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

Chapter Nine

Grouchy

THE DOC TENDS TO his wife behind the counter, given privacy by the other survivors. Grouchy sheathes Honey-Stick and stuffs tobacco into his pipe—a delicate operation with two broken fingers. Dim shakes his head at the floor. Snoozy stares at his flute as if it were a dog that just peed on the rug. Grouchy lights his pipe, breathes deep, and then exhales a dark cloud. He wishes he could exhale the dark cloud that’s settled in his mind. These three are the Collective. Shit.

“Why?” Lox says.

Grouchy is about to launch into an expletive-filled rant about his freedom to blossom a cloud any damn place he fumping well pleases, when he realizes that Lox was talking not to him but to the Queen.

“Why?” she asks again through clenched teeth.

The Queen wears a polished mask of authority. “Why what?”

Lox’s hands ball into fists. “Why, you evil rubbing wench? Why did you curse Snow? Why cause all of this death?”

“I don’t have to answer to you, little girl.”

Anger boiling in his gut, Grouchy yanks Honey-Stick off his back. “Oh, no, witch. I think you do. We want answers. Right bloody now.”

The rain intensifies, so loud that Grouchy almost doesn’t hear the first hiss. Dim’s head darts in the direction of the counter.

There, the Killingtons scamper over the counter. Flesh dangles from Margie’s lips, and blood gushes from the doc’s cheek. His eyes, now a bloody red, lock on Lox.

Margie lunges at Battson, who smashes a bottle over her head. She spills backward through Snoozy’s table, shattering the box of rum. Battson’s bottle rolls across the floor, leaving a wobbly streak of liquid.

Faster than his old body should allow, Killington dives over the counter toward Lox, but Grouchy hurls a bottle at the old man’s head. It strikes with a solid thunk. Killington’s head snaps back at the same time Dim swings his pickaxe through the doctor’s shoulder and into the counter—pinning him to the wood. Grouchy swings Honey-Stick at the doctor’s head, but Killington jerks sideways and the sword slices his other shoulder, nearly severing arm from body.

Grouchy’s knee flares with pain, and he stumbles. The doctor snaps at Grouchy’s outstretched arms, biting into Grouchy’s forearm.

It tears.

Grouchy’s stomach grabs ahold of his lungs such that he can’t breathe. His pipe hits the floor. Battson stabs the doctor’s skull, and the old man finds peace at last.

Grouchy looks down at his arm and takes a grateful breath. The doctor only bit through his sleeve.

Snoozy’s whimpering shatters any relief. Across the room, Margie, now on hands and knees, scampers toward the jittery dwarf, who’s backed into a corner defending himself with a chair.

At that moment, flames burst upward from the floor. What the hells?

His pipe—which sits at the center of the fire—must have ignited the rum. That same rum has spilled across the room and up Grouchy’s leg. Before he can react, a fiery snake slithers across the floor and leaps up his rum-splattered pants. He drops, rolling on the floor to smother the flames, but only rolls into more rum. The stench of burning hair invades his nostrils.

Suddenly, thick fabric falls over him, smothering the fire. It’s Dim who pulls the fabric—a gypsy tapestry—away from his charred clothing.

The Tea Room becomes an inferno. The suspended lanterns’ paper shades have become manic fiery butterflies. The flimsy curtains ignite, as do tablecloths and chairs, napkins and papers. Smoke glazes the room and obscures all but the bright flames. Grouchy coughs. Hands grab his arms and drag him across the floor.

Then he’s outside in the cool air, which he gulps into his lungs.

Lox and Dim stand over him. Behind them, a gypsy flag—heavy with rain—hangs from a crooked pole. Snoozy sits nearby, coughing and trembling. The street is one big puddle so speckled with the pounding rain that the surface looks goose pimpled.

Hays and Battson stumble outside, coughing.

“Let’s go,” Hays says.

Battson shakes his head. “What about the Queen?”

Grouchy grunts. “Balls to the Queen.”

“Now, dammit.” Hays steps into the street. “To the grocery.”

But Battson, the damn fool, goes back inside while everyone else sprints through the muddy street to the grocery. Of course, the grocery’s front door is locked. Hays rears back to kick it in, but Grouchy holds him back.

“Easy. I can pick the fumping lock. We may need it.”

“Be quick,” Hays says. “Won’t be long ‘fore the mob notices the smoke."

Rain pelts the back of Grouchy’s neck while he wiggles the tip of his dagger into the lock. He puts his ear to the door, listening for the click of metal. Once he hears it, he swings open the door and staggers inside.

His mouth falls open. So much food is crammed on shelves and display tables. Nuts. Butters. Fruits. Porridge oats. Breads. Jerky. Vegetables. Pies. Crackers. His stomach growls loud enough that Lox jumps, then grins.

“Snoozy, you ever seen so much food?” Grouchy asks.

But he doesn’t respond.

Snoozy isn’t there.