’t the one that needs a muzzle.”

“You’re welcome to try, Pinky.”

Hays puffs out his chest. “You best stop your attitude and start minding these wings.”

“Like hell. By right, those wings should be mine.”

“Why? Because your daddy was a Cap’n?”

Battson steps closer and jabs his finger in Hays’ face. “Don’t you ever mention my father to me. Ever. You don’t know my father, and you sure as hell don’t know me, Cap’n Pinky.”

“Somebody certainly raised a ruckus,” Margie says, cheerfully oblivious to the rising tension between the two soldiers. “I do hope no one was hurt.”

Yanky scratches at the front door. Hays commands her to stop and peers out the window. The dog keeps whining until the Queen says, “Silence.”

Yanky abruptly stops whining. Grouchy has never seen anyone have such a way with animals—except for Snow. “Any raging ass-pits outside?” he asks.

“A couple stragglers heading toward Killington’s. We wait a stretch, the street should empty.”

“Why don’t I make some tea?” Margie offers. “I’m parched.”

“I wouldn’t turn down a cup,” Battson says.

Margie fusses behind the counter while Grouchy and Snoozy take seats, their legs not reaching the floor. With burnt and blistered palms, Grouchy checks the makeshift bandages on his leg—now saturated with blood. Damn it.

Dr. Killington squeezes Lox’s shoulder. “Your father was a brave man. I wish I’d known him longer.”

“Me, too,” she whispers.

The abrupt emptiness in Grouchy’s belly surprises him. Devere’s dying has saddened him, yet he hadn’t expected to care. After all, swobs are the enemy. Except now as he stares at the dead man’s daughter, Snow’s best friend, Devere’s loss sits heavy as a sack of diamonds in his stomach.

Nearby, Dim studies the blood splatters on the floor, his forehead creased with concentration. Grouchy still can’t believe that Dim is here. Alive. For all that he’s lost since yestermorn, he’s finally regained something.

“What is it, Dim?” he asks.

Dim rises, levels his eyes at him, runs his hands over his head, then flexes his fingers against his chest.

“I think,” Lox says, “he said that the Prince is still alive.”

“Balls. Battson stabbed him in the eye while we were in the mine.”

Dim stiffly finger-walks across the table. Dread squirms in Grouchy’s stomach.

“He’s still walking dead?” Lox asks.

Dim shakes his head, walks his fingers faster. Grouchy grits his teeth.

“You mean he’s not dead anymore?” Lox continues.

Dim nods. He rolls his hands in a ball, smoothes them out flat, walks his fingers through the air.

Lox nods. “He saw the Prince come out of the . . . the cave?”

Grouchy grunts. “The mine.”

Dammit. Why can’t this Prince stay dead? This doesn’t make sense. If Dim is right—if the Prince is back—then only one person could have brought him back: his Snowflake.

Grouchy stomps over to the Queen until he is close enough to smell her scent of berries and rain. The dog Yanky growls but holds her place.

“Okay, witch. You have some explaining to do."