I kick it hard in the chest.
The body flies backward into a wall of burning corn, flames devouring a fresh meal. The pumpkin head tears free with a squelch and stays impaled on the pitchfork, still grinning as fire crawls across it.
I lift it, breath ragged, arms burning, adrenaline screaming through my veins. Blood dripping down the gash on my face.
“Time for a good old-fashioned roast, Gourdy.”
I hold the pumpkin head over the flames. The rind blisters. Black bubbles swell and burst. Then it ruptures with a bang, seeds and orange pulp spraying into the fire like shrapnel. They hiss and crackle as they burn, the grin collapsing into mush.
My strength goes with it.
I drop to my knees, hacking smoke from my lungs. Heat presses in from every side. Fire moves through the field in rolling waves, chewing rows down to black stubble and glowing embers, right toward the patch. The air tastes like ash and scorched sugar and something rotten underneath.
I laugh once. It comes out ugly and broken. Of course killer pumpkins would smell sweet when they die.
Through the crackle of flames, the tractor’s engine roars. Loud. Furious. Alive.
Shaun.
The sound hits me like a jolt of electricity. Relief and fear slam together in my chest until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
I tighten my grip on the pitchfork and shove myself upright. My legs wobble like they forgot how bones work. My hands burn, skin screaming where the heat kissed it too long. My ribs ache. My face throbs. Everything hurts.
None of that matters.
I smear soot from my eyes with the heel of my hand, snatch the torch, and run.
Toward the patch.
Toward Shaun.
Toward the end.
TWENTY
IT’S CARVING TIME
SHAUN
Val’s firesignal 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, tryingto 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.
