Nothing moves.
The pumpkin stares at my exposed arm. Studying me the way a kid studies a bug before pulling off its legs.
It kneels.
A carving knife flashes in its hand.
“What the hell?—”
The blade bites into my right arm.
The pain is instant and blinding. Hot. Liquid. It carves deep, dragging gentle curves through muscle. I hear it before I fully feel it, that slick sound of flesh parting, blood spilling fast into the dirt.
I scream until my throat burns raw. I thrash until my body shakes apart. The vines only tighten, pinning me harder, holding me still while the knife keeps moving.
Cut. Pull. Press.
Heat spills down my wrist.
When it finishes, it leans back.
Admiring.
I force my head up and look down.
My stomach heaves.
A face stares back at me from my own arm. Crooked eyes. A jagged grin. A jack-o’-lantern carved into living skin, edges raw and pouring blood.
The monster straightens, my blood dripping from its knife in thick, lazy drops. It lifts the blade and waves it once. Measured.
Ah. Ah. Ah.
The gesture crawls under my skin. Mocking. Enjoying this.
Its head turns and locks on to something in the dirt.
My axe.
“No,” I croak, but nothing comes out but breath and heat.
It bends, fingers of vine curling around the handle, and lifts the axe high. The firelight catches the blade and paints it orange. My arm burns and then goes numb. My chest feels scooped out. Blood slides into my eyes, blurring the world into red and smoke. The vines at my throat tighten again, cutting my air down to thin, panicked sips.
So this is it. The axe comes down. I brace for impact, my only thoughts of Val’s eyes as the light hits them.
Then a voice slices through the roar of fire and the hiss of vines.
“I’d rethink that, fucker.”
The world stops.
The pumpkin freezes. The axe hangs midair. Even the vines pause, slackening just enough that I drag in a ragged breath. My head turns with theirs.
Val stands twenty feet away.
Soot streaks her face. Her hair is wild, singed at the ends. A cut slices across her cheek, still bleeding, but her eyes burn brighter than the flames around us. She grips a propane torch in one hand, the flame roaring out in a furious white-blue spear.
At her feet, gas canisters lie on their sides. Gasoline spills in shining trails through the dirt, pooling, waiting.
