The blast erases the pumpkin’s head.
Orange pulp and seeds explode in every direction, hot and soggy against Val’s shirt, jeans, and hands. The body spasms once, then collapses, still pinned to the pitchfork like a butchered scarecrow.
Drew’s body lunges.
Cole screams.
Val plants her boot, yanks the pitchfork free with a sound like tearing meat, and throws.
The pitchfork whistles and hits Drew’s pumpkin head dead center. Metal punches through rind and sinks deep.
Drew’s body flies back and hits the mud one foot from Cole.
Still.
Its axe skids away and lands at my feet, slick with blood and pumpkin slime.
Drew’s pumpkin head doesn’t move.
Cole stumbles to a stop a few yards away, bent double and gasping, clutching his shattered arm to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I stand there, chest heaving, staring at the field. At the bodies. At Val—breathing hard, dirt and gore streaked across her arms, hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat and dirt. At the pitchfork still vibrating where it’s lodged in Drew’s pumpkin skull on the ground.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “How did you do that?”
Val catches my look and flashes a crooked grin, like we didn’t just survive a slasher flick sponsored by produce.
“I threw javelin in high school,” she says. “Don’t you remember?”
I do now.
Val on the field, feet planted, body coiled with purpose. Her arm cutting clean through the air. The crowd fading until there was only her and the throw. Me pretending not to stare at the muscles in her arms. The freckles down her thighs. The tight short shorts. I shove the image aside before it can do something dangerous to my focus.
I grab Cole and haul him upright by his good arm. He groans but stays on his feet, shoulders shaking as he shoves his glasses back up his nose. A thin crack splinters the top corner of the right lens.
“You okay?” I ask, brushing dirt and pumpkin slime off his shirt.
“Am I okay?” He lets out a wild, hysterical laugh and gestures at the wrecked patch. Crushed pumpkins. Bodies. Vines twitching like dying nerves. “Do I look fucking okay? I just got chased by three pumpkin-headed monsters wearing Drew, Fred, and Sandie like Halloween costumes.”
Fair.
Behind us, Val jerks the pitchfork free from the cracked pumpkin skull. It comes out with a wet rip that turns my stomach. Seeds spill down the metal tines and stick to her hands like glue. She doesn’t even flinch. She just wipes her palms on her jeans and looks at Cole, eyes bright.
“Fun fact,” she says. “Fear and excitement trigger the same chemicals in your brain. Adrenaline doesn’t care if you’re about to die or ride a roller coaster. Your body just goes, ‘Cool, we’re alive. For now.’”
Cole stares at her like she’s grown a second head. Then he looks at me, blinking behind the cracked lens of his glasses.
I shrug. “She copes with terror by reciting facts.”
Val gives a sloppy salute. “Yep.”
Cole turns fully to me, still breathing hard. “And you?”
“I avoid the problem. Let it rot until it turns into paranoia and ruins everything I touch.”
For a second, nobody laughs. The truth sits there between us, slick and uncomfortable. Our breaths rasp in the quiet. Flies drift back in, bold now, landing on smashed pumpkins and dark smears in the dirt like they’ve claimed the place.
Cole squints at us. “Who are you two?”
