I open my mouth.
And then we hear it. A dragging squelch.
My shoulders stiffen.
The pumpkins scattered across the ground start to twitch.
Vines peel the ruined rinds from Fred’s and Sandie’s shoulders and roll fresh pumpkins into place—one, two—fast and hungry. They spear into torn flesh. Slide under skin. Cinch tight.
Bones reset with soft pops that make my teeth ache.
For a moment my brain supplies the real Drew—laughing, breathing, alive—then the jack-o’-lantern eyehole flares sick yellow and the lie burns away.
Val groans. “Oh, you have got to be shitting me.”
I look down at the shotgun in my grip. “I don’t think the gun’s gonna help us anymore.”
Cole doesn’t argue. His voice cracks. “Then run!”
We do just that.
Corn lashes my face and arms as we tear into the maze. Stalks snap. Dirt sprays under our tracks. Behind us, the sounds stack and swell. Uneven footfalls. Vines scraping through soil. Bodies relearning how to move.
The rows twist and fold in on themselves. Every turn looks the same. My lungs burn. My bad shoulder screams. Cole stumbles, clutching his broken arm, jaw locked, but he keeps moving because stopping means dying.
“Left!” Val shouts.
We burst into a wider path and there it is. The craft barn. Faded red siding. Splintered wood. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Behind us, the pumpkins pound the ground like a furious chorus. Like the ground itself is pissed that we’re still breathing.
I don’t look back as I follow Val to the barn.
None of us do.
SIXTEEN
BUT WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?
VAL
We slamthe barn doors shut and throw our weight into them. Wood shudders. Hinges scream. Shaun shoves a table into place. Then another. Then a third, legs scraping across the floor until my teeth buzz with the noise. All the work we did earlier scatters across the floor.
For a few seconds, the pounding outside fades into a dull, distant thrum. Not gone. Just muted. Like it’s curious what we’ll do next.
That thought makes my legs shake.
Shaun drags a crate over and wedges it against the doors, patting it into place like that somehow seals the deal. Cole slides down the wall and slumps onto the floor. His face is gray under the dirt and sweat, glasses crooked, breath coming fast and shallow. He cradles his arm like it might fall off if he lets go.
“Lie flat on your back and elevate your legs above heart level,” I tell him, sharper than I mean to. “We don’t need you passing out right now.”
He tries to laugh. It comes out thin and broken. He swings his head toward me, pain spread across his face. “Passing out feels low on the list right now.”
I grab my bag from the floor and pull out my red flannel. My hands shake as I tear the sleeve seam with my teeth. “It’s still something I would like to avoid since we can’t carry you everywhere.” I knot the fabric and loop it under his elbow, easing his arm into a sling. It’s not pretty, but it’s solid. Close enough to the ones I’ve binge-watched on hospital shows since I got home two weeks ago. Turns out trauma TV is great background noise when your life feels like it’s on fire.
I tighten the knot. “This should hold until we get help.”
Cole snorts, eyes flicking toward the barricaded doors. “If we get help.”
