Oh shit.
I drop.
The ground smacks me full force. My ankle twists and pain spreads bright and sharp, but I barely register it. I hit on hands and knees, sucking air like I’ve never used lungs before. Breath rips back into me, brutal and burning. I cough until my throat feels skinned raw. Each inhale scrapes. Each exhale shakes.
I drag in another breath and look up, expecting green cotton and fury and Shaun.
Instead, it’s a one-lensed, black-haired, snot-infested, skinny teenager.
Hell. Yes. Cole.
He’s all elbows and desperation, shoulder driving into Drew again and again. His good arm strains, muscles shaking. His hair’s singed. His shirt smokes at the edges. He looks semi dead and pale as a ghost, but he is completely done being scared.
Drew’s pumpkin digs its feet into the soil. Vines erupt behind it and shove it upright, lifting it like a grotesque marionette. Cole falls to the ground. Before he can scramble away, vines snap out and coil around his broken arm.
The scream he makes slices straight through me.
No.
I stagger up to find the good half of the pitchfork. I hobble as fast as I can. Searching. Searching. Bingo.
I slam the tines into Drew’s back with the last ounces of my energy.
Metal punches through rind and vine. Wet resistance gives way with a sick crunch. Hot plant juice splashes my arms, sticky and foul. Drew’s body stiffens. The vine around Cole loosens. I stumble back as far as I can, avoiding any trip hazards.
Its head turns a full 180 toward me while its body still faces Shaun and Cole, like it can’t decide who to kill first.
Cole scrambles backward, clutching his arm, gasping. Shaun barrels in, grabs him under the shoulders, and hauls him away toward the edge of the patch even as Cole empties the contents of his stomach all over the ground.
Drew’s pumpkin reaches back with its vines, grips the pitchfork buried in its spine, and yanks.
The fork rips free and Drew flings it away. It clangs off the tractor, skidding across the dirt in a spray of sparks and pulp.
We’re split now. Shaun and Cole on one side of the patch. Me on the other. The leader plants itself between us, smoke curling around its carved grin. Vines flex and stretch.
Shaun shouts, breath shredded, “This fucker won’t go down!”
I bark a laugh that turns into a cough. My throat feels sandpapered. “No shit.”
Cole squints at me through smoke. “What do you got, fact girl?”
“Why am I the one who has to come up with the ideas?” I rasp, hysterical and furious.
Drew’s pumpkin pivots toward them, attention snapping away from me, giving me a precious moment to think. Our resources are low. Our weapons broken, lost, or useless. Panic starts to weave in until I spot the tractor and the gas cans bleeding into the dirt.
My pulse spikes. “Does anyone still have a flare?”
They both check pockets at the same time. Cole lifts his good hand, knuckles white. A red flare clenched tight.
Light bulb.
“Keep it busy!” I yell, and I’m already moving.
Cole shouts something that sounds like “How the hell—” but I tune him out. They’ll improvise.
I sprint for the tractor, wincing with each step of my twisted ankle, slipping in gasoline-soaked dirt. I slide the last few feet, palms burning, and haul myself up onto the step. Broken glass crunches under my knee. I don’t care. I drag myself into the cab, heart slamming against my ribs.
It has to be here. I haven’t heard Shaun fire it.