“Valerie Renee Andrews!”
Her voice slices straight through the haze. Sharp. Terrified.
She’s out of the car in seconds, eyes huge as she takes in the burning fields behind us, the glow of the farmhouse, the drifting ash. Her hand flies to her mouth once she sees the state of me.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “What the hell happened?”
Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Faint, but getting closer. Red and blue lights flicker against the smoke.
My mom rushes toward me, hands hovering, afraid to touch, like I might fall apart if she presses wrong. Her eyes dart over my face, my soot-streaked clothes, the blood.
I inhale.
The air burns all the way down.
I lift a hand and stop her mid-step.
“Mom,” I say, voice weak but stable. “You’re not going to believe this.”
EPILOGUE – NEW GOALS
SHAUN
Firetruck lights strobe against the early dawn, red and blue cutting through the smoke like a bad dream that won’t end. Val, Cole, and I sit in the bed of Drew’s truck with our backs against the cab, legs stretched out, wrapped in scratchy emergency blankets. None of us talk. We just watch people run past, shouting orders, trying to tame what’s left of Farmer Fred’s Fantastic Farm.
Sirens wail. Hoses hiss. Ash drifts through the air.
I look down at my arm. Gauze wraps the carved pumpkin face, but blood seeps through enough to trace the outline. The grin looks almost smug.
That’s going to leave a hell of a scar.
Cole sits stiff, his arm strapped in a sling, eyes wide like he’s still expecting something to lunge out of the smoke. Val, in between us, leans against the truck window, medical tape holding the cut on her cheek closed. Dried blood streaks her temple. She looks exhausted.
All things considered, we look pretty damn good for three people who just fought an angry, sentient pumpkin patch.
When the police finished asking questions, I expected them to call us crazy.
Instead, they told us we weren’t alone.
Four other farms across the state reported the same thing. Crops attacking workers. Fields gone feral. All of them used fertilizer from the same Smiling Seeds “promotional” batch.
I lean my head back against the glass and let out a heavy breath. My arm throbs. My body aches. My brain feels like it’s running on fumes.
I glance at Val. She catches me looking and gives me a tired smile. Somehow, that makes my chest loosen.
How is this our life?
Val’s head drops onto my shoulder, the weight of it settling there like it’s always known the spot. She exhales, long and shaky, and blows a loose red strand out of her face. It lifts, then falls back against her cheek, streaked with soot, sweat, and dried blood.
We keep our eyes on the black SUVs lined up beside the scorched patch. They rolled in without sirens not even five minutes after we finished talking to the cops. Doors opened in perfect sync. Men in black suits stepped out, movements calm and clipped, sunglasses still on despite the smoke and lingering firelight.
Behind them came a truck with the Smiling Seeds logo.
Then another.
The backs swung open and workers poured out in hazmat suits, white and faceless, moving fast like ants that already know the plan.
Floodlights snapped on. Yellow tape went up. We were immediately pulled aside and questioned by a man in a mask, then led into a white tent. We told our story again. And again. And again. With Val’s mom’s angry voice breaking through the thin tent walls.
