Chapter Seventy-One

Wasting no time in his victory over the tiger, the Dwarf jerks the spear-point from its skull. Weapon held before him, he stalks into the throne room, a scowl marring his face.

They’ve come all the way here, to the farthest edges of the hottest desert, to “help the prince.” And what have they found? A city destroyed. A palace unlocked. And a throne room overrun.

He scans the wide and airy room, empty save one person in the corner. Once she was a graceful young woman. Reaching pathetically toward the ceiling, she would climb the wall if it weren’t so smooth. Her fingers constantly pry at the stone, digging for any sort of handhold.

She doesn’t notice that one foot has lost its soft, curly-toed slipper, and most of her blue silks have ripped away. Evidence enough for the Dwarf that she is dead.

But what’s kept her distracted from the living prey that’s come through her door? Doesn’t matter, really. He gestures to the still-cowering Wolf in the corridor that the room is safe.

“Keep an eye on her,” he mutters. “And make sure no one comes in after us.”

Without waiting for an answer, the Dwarf walks over to the scant remains of a body. He has no need to be cautious - its head is missing. Most of it is missing, in fact, probably eaten long ago by the tiger.

Probably wasn’t the prince. Not in those street rags. And his curved sword doesn’t seem special in any way.

Blocking out the scratch-scratch-scratch from the blue-silked woman, the Dwarf takes out the golden key and frowns. All this work, all this trouble, for nothing.

The Wolf chuckles to himself, causing the Dwarf to look up.

“What’s so funny?” he whispers.

“Look,” says the Wolf. He points with one claw up to one of the alcove windows.

“That’s what she’s grabbin’ for - her lunch,” says the Wolf, and then the Dwarf’s eyes make it out. He’d taken it for a shadow, but it’s a small... something. Curled into a tight ball on the small ledge. Beneath, the woman reaches and scratches patiently.

“Oh, for the love of...” the Dwarf snorts and mutters to himself, and moments later cleans her blood from his blade.

He looks up at the shape. “Y’can come down now,” he says, but it doesn’t move.

“It’s too weak,” says the Wolf. His nose twitches - the better to smell with - and he smacks his lips. “Or scared. Yeah, come on down so we can eat you, instead."

The Dwarf gives a disapproving grunt.

“What?” snarls the Wolf. “You had no problems with eatin’ kittens and the like.”

“That was different. You killed ‘em, I just ate ‘em. They couldn’t defend themselves, but that’s the way of the world. Don’t mean I have t’like it.”

It ain’t fair, thinks the Dwarf, but who ever said the world was? None of these people asked to die. No one ever does, yet they still die. And the living have to survive somehow, too, don’t they?

“But that thing,” says the Dwarf, with a turn of his nose at the window, ”it survived. It deserves better. Besides, we got plenty of food and water here.”

“Bah,” spits the Wolf. “He wouldn’t have been more than a mouthful, anyway.”

The Dwarf raises his polearm, blade in his hand, so that the handle taps gently on the windowsill.

“You all right?” he growls, not unkindly.

The creature stirs and looks down at the Dwarf with bulging brown eyes. Then it gazes at the Wolf, who is sniffing doubtfully at a platter of long-rotted fruit.

“He ain’t gonna hurt ya,” says the Dwarf. Balancing the weapon with one hand, he fishes in his pockets with the other. Finally pulls out some pecans - sour, though - he’d found somewhere.

The brown eyes widen even more, and it reaches out with a tiny, stick-thin arm for the polearm’s handle. It takes several seconds, but finally it wraps its spidery limbs around the pole, and the Dwarf lowers it.

“Good boy,” he says gruffly. He takes the waterskin off his shoulder as the monkey desperately eats the pecans. They are almost as big as its head.

“Eat up, but don’t drink too much or you’ll regret it. Just a little at a time does the trick.”

“It can’t talk,” says the Wolf.

“Just keep an eye out,” says the Dwarf.

“Now tell me,” he says, as the monkey gazes at him with rapt attention. It sucks greedily from the waterskin as the Dwarf reaches around his neck and produces the golden key. “Do you know what this opens?”

And the Dwarf smiles thinly as the monkey nods.

Chapter Seventy

“He isn’t here,” Pinocchio says at last.

For hours - much longer than necessary - he and the Candelabra have patiently searched the pirate ship. And though it teems with corpses, Gepetto is nowhere to be found.

“Perhaps the Clock was right,” says the Candelabra, “and your father is waiting in a cave somewhere, no?” He offers a hopeful smile that is lost on the little puppet.

“I suppose so,” says Pinocchio, though there is little enthusiasm in his voice. He flops onto a step crusted over with dried blood and sparkling dust, only scuttling slighty to the side as a pirate lurches by him. With a sigh, he removes the Enchanted Mirror, tucked away safely within his shirt.

“Father, where are you?” he asks, and the Mirror dazzles to life. Gepetto sleeps fitfully, still in his darkened corner of the world. A tattered piece of canvas covers his thin body. Then all goes dark.

“We’ll find him,” says the Candelabra. “We will,” it adds, this time with more conviction. It pats the puppet’s shoulder with one candlestick. “After all, we’ve come so far already!”

“And now we have a ship,” says Pinocchio. He smiles for the first time since coming onboard. “We can sail around looking for him.”

The Candelabra’s smile wavers for a moment. It had probably taken all of these dead men to sail the ship. Four individuals - two without any hands - would make for a laughable crew.

As he looks about the mess of ropes and sails, hope brightens Pinocchio’s painted eyes. “We could,” he says, and he pushes the wheel tentatively. “I bet the Lion knows all about ships.”

Unsure how to respond to this, the Candelabra simply murmurs, “Hmm.”

“And I could be captain!” says Pinocchio. Grabbing a ragged hat from the floor, he puts it over his head and turns the wheel a bit harder. “And you could be in charge of the cannons! And the Clock could sit in the crow’s nest, and the Lion could be my first mate.”

“Now, now, let us not be too hasty, mon ami. First we must get these men to abandon ship, oui?”

“Aye-aye!” says Pinocchio, and before the Candelabra can say anything else, he clatters about the sticky deck, pushing and pulling at the dead men.

Somewhat ruefully, the Candelabra allows the boy go about playing pirate for a little while longer. It waddles to the other side of the ship - port? starboard? - and flickers its wicks twice. Away on the shore, the dark figure of the Lion watches. The Clock, so minuscule, waves its hands in recognition of the signal.

The ship suddenly lists to the side, and the Candelabra nearly falls overboard.

“What happened?” it shouts.

Pinocchio, wide-eyed and baffled, guiltily hides his hands behind his back. The final link of a chain snakes behind him and rattles over the side of the ship into the calm waters below.

“I don’t know!” says Pinocchio. “I didn’t touch anything!” His nose stretches considerably.

The deck of the ship levels itself and begins to tremble. The wood creaks painfully. The pirates, agitated by the sound and motion, begin to scratch at the bloody, dusty floor.

“What the devil?” says the Candelabra, and it looks over the edge of the ship. The water is falling. Or, rather, without an anchor to hold it down, the ship is rising.

“We’re flying away!” says Pinocchio. His face contorts into a mask of grief and despair. “I don’t want to fly away! I want to find my father!”

The Candelabra looks around in shock. The pirate ship can fly?

Several of the crew stop scratching and lurch to the prow. They eagerly look ahead of them - perhaps smelling blood in the air.

The sails still billow, and without the weight of the anchor, they pull the ship forward, away from Neverland, into the bright and briny seas beyond.

“No!” wails Pinocchio. “I don’t wanna go! Not without the Lion!”

“We don’t have to,” says the Candelabra. It looks back at the beach, so far away, and can’t help but wonder what the Clock would say to this. “We can jump.”

“Oh, right!” says Pinocchio, and he grabs at the Candelabra, who shakes him off.

“You go first, I will catch up,” it says, smiling its most charming smile. “We’ll meet on the beach.” It feels some relief that its nose doesn’t grow.

When Pinocchio hesitates, the Candelabra adds, “Trust me. You will find your father.”

After gazing downward to watch Pinocchio safely hit the water (“And why wouldn’t he?” thinks the Candelabra), it rushes across the deck, down into the hold.

It doesn’t quite remember the tales of Neverland - is it difficult to find the island, or difficult to leave? Isn’t it just following the second star to the left and straight on ‘til morning? It might take only a matter of days for this ship to randomly hit that course.

And the idea of thirteen dead men on a flying ship, sailing over or crashing through any protective walls, the very thought chills the Candelabra.

Some of the crew vacantly hold their swords, though they’ll most likely go unused. Judging from their bloody beards, their teeth are now their weapon of choice.

And the possibility of unleashing more of the dead onto the world, the Candelabra can’t allow it. Maybe, it thinks, as it approaches the small barrels of gunpowder, they will sink in the ocean... but more likely, they’ll survive. Broken and battered and chattered, but still dangerous.

However, it’d be better to have them stranded in Neverland, where there’s probably none still living, than unleash them onto the remnants of the world.

The Candelabra crouches next to a pyramid of barrels, extends one candlestick to a second pyramid, and thinks its flames can reach. It makes one wish for Pinocchio, one for the Master, and one for the Lion - who will probably encounter these pirates if they ever reach shore.

Flicking its wick, it wonders what the Clock would say about this, and then the Candelabra sets fire to its destiny.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

Above the ship, a shadow flew
The flying Boy drew near
Coming forth, no doubt, they knew
To save his fairy dear
The cannons primed and fastened
A sovereign was the prize
Offered by the Captain
For a shot ‘tween the Boy’s eyes

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

The cannonball flew squarely
He fell into the sea
And though a cheer grew fairly
It died as they could see
His figure from the water
Filling crew with dread
He flew on, keen for slaughter
Alive, yet also dead

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

The Boy, the corpse refused to fall
His hunger was so great
Ignoring blade and cannonball
He fell on the first mate
And fed, despite the screaming
From first mate and from crew
A horrid nightmare dreaming
The number of dead grew

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

And cutthroat fought his brother
One living, one undead
And one would claim another
Immune to steel or lead
A desperate feast and battle
Beneath the windless sails
Fought without word or rattle
For dead men tell no tales

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

On bended knee, the Captain
Begged of the fairy true
To take away the deathless Boy
And spare his sorry crew
To her esteem, she tried her best
As ‘round the deck she flew
Too close she came, just like the rest
He bit her clean in two

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

Replacing hook for cutter
The Captain joined the fray
And there, without a shudder
He made the dead Boy pay
“The coin is mine! At last he’s done!”
The Captain laughed and cried
But of his crew, not a soul heard
For to a one, they’d died

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on

The deck awash with dust and blood
They backed him to the mast
A mutinous crew, a hungry flood
They reached upon their last
With one last bullet blackened
And gun upon his chin
His final words to his dead mates:
“You shan’t have me! I win!”

Oh, thirteen souls on a dead man’s ship
Before the break of dawn
The guns did black and the blades did rip
While skull and bones smiled on.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Within the palace, it waits.

Patiently, impatiently, mindlessly, it paces about the throne room, listening, smelling the intruders as they come closer.

Long ago, it would have thought only to defend the Sultan and his daughter, but those days have gone with the rest of the world. Now, its body and mind withered beyond death, it thinks only of flesh and blood.

Living flesh and warm, thick blood.

It’s been too long since its last meal, since the Man.

And the Man had opened the doors, scimitar at the ready, focused on the enemies he could see, never thinking about the one he could not. Then it leapt, and the Man was dead, ribboned flesh and spurting blood, and the palace was silent once more.

Now, beyond the doors, they breathe. Their hearts thump at a maddening tempo. Claws skitter on the polished marble floor. They speak with quiet voices, proof of delicious life.

And their smell, stronger than the desert sun, flesh and fur, is overwhelming, all-consuming. It presses and pushes against the cold, closed doors.

They will come. They always do, they always will, and then, with a pounce, they are dead.

At last there is movement. The doors swing outward, and something small and brown leaps past the doorway. It pounces, all tooth and claw, ripping and tearing and swallowing the tiny mouthful - a leather collar, awash with the scent of Dwarf sweat and kitten fur - before it can hit the ground.

To its side, shielded by the door, it hears a guttural gasp, the heavy trod of foot, and then the Dwarf charges forward, a long stick of iron in front of him, and he pushes the point into its eye, deeper and deeper.

It hisses and writhes, fangs pulled back in a grimace of anger and hunger. The weapon digs deeper into its skull, and it can no longer quite control its claws to swat at the handle.

Already, it is fading, weakening. It lies down stupidly, tugging its head backward, and the Dwarf takes that moment of hesitation to pull back the spike and swing the axe blade down upon its skull.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

“I’m afraid I cannot go with you, Pinocchio,” says the Lion.

He stands with his fleshless companions on the diamond-white shores of Neverland. With the blue sea before them and the green jungle behind, the Lion thinks it could be a beautiful island... were it not for the plague.

The four of them - Lion, puppet, Candelabra and Clock - focus on the grand and miraculous pirate ship anchored in the bay.

“Are you sure?” asks Pinocchio.

“Yes, unfortunately. I can see them scurrying around - no, don’t strain your eyes, dear child, we’re too far away - and I would be more hindrance than help in this situation.”

“But,” says Pinocchio, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“And I don’t wish to leave you,” purrs the Lion, and he is surprised to realize he isn’t lying. “But your duty is to find your father, not defend me from the dead.”

He surprises himself even more by hoping that the woodcarver is alive and on the ship, as unlikely as that may be. The dead men prowling the deck would not miss such a target.

“You’re right,” says Pinocchio, and he looks between his three friends and the pirate ship. “He’s my father. I should go alone.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” says the Candelabra, and it hops forward on the sand. “If your father can help the master, I will help you. That’s what we are here for, no?”

“And I’ll stay here,” says the Clock, his eyes warily following the figures onboard the Jolly Roger. “To remain with the Lion,” he adds quickly. “And,” he adds again, “I’m quite sure he’s not there anyway, but in a cave.”

“Well...” says Pinocchio, “we’ll be quick.”

“I’ll be right here,” says the Lion.

And it’s strange. Pinocchio hesitates for a moment, but then he hugs the Lion’s dark mane, and the Lion rubs his scarred face against the puppet’s frame. Surely just to mark his scent.

But it is strange. They somehow know that they won’t see each other again. And in Pinocchio’s short life, he’s lost so many people so suddenly - his father, his conscience, the Little Pig - that he cannot leave the Lion without a proper farewell.

“Be good,” he says. “Be careful.”

“I will and I am,” says the Lion, and he watches them walk into the ocean, Pinocchio clutching the Candelabra in his trusting hands.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Once it was known as the City of Wonder, the Jewel of the Desert, the Land of Riches and Adventure. Now, muses the Dwarf, it’s just another Kingdom of the Dead.

Standing amidst the ruins, for once the Dwarf is pleased. Hands on his hips, he surveys the wreckage with a satisfied nod.

The City of Wonder has been thoroughly destroyed. Every building has crumbled upon itself, trapping hundreds of peasants and merchants and other ordinary people, all withered and hungry for flesh.

He thinks briefly of what Cinderella might think of all this, and the smile melts from his face. She’d pity even the dead, kind-hearted as she was.

“Well,” he says to the Wolf, “at least we won’t have any trouble findin’ the prince.”

Only one building still stands in the Jewel of the Desert: the Sultan’s palace. All white alabaster and marble, inlaid with gold and precious blue jewels, it stands fat and round and ready to withstand a thousand armies.

The Dwarf nods again. It’s a good, faultless construction. A bit too fancy, and more garish than anything he’s ever seen, but it certainly took survival into consideration. And survive it has.

“Be careful,” he warns, as they walk closer to the mighty palace. “There might be a dragon about.”

“Dragon?” says the Wolf, and he stops short. He looks around wildly and sniffs at the searing air. “You never said nothin’ about a dragon!”

“What do you think burned everything down?” says the Dwarf. He tries to chuckle at the animal’s ignorance. “I told you, this warn’t caused by no ordinary fire.”

He continues slowly across the sand, being careful to keep some distance between himself and any wreckage. You never know when some clenching claw might snake through.

Finally, they stand before the platinum doors. Though they’re gilded and carved with all sorts of ridiculous designs, the Dwarf determines they’re still as solid as a mountain.

He knocks heavily with the butt of his spear-axe. The thud echoes dully, causing the Wolf to cringe.

“What are you, crazy? You wanna wake up the dragon?”

The Dwarf snorts. “Yar, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s gotta be a reason why it didn’t burn down the palace, ya fool. This place,” he knocks again, louder, “is probably the first safe building we’ve seen since, well, forever.”

The Wolf’s ears are still pricked up. “I ain’t convinced,” he growls. “I don’t like dragons.” He smells the air again, but tastes nothing but the hot, unforgiving desert.

They stand there for a moment, then the Wolf says, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Open the door.”

“I can’t open this door! It’s built to keep out invaders.”

“But you got the key,” says the Wolf.

“Bah.” From around his neck the Dwarf produces the slender golden key - the red parrot’s dying gift. “Ain’t no way this key,” he says, “could open a door that size. Especially since it doesn’t have no keyhole.”

“Then what do we do?”

The Dwarf sighs loudly and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Ain’t ya supposed to be the Big Bad Wolf? Huff and puff and blow the doors down!”

The Wolf steps back and eyes the massive doors, but quickly sneers. “I’m still wounded, remember?” He scratches at the scars criss-crossing his body, remnants of Cinderella’s surgery. “You want me to pop my stitches?”

The Dwarf’s muttered answer is inaudible. With an annoyed grunt, he presses his callused fingers against the metal, feeling with expert hands for a secret catch or lever.

However, the door swings easily inward.

“It wasn’t locked,” says the Wolf.

“Yar,” grumbles the Dwarf.

And though neither says it, they both find it quite disturbing that such a secure palace has been left unsecured.

Chapter Sixty-Five

“Defend me, Pinocchio!” screams the now-sheepish Lion.

He perches atop a tree, a dead tree that is surrounded by dead boys wearing animal skins. The Lion has come to expect safety on higher ground, but these children remember how to climb.

Perhaps they retain some skills from the animals they wear. Perhaps climbing is so common in Neverland that it’s become second nature. The reason isn’t important - all that matters to the Lion is that they don’t touch him.

The little puppet grabs on to the child in the skunk skin, but the dead boy doesn’t register the weight at all. It doggedly grabs and pulls itself up the trunk of the tree, Pinocchio dragging behind.

Likewise, the efforts of the Clock - tugging pathetically on a fox tail - go ignored.

Six dead boys, worse than hyenas, the way they giggle and grin with broken teeth. Desperately, the Lion climbs even higher, until he reaches the top of the tree.

His teeth and claws powerless, he has only one option. He waits until their filthy, reaching fingers are just inches away from his paws, and he leaps.

The dead boys grab uselessly at his tail, and once he’s gone, they simply let go of the tree and fall.

But while the Lion lands gracefully and is already bounding away, the children collapse in a heap and scramble over each other. The Candelabra touches his wick to their skins and hair, but they are much too damp to be set aflame.

The Clock takes the fox tail and ties it to a thick root. The boy in the fox skin never notices. It reaches and strains toward the retreating Lion, its feet digging gashes into the soil.

Pinocchio has less luck with the skunk tail - the boy is bigger and stronger, and the skin rips a moment later. It staggers after the Lion, still hooting and giggling.

“They won’t stop!” says Pinocchio. He grabs the skunk-boy by the leg, but it stumbles on. He stands in the rabbit-boy’s way, but it walks right over him, milky eyes always focused on the Lion.

“I know, I know!” chimes the Clock.

“We need rope!” says the Candelabra. He gestures toward the vines that hang from the trees, but without fingers or hands, there isn’t much he can do besides give orders.

Deeper in the forest, the Lion finally turns to look behind him. There’s enough distance between himself and the children that he can gather his bearings, catch his breath, and formulate a plan.

Unfortunately, one doesn’t come. He has no hyenas to sacrifice, and his fleshless army is proving useless once again. These children are hunters, as dangerous as the dead bander-log of the Wildlands, and if the trees cannot save him, what can?

His fangs and claws are nothing. At best, he would break their necks with a swipe of his paw, but they could just as easily bite him. And a small bite, even the tiniest scratch, means death.

Still tired, the Lion bounds away. His kind is built for short bursts of speed, not long-distance runs. And even then, physical work has never been his specialty. With the last reserves of his strength, he plunges into a white-tipped river and swims to the other side.

His natural weapons cannot fight the dead, and, cursed as he is without hands or fingers, he cannot build any. Instead, as always, he must rely on his mental powers, and it is true, he can think and reason unlike any other.

Quietly, the Lion paces up and down the riverside. The soil smells clean, so he marks the territory. He should be safe here. He climbs into a tall, healthy tree and watches the rushing water.

He’d hoped this land might be free from the curse of death, that it might be full of children who never grew up and other meals to enjoy. Instead, as elsewhere, he is the prey.

It takes some time for the dead boys to reach the river. His companions, still tripping legs and bashing with sticks, have slowed them considerably.

The Lion, perched in his tree, roars. They look up.

The children show no hesitation. They walk straight into the river, still focused and reaching for his flesh, even as the current whisks them away, faster than the Lion could ever wish.


Future chapters of Disney Zombies will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.