Including Shaun.
Okay.
Positive side: it’s off him.
Negative side: I’m about to die violently in a field full of flaming vegetables.
“Come on, then!” I shout, backing up as fire snaps at my heels. Heat licks my calves. Smoke claws my lungs. “You want me? You get me!”
It answers with speed.
The ground shakes under its feet as it barrels toward me, carved grin stretched so wide seeds fly out behind it. Its vines flail, catching sparks, smoking, but it doesn’t slow.
Behind it, Fred’s body pivots away from me toward Shaun.
“No!” I scream.
The last thing I see before Drew’s pumpkin head eats up my entire field of vision is Shaun forcing himself upright.
Blood streaks his face in dark lines. More blood slips from his arm, dripping off his fingers and spattering the dirt. He grips the axe anyway and looks straight at me.
And smiles.
That stupid, cocky, devastating smile that makes my chest ache even as everything burns. If we die, at least we’re dying together. He gives me a quick wink, sharp and sure, then turns toward Fred, ready for picking season.
Idiot.
My brave idiot.
I plant my feet in the dirt and swing the pitchfork as Drew’s body crashes into my space.
Metal slams into vine.
The impact punches straight up my arms, rattling bone, teeth, and whatever confidence I had left. My shoulders scream. My hands go numb. The pitchfork vibrates like it’s about to jump out of my grip.
Shit.
So this is what it feels like to hit a solid brick wall.
The pumpkin barely flinches. Its carved grin wobbles, seeds spilling as the force ripples through it, but it stays upright. Vines recoil, then tighten again, like they’re offended I even tried.
Fighter isdefinitelynot going on the career list.
TWENTY-TWO
I’M THE GUY WITH A FLARE
SHAUN
Watch the vines.
Watch the vines.
Watch the?—
Fred’s pumpkin monstrosity lunges, vines snapping through the air like whips. I dodge left, then right, axe swinging, blade biting into roots that hiss and recoil. Sap sprays hot and foul across my boots. The thing doesn’t stop. It never stops.
The fire from the cornfield creeps closer, heat rolling over the patch in waves. Leaves curl and blacken. Vines shrivel where the flames lick them, but not fast enough. There are too many. The dirt shifts under my palms. Not just vines—the soil itself breathing. Sucking. Softening like it’s deciding where to bury me.
