I swallow.
So yeah. We’re on their shit list.
Anyone who hurts a pumpkin. Any pumpkin. Murderous vine monster or innocent porch decoration. Smash it, carve it, roast it, sneeze on it wrong, and congratulations. You’re next.
I glance at the shotgun. At the pitchfork. At Cole’s broken arm.
We don’t have enough bullets to fix this.
We’re outnumbered.
We’re weaker.
And because the universe hates me personally, my mom is supposed to be here soon.
I press my lips together, fighting a laugh that wants to crawl out at the worst possible time.
Great.
Absolutely great.
If we survive killer pumpkins, I still have to explain why the fall festival turned into a crime scene before dinner.
Shaun and Cole are still bickering about metaphors when the answer snaps into place, cold and clear.
“We have to burn it.”
Both of them look at me.
“Burn what?” Shaun asks.
“All of it.” My voice doesn’t shake, which surprises me. “The crops. The fields. The barn if we have to. The soil’s poisoned. Whatever that fertilizer did, it didn’t stop at growing pumpkins. And every time we blow one apart, the seeds spread.” I swallow.“One pumpkin can carry around five hundred seeds. I am not signing up for a sequel. Or a franchise.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “We burn everything. It’s the only way to be sure.”
Silence drops hard.
Cole exhales, long and defeated. “Fuckin’ A.”
None of us laugh. That might be a first.
Shaun’s jaw tightens as reality sinks in. “We burn the field. If this started there, we end it there. Roots. Soil. All of it.”
I glance at the clock nailed crooked above the supply shelf. Just past six. “We can’t wait. My mom will be here in two hours.” Like hell will I let one of those things touch her. “If they get past the field, if they find anyone else...”
Shaun crosses the space between us and cups my jaw, forcing my eyes up to his. His thumb is warm. Steady. “We won’t let that happen.”
I want to believe him. God, I do.
I scan the barn one last time. Half-finished kids’ crafts sit abandoned. Paper pumpkins dangle from string, their cartoon smiles frozen mid-cheer. Everything was meant for cider and laughter and harmless autumn nonsense.
Now it looks like a setup.
Like a joke someone told right before the blood hit the floor.
“I’m going to enjoy destroying them,” I say, and I mean it.
Shaun’s mouth curves into a tired, reckless grin that mirrors the thrum in my chest. “Hell yeah.”
