So I do what any normal freaked-out person would do.
I run.
Pumpkins roll under me, crack open, burst. Seeds smear my jeans and cling to my skin. I almost eat dirt and catch myself on the trailer rail, lungs screaming, glasses sliding down my nose with every ragged breath.
Behind me, the field comes alive. Thuds. Heavy, uneven footfalls. The creeping scrape of metal that makes my hands shake.
They’re close.Too close.
I vault into the cab, slam the door, lock it. My hands shake so hard the key rattles against the ignition. Miss. Miss again.
“Come on,” I gasp. “Please.” I grab the key with both hands finally hitting the bullseye.
The engine coughs. Dies. Coughs again.
“Don’t be a cliché right now, you piece of shit. You’re better than that.” I keep twisting the key with no luck.
Footsteps slam into the trailer. The whole rig shudders. Vines slap against the metal with eager sound.
“Come on, baby. I didn’t mean it.” I twist the key one more time.
The tractor roars to life.
“Fuck yes!” I fist pump the air and floor it. Right toward Fred’s prize patch.
The tractor lurches forward, slow and stubborn, remembering it’s sixty years old and full of spite.Come on. Move.
In the rearview mirror, Fred’s body has attached itself to the trailer. Standing proud, its vines twist around the sides. The other two are running behind.
They jerk in bursts, limbs snapping into place, vines cinching tight and hauling their bodies forward. One stumbles, nearly collapses, then straightens, its arms raised, vines extending wide.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
The pumpkins on the ground are hurling themselves into the rig, bursting on impact like suicide bombers. The whole rig shudders.
“All right you little shitholes.”
I wrench the wheel and the tractor plows through a cluster of pumpkins. They burst under the tires, orange guts spraying the dirt like roadkill. The crunching noise echoes loud, causing the vines to hiss and the pumpkin monsters to run faster.
Whoops.
Another impact. Then another.
A fist smacks the rear window.
Crack.
Seeds splatter the windshield, streaking my view in sticky arcs. Vines slap and scrape, leaving wet smears that crawldownward. A carved face slams up close, so near I see pulp wobble inside its jagged mouth.
“Nope. Nope. Nope.”
The side window explodes inward.
Cool air rushes in, followed by a vine that snaps around my wrist. Hot. Slick. Strong as a winch cable. I scream and jolt back, skin burning as it tightens. Another vine coils up my calf and locks in, jerking my leg sideways. The steering wheel rips from my grip.
“No, no, no,” I gasp, kicking hard enough to rattle the cab.
The vine climbs anyway. Thigh. Ribs. Throat.
