Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
PLAN TIME
SHAUN
The craft barn burns like dry tinder behind us. Flames race up the dry wood, snapping and popping, the sound rolling across the fields. Light. Noise. A dinner bell.
Thank god for Cole’s Zippo and Val’s knowledge of flammable materials.
Of course Fred would buy super cheap rubber cement for the crafts.
Out past the fire, shadows start to move. Slow at first. Then steadier. Drawn in like bugs to a porch light from hell.
“They’re taking the bait!” I shout.
Val’s already ahead, sprinting toward the equipment barn, braids flying, sneakers pounding dirt as the last smear of blood-orange sky tips into night.
Fitting.
We burst inside, causing chunks of dust to fall from the ceiling. Cole sneezes hard, wiping at his nose, eyes glassy.
A dark green tractor waits in the center, a bed attached to the back, similar to the one Cole was driving earlier. My chest tightens, thinking about how close we came to losing him. About the losses we’ve already taken.
Val doesn’t loiter. She heads straight for the back wall where five gas barrels sit in a neat row.
“Shaun,” she calls, already kicking one barrel onto its side. It hits the floor with a hollow clang. “Help me get these onto the bed.”
I’m moving before she finishes the sentence.
Her hands stay steady as we roll the barrels, her face locked into that fierce focus I saw when she nailed the pumpkin leader with the pitchfork. No fear. Just intent.
We grunt and shove, muscle and momentum, metal scraping concrete. Every sound feels too loud. Every echo feels like a flare.
I keep glancing at the open door, expecting vines to snake in at any second.
We get the barrels onto the flatbed and I cinch the rope tight, fingers slick with sweat. My pulse thumps in my ears.
When we finish loading the flatbed, we run the plan one more time. Tight. Reckless. Probably stupid.
I still hate the part where we split up. Nothing good ever comes from that. Years of Scooby-Doo taught me that much. You split up, someone screams, and the monster wins.
Cole stands under the hanging work light, face pale and shiny with sweat. He looks between us like he’s hoping one of us will call it off.
“So,” he says, swallowing, “I head to the house and go in through the basement doors, right?”
“Yes,” Val says. “And fun fact, they’re usually called bulkhead doors.”
Cole blinks. “Of course they are.” He keeps going anyway. “I go through the bulkhead doors, light the house with these flares to pull them away from the patch, then run back here before I either roast alive or get decapitated.”
“That’s the idea,” Val says, calm, like she’s reading off a grocery list.
Cole lets out a nervous sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. “Yeah, easy.”
“Once I see the house go up,” I say, forcing my voice not to shake, “I head straight for the patch.”
Val moves past me and grabs two smaller gas cans and a propane torch. “While you’re doing that, I’ll take the flame weeder and start burning the cornfields from the outside in—”
“Wait.” Cole points to the torch in her hand. “How do you even know that thing is called a flame weeder?”
She gives him a flat look that says this question has already wasted her time.
“Cole,” I say, stepping closer to Val without thinking, my shoulder brushing hers, “stop questioning her knowledge and accept that she knows everything. She copes with terror using facts. Let her freaking cope.”
Val turns to me, eyes bright despite everything, and gives me an easy, sultry smile. “Thank you, Shaun.”
My face goes hot instantly. Of course that’s the reaction my body picks. Great timing.
She pivots back to business, like she didn’t just conjure dirty images in my head. “Their attention will split between me and Cole. That gives Shaun the opening. He takes the tractor, pulverizes the patch, spills the gas, and lights it up. We burn the roots. We burn everything.”
She gestures with sharp confidence, the pitchfork tucked against her shoulder. “Once it starts, we regroup at the patch and deal with whatever crawls out. And trust me, they’re going to be pissed.”
Cole swallows. “And how exactly are we taking them down?”
Val lifts the pitchfork. “I’ve got old Forky.” She flicks her gaze to me. “Shaun’s got the axe and the shotgun.” Then she holds up the flares. “And we all have fire. We smash them, slice them, burn them. Whatever it takes to make sure nothing leaves this farm.”
The words settle heavy and electric in the barn.
Cole nods and stuffs the flares into his pockets with his good hand, grabs his gas canister, and heads for the back doors that face the farmhouse glowing faintly in the distance.
Val meets my eyes across the dim barn, and the look she gives me stills my heart. Half defiance. Half fear. All fire. The kind of look you give when you’re scared and choosing to move anyway.
I cross the space before my brain catches up.
My hand slides into her hair, fingers curling at the base of her skull, and I kiss her.
She kisses me back just as hard, teeth grazing my lip, breath shaking against mine.
For a second, the barn disappears. No monsters.
No fire. Just her and the taste of adrenaline and dirt and something I’ve wanted for way too long.
We break apart, breathless. My forehead rests against hers, our noses brushing.
“Don’t die,” I say, because I don’t trust my voice with anything else.
She huffs a soft laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it. But fun fact. The average survival rate in a horror movie is twenty to forty percent. Higher depending on the role.”
I snort. “And what roles are we playing?”
Her smile turns sharp and confident. “I’m the final girl. You’re the reformed jerk. Cole’s the adaptable teen. All high survival odds.”
“Hold on.” I pull back just enough to look at her. “Why am I the reformed jerk?”
She shrugs, casual but her cheeks pink. “You ignored me in high school. That was jerk behavior. You apologized. And then we,” she gestures vaguely between us, “had fun this afternoon. So. Reformed.” She waves a hand like she’s presenting a trophy. “Forgiven for your stupidity.”
I grin. “That sounds suspiciously conditional.”
“Oh, it is.” Her eyes flick to my mouth. “You’re still on the hook for making it up to me later.”
“Good,” I say, low and honest. “Because I really want to get back to what we started.”
Her grin turns wicked. She tilts her chin up, bites my bottom lip just enough to promise trouble, then leans in and whispers, “So do I.”
And just like that, Val snatches up the pitchfork, swings the torch over her shoulder, and strides into the dark with two gas cans knocking against her legs. No hesitation. No looking back. Just fire and purpose wrapped in denim and stubborn confidence.
I watch until her shape melts into the night. I shouldn’t, but I take the extra second anyway, committing the line of her hips, the roll of her shoulders, the way she moves like she owns whatever ground she’s on. If this goes sideways, that’s the picture I want seared into my brain.
I turn and catch Cole staring at me from across the barn.
“Really?” he says.
I shrug. “If I die tonight, I want my last thought to be something worth dying with.”
He snorts. “Touché.”
He throws one last look over his shoulder before disappearing, leaving the door cracked so I have a clean line of sight to the house.
The barn swallows the sound of his footsteps.
It feels wrong with them gone. Too open. Too quiet. Too much empty space to give my anxiety time to rattle back to the forefront of my thoughts.
I climb into the tractor cab and shut the door. The metal thuds solid behind me, sealing out the smoke, chaos, and my nerves. Inside, it smells like oil, dust, and sweat. Familiar. Grounding. Like Drew.
I close my eyes and see his grin, crooked and unapologetic.
Hear his laugh, loud and unbothered, the kind that always meant trouble was coming and somehow he’d make it worth it.
He should be here. I keep expecting Drew to climb up into the truck bed and give me hell for taking this thing too seriously.
“I’ll get them for you, bud,” I whisper. The words scrape out of my throat. “I swear.”
I set the axe on the seat beside me where my hand can find it without looking. The shotgun rests against the console, solid and ready. I check the fuel gauge. Full. I twist in my seat and look through the rear window at the canisters strapped to the flatbed. Rope tight. No slack. No mercy.
Good.
I sit there, one hand on the wheel, breathing slowly through my nose.
I wait.
I slip my other hand into my jeans pocket and grip the flare until my palm aches, knuckles pale. I run the plan through my head again and again like a prayer.
Burn the patch.
Smash whatever survives.
Destroy the monsters.
End this.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel, restless. I hate waiting. I hate not knowing if Val’s okay. If Cole’s already in trouble. If I’ll see either of them again.
Through the crack in the open door, the farmhouse looms in the distance, dark and intact. I lean forward and mutter, “All right, Cole. Light it up.”
The seconds stretch thin.
Then thinner.
And somewhere out there, the night prepares to answer.