My throat tightens.
I step back and the kitchen suddenly feels small. Too small. Walls pressing in. Windows blacked out with vine and shadow. No exit. No fresh air. Just me and five gallons of gasoline soaking into the floorboards.
I’m trapped.
Actually trapped.
I can’t get to the bulkhead doors.
I can’t get back outside.
If I light this now, I burn with it.
If I don’t, they break through and everyone dies.
My laugh comes out thin and shaky.
“Well,” I crack a bitter smile, staring at the writhing wall of vines. “Guess this is the part where I live up to my potential.”
Principal Parker would be thrilled.
“All right,” I mutter, trembling, but I pull one of the flares from my belt anyway.
I do the math anyway. Or at least try to.
The fumes are thick in the kitchen. Too thick. One spark and the whole place goes up at once. If I start in the living room, I might stand a chance. If not. At least I tried.
This isn’t about getting out clean.
It’s about making sure it burns even if I burn in the process. It’s about giving Val and Shaun a chance.
“Time to start the show.” I strike the flare.
Red light explodes to life, bathing the room in a hellish glow. The vines recoil like they recognize danger. Then they move.Stretching. Reaching. One vine pounds the floor in a steady rhythm,thump... thump... thump, like it’s sending a message through the roots.
My skin prickles.
I step forward and hold the flare over the slick floor, already turning my body toward the basement stairs.
One shot.
One chance.
The vapors burn my eyes, sting my lungs. My hands shake, but I grin anyway, teeth bared and feral.
“Enjoy this, pumpkin pricks,” I whisper.
I drop the flare and jump back.
Fire races across the floor in a heartbeat. Flames crawl up the walls, hungry and fast, devouring vines in snapping waves. Small pumpkins split open, spilling seeds that sizzle and burst.
Then the vines lose their minds.
They thrash violently, tearing free from the walls. One slams into the ceiling. Dust shakes loose and I conduct a full-body sneeze. Another lashes across the floor, cracking wood. The noise fills the house, wet and shrieking, like something screaming without a mouth.
Something grabs my ankle.
I scream and kick, ripping the vine loose, but another coils around my good arm. It’s burning and still fighting, its surface blackening as it tightens. Pain sears through me. My skin screams. I smell my own flesh cooking.
