For a second, we just stand there, the three of us locked in place. The fear hasn’t gone anywhere. It buzzes under my skin, sharp and electric. But something else slices through it now. Focus. Purpose. The kind that flips a switch and keeps you moving.
Outside, wind drags through the fields. Vines creak against dirt, leisurely, like something stretching before a fight.
The pumpkins aren’t finished.
Neither are we.
“So,” Cole says, squinting at me. “What’s the plan, random-fact girl?”
I smile, sharp and bright. It feels a little unhinged. I decide that’s fine. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”
SEVENTEEN
PLAN TIME
SHAUN
The craft barnburns 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 chesttightens, 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.”
