Chapter 6
SIX
MUZZLE
DREW
The air tastes wrong. How is that possible?
It’s not the usual farm funk. Not manure or sweat or old hay. This is thicker. Sour. It clings to my tongue like something spoiled that refuses to let go.
It crawls up my nose and settles there.
“You smell that?” Cole asks. His knuckles bleach white around the steering wheel as the tractor rattles beneath us. He drives like he’s familiar with it, even if everything else about him screams not a farm kid.
“Unfortunately, yes.” I slide the window shut, but it barely dulls the stink. “Something died out here.” And stayed dead. And kept rotting. “Probably crawling with maggots.”
Cole swallows and keeps his eyes locked on the dirt road, avoiding the potholes and pretending I’m not talking.
To break the tension, I force a grin. “So. You’re here padding college apps. Got a dream school picked out?”
He shrugs. “Not really. I just know I want out. Somewhere new. Somewhere not . . . this.”
The words land harder than I expect. My chest tightens, sharp and fast.
“Ah.” I nod. “Another one destined for greatness.” I hear the edge in my voice and hate it. “Hope you find it, man. Far away from here.”
The tractor bucks and rolls to a stop near the fence line by the corn maze. The engine idles, low and uneasy. The ground looks darker here. Soaked. Like it sweats.
Cole hops down, tugging on his gloves, squinting, trying to keep the dust from watering his eyes even more. I follow, boots sinking slightly into the dirt.
The stench hits again, stronger now. Closer.
My skin prickles.
Something is wrong out here.
“You sure this is where Fred wanted the games?” Cole asks, scanning the field.
I slap the tractor’s side. The metal rings hollow. “Relax. He said near the maze. This is near enough.” I nod toward the other field in the distance. “Grab pumpkins from over there. I’ll start setting up.”
Cole hesitates. His eyes drift to the fenced patch.
DO NOT TOUCH – SHOW FIELD ONLY.
The sign creaks, slow and lonely.
A prickle crawls up my spine. I flash a grin anyway. “I’m not messing with his precious pumpkins. Besides, the faster we work, the faster we can go help Sandie.” I wiggle my eyebrows for emphasis.
Cole snorts, nods, shoves his glasses up, and climbs back into the tractor. The engine coughs, then growls as he rumbles down the dirt lane, the trailer bumping along behind him. The sound thins. Then it’s gone.
Quiet rushes in to fill the space.
The corn starts whispering. Leaves scrape together, low and secretive, like they’re trading jokes at my expense. The stink thickens and coats my throat.
I grab a few regular pumpkins and line them up by a stump. I set out the tools. Hammers. Bats. A couple of knives that look like they came from a garage-sale horror kit.
The ground feels wrong under my boots. Soft. Spongy.
I stomp once.
The dirt dips. Not much. Just enough to notice. Then it settles back, slow and sticky, like it’s breathing.
I stare at the ground. My skin buzzes with unease.
“Get it together,” I mutter.
It’s dirt. It’s pumpkins. It’s a stupid festival.
I shake it off and get back to work. I focus on lining up tools. Anything to keep my head busy.
It doesn’t help.
Valerie Andrews. Here. Of all places.
If I ever made a list of people least likely to come back to Blandville, she’d sit at the top. Smart. Focused. Always moving forward. Always nice to others. And now she’s here, elbow-deep in construction paper and paint like the rest of us.
Good, though. Real good.
Maybe this is the kick Shaun needs. He’s stared at her like she hung the moon since forever. Everyone saw it. Everyone except her.
Shaun never went after what he wanted. Not her. Not anything that didn’t come with pads and a playbook. His dad drilled that into him early. You’re only worth what you can win. What you can score. Nothing else counts.
My jaw tightens. I set the sledgehammer against the stump harder than I mean to. The wood cracks.
His dad can go to hell for that.
Shaun bailed me out more times than I can count. Talked me through school when I barely scraped by. Pulled me out of a holding cell after that busted house party when I thought I was untouchable. He always showed up.
He deserves more than this town. More than the pressure. More than that voice in his head telling him he’s nothing now.
No one tells you your dad can be your first best friend or your first bully. I got lucky. Shaun didn’t.
I glance toward the barns in the distance and spot the one where Shaun and Val are working. A smile tugs at my mouth.
The second Valerie walked in, I knew I had to get them paired up. No question. It was a risk, volunteering to work with Shaun and Sandie, but I counted on Fred wanting us split just to keep things moving.
Worth it.
Now Shaun’s got one-on-one time with the girl he’s been pining after for way too long.
I snort under my breath. Hopefully he doesn’t mess it up this time.
Setting up the games goes faster than it should. Either I’m on autopilot or I stopped caring halfway through. By the time I’m done, the silence presses in while I wait for Cole to come back with the tractor load.
Boredom wins.
I wander.
Fred’s show patch sits just beyond the fence, tidy and smug. The pumpkins are enormous. Too round. Too smooth. Their skins shine like they’ve been buffed with car wax.
I whistle under my breath. “Damn. He wasn’t kidding.”
One pumpkin near the fence hooks my attention. The color is off. Not bright orange. Deeper. Redder. Like a bruise that never healed.
Perfect smash target.
The sign creaks again.
No. You are better than this. You are not in high school anymore. No more stupid shit.
I glance back down at the pumpkin.
Screw it.
“Sorry, Fred,” I mutter as I hoist it onto my shoulder. It’s heavier than it should be. Dense. “One won’t hurt.” He earned it after being a prick all morning.
I drop it on the stump, lift the sledgehammer, and swing.
Crack.
The rind bursts open and seeds spray everywhere. Not the clean, stringy mess I expect. This is thick. Almost greasy.
The smell hits a second later.
Rot layered with something chemical that burns my sinuses.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke, slapping a hand over my mouth as I stagger back. My eyes water. “What did you do to these things?”
I look back at the patch.
The vines lie thick against the soil, coiled tight. The stench rolls off them in waves. Sweet. Sour. Alive.
That’s where it’s coming from.
I grab another pumpkin and drag it to the stump. My gut knots, but I lift the sledge anyway.
Crack.
The rind bursts and guts splatter my jeans. The stink is worse this time. Sharper. It bites the back of my throat. I glance down, almost expecting the slime to smoke or melt through the denim.
My skin crawls.
Thunk.
I lift my head.
A pumpkin sits on the stump to my left. Big. Smooth. Perfect. Like it posed itself there.
I frown. “Pretty sure I didn’t put you there.”
I tighten my grip on the sledge and step closer. The air presses in, damp and heavy. Each step sends a faint tremor through the ground.
Thunk.
I spin.
A smaller pumpkin on my right rolls a few inches, then stops.
My mouth goes dry. “Nope. No. That didn’t happen.”
The vines at the edge of the patch twitch. Just a little. Like fingers flexing.
My pulse quickens. “Okay. Chill,” I mutter. “It’s just gravity. Wind. Something.”
Except there is no wind.
The corn stands still. Dead quiet.
The vines at the edge of the patch begin to move. Not swaying. Not shifting.
Crawling.
They drag across the dirt, slow and sure.
My mouth goes dry. “What. The. Fuck.”
One pumpkin slowly turns toward me. Then everything goes still.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the fumes are messing with my head.
Then everything rushes me.
Vines snap around my boots, slick and strong, locking in tight like they know exactly where to grab. I stumble and swing the sledge on instinct. The impact lands with a crack on a rolling pumpkin. Seeds spray across my arms and chest. The aroma makes my eyes burn.
“No. No way,” I gasp, coughing as I swing again.
The hammer caves in two pumpkins. Thick, dark orange pulp spills across the ground like raw meat dumped from a carcass.
Pain detonates in my arm as something snaps tight around it.
It yanks. Squeezing. Squeezing.
Then—
Bone punches through skin with a squelchy pop that doesn’t sound human. My scream tears out of me and the sledge drops from my hand, useless. Hot blood slicks down my forearm and the world tilts.
I swing with my good arm, wild and desperate. My boot connects with a pumpkin and sends it flying into the corn maze. Another follows. They vanish into the stalks.
Three more roll in to replace them.
Vines surge up my legs, clamp around my ribs, slither for my throat. They’re warm. Slick. Alive. They pulse against my skin as they drag me down. My back hits the dirt hard and the breath explodes from my lungs.
I gag and claw at my neck, fingers slipping on soggy green flesh.
The big one rises from the stump. Its vines dig into the dirt.
Slow. Proud.
It turns toward the carving table. A knife lifts into the air, guided by vines that curl and tighten like fingers learning how to hold. The blade catches the sun and flashes.
The tip presses into the rind.
The sound is wet and intimate. The knife carves eyes. A nose. A grin stretched too wide. Thick pulp oozes out, strings of seeds dangling like drool.
The pumpkin leans closer, its hollow stare locked on me.
“No,” I rasp.
The word dies when it lunges.
Vines snap tight around my skull and wrench my head back. The knife drags across my cheek, fire ripping through my face. I scream, and that’s the mistake.
Vines force their way into my mouth, prying my jaw wider than it should ever go. My teeth creak. Dirt floods in. Rotten. Chemical. The taste of fertilizer and death coats my tongue. I gag, chest burning as I choke on the ground itself.
The jack-o’-lantern lowers until it fills my vision.
I have to warn the others. I have to warn Shaun.
Its carved grin lines up with my mouth.
Seeds pour out in a thick rush, hot and damp, stuffing my throat. Pulp follows. I thrash, heels digging trenches in the dirt, but the vines pulse and tighten, forcing me to swallow. My lungs seize. Air won’t come.
My vision tunnels to those triangle eyes. Empty. Patient. Like it’s enjoying this.
My last breath catches on seeds and rot.
Then the dark takes me.