Chapter 20
TWENTY
IT’S CARVING TIME
SHAUN
Val’s fire signal blooms across the horizon. A violent red flare punches through the smoke, bright and furious, then smears into the night.
She’s alive.
Relief surges, sharp and dangerous, because relief makes you sloppy and sloppy gets you killed. I shove it down and floor the tractor.
The engine howls as I tear toward the pumpkin patch, flatbed rattling behind me. Gas sloshes in the canisters with every jolt. My hands ache from gripping the wheel too tight. My pulse thunders everywhere at once.
The sky glows orange from the house fire. Ash drifts down in lazy flakes, settling on the ground. It looks almost peaceful, like it’s snowing.
That pisses me off.
Ahead, the patch waits. The soil ripples like something breathing underneath it. Vines burst free, splitting dirt as they surge upward. Pumpkins roll and bump into each other, trying to scatter, but the flaming cornfields box them in. Fire hems them close, snapping and crackling like teeth.
Their only way out is through me.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Bad luck.”
I crash through the fence. The tractor bucks as the tires chew through dirt and vines. Pumpkins explode under the wheels, orange guts spraying up the hood and windshield.
Then something slams into the flatbed. The tractor lurches, and my heart jumps straight into my throat. I glance back and my heart stops.
Drew’s and Fred’s bodies cling to the trailer like nightmares that refuse to let go.
Vines lash around their limbs and necks, rooting them to the ropes.
Drew’s red letterman jacket is shredded and soaked, flapping as he jerks forward.
Fred’s body drags one boot, the other snapping up too high as the vines pull him along.
Their pumpkin heads seem to glow from within, carved grins fixed and empty.
“All right, fellas,” I say, voice tight. “Come get me.”
I crank the wheel and zigzag across the patch, keeping eyes on alert, waiting for Sandie’s pumpkin monster to jump out at any moment. The tractor fishtails, dirt spraying. One body slams into the side rail. The other almost tumbles, then the vines snap tight and haul it back up.
They don’t fall.
They adapt.
Vines shoot out and coil around the ropes, thickening, bulking up, gripping like cables. The flatbed groans under their weight. Wood cracks. Metal shrieks.
“Strong little shits,” I huff, wrenching the wheel again. The tractor bucks but they hold fast, dragging themselves closer, hand over hand, vine over vine.
I catch it in the rearview mirror.
Both monsters drop off the flatbed at the same time, hitting the dirt in a sprawl. Their vines stay attached, stretching, splitting, racing toward the wheels like veins hunting a pulse.
That’s when I make the mistake of looking back.
I don’t see Fred until the tractor shudders sideways.
His body slams into the driver’s side with bone-rattling force. Vines rake across the glass, shrieking. Roots pound the door, denting metal, clawing for seams. His pumpkin head smashes against the window, seeds smearing across it in thick, sticky streaks.
“Oh, piss off, Fred,” I snarl.
I grab the axe off the seat, shove the door open, and swing with everything I have.
The blade sinks deep into the pumpkin shell. There’s resistance, then a give. The head jerks once. Twice. Orange pulp sprays my arm. I rip the axe free, ready to swing again—
The ground tilts.
The steering wheel falls out of my reach as vines wrench it sideways.
The tractor lifts, weight shifting too fast. Metal screams. I slam into the passenger door as the cab tips, glass exploding inward.
Shards rake my face and neck. Pain lights me up.
Warm blood runs down my cheek and into my mouth, iron sharp on my tongue.
The tractor keeps humming, going nowhere.
Before I can catch a breath, the driver’s door tears open. Vines flood the cab, wrapping my arms, my legs, my chest. They burn where they touch, squeezing tight enough to steal air.
I snatch the axe, but miss the shotgun, as I’m dragged out, fingers barely holding on. Behind me, the gas barrels split open as the bed slams the ground. Caps pop. Fuel gushes out, soaking dirt, vines, everything. The vines don’t care. They haul me across the field and fling me like scrap.
I land on my bad shoulder first. The impact knocks a scream out of me. I spin, pain exploding down my arm until my vision whites out.
I push up on one knee.
A wall of rot, vine, and sheer weight tackles me to the ground. My breath comes out in wheezes. Vines snap around my body. They tighten like living restraints, slick and burning, pulsing against my skin.
Drew’s body towers over me.
Its jack-o’-lantern grin droops with pulp and blood. Seeds slide from its mouth and stick to its chin, bobbing when it breathes.
I wrench my arm free long enough to grab the axe and swing up.
Too slow.
A thick vine coils around my wrist and squeezes. The axe drops from my grip and disappears into the dirt. Another vine slams my arm flat. A third crawls up my neck, squeezing until stars spark behind my eyes.
I fight. I buck. I kick.
Nothing moves.
The pumpkin stares at my exposed arm. Studying me the way a kid studies a bug before pulling off its legs.
It kneels.
A carving knife flashes in its hand.
“What the hell—”
The blade bites into my right arm.
The pain is instant and blinding. Hot. Liquid. It carves deep, dragging gentle curves through muscle. I hear it before I fully feel it, that slick sound of flesh parting, blood spilling fast into the dirt.
I scream until my throat burns raw. I thrash until my body shakes apart. The vines only tighten, pinning me harder, holding me still while the knife keeps moving.
Cut. Pull. Press.
Heat spills down my wrist.
When it finishes, it leans back.
Admiring.
I force my head up and look down.
My stomach heaves.
A face stares back at me from my own arm. Crooked eyes. A jagged grin. A jack-o’-lantern carved into living skin, edges raw and pouring blood.
The monster straightens, my blood dripping from its knife in thick, lazy drops. It lifts the blade and waves it once. Measured.
Ah. Ah. Ah.
The gesture crawls under my skin. Mocking. Enjoying this.
Its head turns and locks on to something in the dirt.
My axe.
“No,” I croak, but nothing comes out but breath and heat.
It bends, fingers of vine curling around the handle, and lifts the axe high.
The firelight catches the blade and paints it orange.
My arm burns and then goes numb. My chest feels scooped out.
Blood slides into my eyes, blurring the world into red and smoke.
The vines at my throat tighten again, cutting my air down to thin, panicked sips.
So this is it. The axe comes down. I brace for impact, my only thoughts of Val’s eyes as the light hits them.
Then a voice slices through the roar of fire and the hiss of vines.
“I’d rethink that, fucker.”
The world stops.
The pumpkin freezes. The axe hangs midair. Even the vines pause, slackening just enough that I drag in a ragged breath. My head turns with theirs.
Val stands twenty feet away.
Soot streaks her face. Her hair is wild, singed at the ends. A cut slices across her cheek, still bleeding, but her eyes burn brighter than the flames around us. She grips a propane torch in one hand, the flame roaring out in a furious white-blue spear.
At her feet, gas canisters lie on their sides. Gasoline spills in shining trails through the dirt, pooling, waiting.
The firelight crowns her in orange and gold.
She looks feral. Unbreakable. Terrifying in the best way.
For a heartbeat, even the monsters hesitate.
Drew’s pumpkin lowers the axe a fraction.
I don’t know what Val plans to do next, but I know this with bone-deep certainty.
She didn’t come to save me quietly.
She came to end this.