Please. Please. Please.
Glass chews up my palms as I dig through the cab. Sharp bites. Hot stings. I hiss through my teeth and keep going because pain is background noise now. I find the shotgun by feel, cold and solid under my fingers, and almost laugh from relief.
Shells.
Shaun’s shells.
I fumble them out of my pocket, slick with sweat and blood, and load fast, remembering how Shaun loaded it earlier. One. Two. Click. The sound lands heavy in my chest.
I crawl back out and drop onto my knees.
Ahead of me, Shaun charges like a man possessed, axe flashing, shouting pure fury to keep Drew’s pumpkin focused on him. Cole hurls rocks and scrap and teenage rage. He would look terrifying if his nose wasn’t running like a busted faucet.
I plant my feet near the tractor. Vines twitch around my boots. The air hums. Gasoline vapor burns sweet and sharp in my sinuses.
I lift the shotgun and rack it. The click snaps through the chaos like a dare.
Drew’s pumpkin monster turns.
Every vine freezes mid-whip. We lock eyes across the patch. Its grin glistens with pulp and blood. I bare my teeth and smile right back.
It charges.
“Shaun!” I shout. My voice cracks but it carries. “Light the flare and throw it in the gas. Make it count!”
Drew’s body barrels toward me, limbs jerking, vines punching into the soil and hurling it forward in violent bursts. It closes the distance fast.
My hands are unshakeable.
Just a little closer.
“Fun fact, orange demon,” I call out, voice wrecked but bright with madness. “Gasoline doesn’t actually explode. The vapor does. All it needs is heat and a spark.”
In my periphery, Shaun winds up and throws. He winces with his bad shoulder, but still nails the target. The flare lands dead center in the pooled gas.
Fire blooms.
A little closer.
Flames race across the dirt, crawling toward the tractor, licking the vines. Heat slams into my face.
Just as Drew’s body passes the end of the trailer, I settle my finger on the trigger and whisper, “Smash this.”
The blast hits the tractor dead on.
Metal shrieks. Sparks spray outward and slam straight into the gas-soaked earth.
The world ignites.
The shockwave punches the air from my lungs. Heat slams into my chest and throws me off my feet. I hit the dirt, but keep rolling as fire surges outward, greedy and fast, racing along roots and vines like it’s been waiting for permission. Corn catches in rolling waves. Stalks curl and shriek as they burn, popping and collapsing into glowing ribs.
Drew’s body is blasted back into the wall of fire surrounding us. Vines snap and writhe, turning black, blistering, curling inward as if trying to escape their own bodies.
The pumpkin head tears free and rolls through the pooling gas, bouncing once, twice, carving a smoking trail behind it.
It cracks.
The shell splits wide and bursts. Hot pulp and seeds spray into the fire, popping and sizzling as they vanish. The carved grin sloughs and melts, sliding off in sagging pieces. The eyes cave in. The stem collapses. What’s left hisses and steams, then caves under its own weight.
