Chapter 8
EIGHT
PULVERIZED
FARMER FRED
Can’t go one damn minute without someone whining.
The main barn is finally starting to look presentable.
Not good. Not yet. But closer than it was this morning.
Shelves partially stocked. Coffee station is almost set.
Still feels slow as molasses. We’d be done by now if that girl would stop pausing every five seconds to take pictures of herself instead of doing the work I laid out for her.
This year has to work.
It has to.
I can only ignore the bank for so long.
I need the money. I need the crowd. I need people talking about my farm again instead of that polished eyesore over in Mayfield with its petting zoos and hayrides and smiling staff in matching shirts. This place used to mean something. My place used to matter.
The new field will fix that.
Biggest pumpkins this town’s ever seen. Thick vines. Deep color. Strong. Healthy. Worth something. Worth everything.
That fertilizer better be worth every penny.
Sandie’s voice slices through the barn, sharp and grating. Her arm is high in the air, cellphone in hand, swinging around. “There’s no signal out here! This is ridiculous. I can’t post a single—”
I snap.
“Then work instead of postin’,” I bark, shoving the barn door open with my shoulder. The hinges shriek. “I ain’t payin’ ya to stare at your phone.”
“You’re not paying me at all.” She scoffs, muttering something about backward towns. I don’t listen. I leave her to it.
I cross the yard toward the shed, boots crunching over dirt baked hard by the sun. The chemical smell hits before I reach the door. Sharp enough to burn the back of my nose. Smiling Seeds knew what they were doing. Old Dixon didn’t lie.
Pumpkins big as barrels this year. Prizewinners.
The farm stinks, sure, but money fixes most things. I’ll hose it all down later. Or buy a lot of air fresheners.
Inside the shed, the feed grinder waits in the corner. Solid. Reliable. My pride and joy. I flip the switch and the machine roars to life, blades screaming as they spin up. The vibration hums through the floor and up into my legs.
That sound always steadies me.
I start feeding the damaged and overripe pumpkins into the machine, turning them into slop for the pigs. They’re probably hungry by now, and since I’m low on cash, old vegetables will have to do. I can at least make it easier for them to eat.
One after another. Rinds split with a wet crack. Pulp sprays the walls and slaps into the bucket below. Seeds bounce across the floor like spilled teeth. The smell thickens. Pumpkin oil. Rot. Stinging my eyes.
I ignore it and just keep feeding the beast.
Then the shed door slams shut.
Hard.
The bang splits the shed and rattles the rafters. My heart jumps straight into my throat.
“Damn door,” I bark, spinning around. “First thing getting fixed in this shithole.”
The grinder roars behind me, its metal growl filling the space like a threat. The only light comes from a thin blade under the door, slicing across the dirt floor.
I move along the wall, palms scraping over splintered wood and rusted nails, hunting for the pull cord. My boots scuff in spilled pulp.
Then something shifts.
Not wind. Not the building settling.
A thump.
Another.
Slower. Heavier.
My pulse hammers in my ears. “Hello?” The word comes out weak.
I edge toward the worktable, fingers skating over cold metal. Wrench. Trowel. Sticky handle of the lantern. My skin crawls with unease.
Thump.
Closer.
I finally feel the rough cord for the light and pull.
The bulb flares to life, harsh and yellow.
I wish it hadn’t.
My brain locks up, skips like a broken record. My stomach drops so hard I almost sit down where I stand.
That’s Drew’s body.
No.
Not anymore.
Vines cinch his arms and chest, biting into torn flesh. A jack-o’-lantern sits where his head should be, grin crooked, mouth slick and dripping. Blood tracks down his jacket and patters to the dirt, pooling around his shoes like he’s melting into the floor.
More pumpkins roll into view. Big. Glossy. Wrong. Their vines slither and twitch, tapping the boards like curious fingers.
My prize pumpkins.
I step back.
The vines answer by creeping closer.
Behind me, the grinder howls. Hot air and vibration crawl up my spine. The blades sound eager now, like they’ve been waiting their turn.
Out of the corner of my eye, another pumpkin plants its root into the dirt and rises.
“Jesus—”
The word chokes off as something snaps around my throat.
My hands shoot up. I claw at the vine, nails scraping slick skin that doesn’t give. It tightens, crushing my windpipe. Air disappears. My chest screams for breath.
The pumpkin-headed thing tilts its carved face, studying me. Watching me panic. The grin shines under the bulb, amused.
Another vine wraps around my chest and yanks me into the air. My boots skid, slick with pumpkin oil and pulp. I slam into the side of the grinder. Pain explodes through my ribs. Breath blasts out of me in a broken grunt.
The grinder never slows.
The hopper gapes open, packed with shredded rind and stringy guts. Inside, steel teeth spin in a blur, chewing everything to sludge. The whole machine shakes like it’s starving.
I kick. Thrash. My heel connects with metal. Nothing. I try to scream but it comes out thin.
“Stop.” The word scrapes out of me.
A vine lashes around my throat and squeezes. Spots burst behind my eyes. Another coils my wrists and pins them hard against my ribs. Something in my shoulder pops. Sap smears across my skin, sticky and sweet. The smell turns sour. Rot and fuel and something burned.
“Please—”
The vine at my jaw jerks tight and forces my mouth open so wide it burns. My head snaps forward.
Down.
Toward the hopper.
The blades scream inches from my face. Orange spray hits my cheeks. Hot flecks sting my eyes. The vibration rattles through my skull and buzzes behind my teeth until I think they’ll crack.
I grab the rim. My fingers slide in pulp. I dig in harder. Nails bend back. One tears clean off. I howl. Skin splits. Metal bites into bone.
The vines don’t rush it.
They drag me forward an inch at a time.
The machine breathes hot against my face. It pulls at me. Tugs my hair. My shirt. My skin. The pitch shifts when my weight tips over the edge. The grinder catches fabric first. My shirt jerks tight across my chest, crushing my ribs.
For a second, I hang there.
I can still pull back. I can kill Dixon myself for his shit fertilizer.
Then the vines slam me down.
The sound is wrong. Not one clean crunch. A series of wet pops and snaps, like sticks breaking underwater. My vision explodes white. Pain flares for a heartbeat, sharp and absolute.
Then it drops out.
There’s only noise. Grinding. Churning. The machine chewing through meat and bone like it always has.
Heat floods through me. Pressure. Then nothing at all.
The grinder keeps roaring, faithful to the end, as whatever’s left of my head disappears into the bucket below.