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.
