A voice coughed in my ear, barely audible over high-pitched ringing, a barrage of mechanical noises firing off with their full strength and compacity, one right after another.
“If anyone can hear me!” The voice was Pop, and he coughed a few times. I felt cold and concerned, but my spirit rose when he continued, and there were minor breaks and slurs, so he didn’t sound injured.
“It’s not a summoning. That fire! It''s a ritual fire. They’re invoking a ritual.”
Dad didn’t offer a reply, and there was no reaction or follow-up. Pop’s comment layered the problem. A summoning is a magical phone call; the entity will come to talk, associate with the bonded surroundings, and then leave. The danger of a proper summoning was almost no different than standing on the side of the road. Someone might try and hit you, but you’re relatively safe, at least during the day. A ritual dialed up the danger by a factor of a thousand, if not more. If you’re dumb enough to do a ritual. You want to stand in the middle of the road, and you’re itching to gamble with fate.
“Is everyone alright?” I called out, but I got no reply. I quickly took the plugs we would use again, Sirens, and placed them in my ears. The tool deafened the external noises, but it gave me a true sense of just how overloaded and overwhelmed my senses were. There were so many colors in the sky; it looked like a kaleidoscope. Then were the sounds. I heard engines, but I also registered multiple pops, sputters, rattles, quaking, and pulsing in competition with each other. I moved a few feet back and took in the tractors, counting nearly ten of them, but they kept crisscrossing beside one another, which made it hard to know for sure.
We need to regroup before a new trap is sprung or the next stage is activated.
I took a few steps and felt my center of gravity twist and turn. The world had become a balance beam when a tremor cascaded across the ground right toward me. The ground cracked and bubbled, and I chewed on my hesitation while I threw myself forward extending my arms and barely managing to come up in a roll when a massive tractor, the kind that occupies the entire road. The driver swerved, throwing a dusk cloud and debris toward the space where I had been standing. I sprinted, and it revved its engine and sped after me, but then it diverged from a direct course and came at my right at an angle, forcing me to either stop or get pancaked into the ground. Now stationary, my attacking tractor continued its path and then ventured further into the field pleased with its execution and intimidation.
“Mom!” I yelled, “Dad!”
I searched the space for any movement, but a new tractor, a smaller loader tractor suitable for hauling or maybe excavation snow, or an entrenched space. The loader moved its arm, and boom, up and down. There was no reason, and it appeared to me that such an act would have inhibited the driver’s field of vision. As it came with twenty feet, it lowered its bucket attachment, and I wet my lips and sprinted back toward the van and the road. Like the Minotaur, I figured these things had to be weighted down. I used a zig-zag pattern, and it didn’t take long for the loader to give up and follow a nearly identical path to the last one. I stopped but could hardly breathe. Such a collection of active tractors had nearly coated the field in a blanket of exhaust and smog. There was no breeze, and the gusts the tractors created only seemed to thicken the intoxicating gases, which didn’t hurt the bonfire as it increased in size every few seconds.
Tractors aren’t built for high speeds, but these things are moving like race cars, or they’ve been supped up for a demolition derby. How were they managing the turns and speed?
Dad would have praised the question, but there was no space to think or strategize.
“Tony, Pop, you ok!” I attempted to search the area, and I had no reply, but I spotted a figure running toward the bonfire. A tractor turned wide near this individual and a burst of light from its light bar told me that it was Mom. A second later, I registered further movement and figured Dad would be close by her side. A separate loader, this one with a cab, was considerably larger than the one I had been chased by. Dad urged Mom to keep going, and I saw a flash of metal in his hand, and the loader’s back two tires rose a few inches to keep pace. I waved my arms and called out, hoping to catch my parents’ attention. There was too much distance to cover between us to come together, and I couldn''t hear my voice, and the tractors stayed true to their course, but they didn’t stray too far away from the bonfire. I turned my attention to it but only had a moment to consider the embers, the structure that had been ignited before a tractor with a large tank kicked the brightness of its lights to the full spread. Tears welled up in my eyes. I kicked at the ground in an effort to pull myself away. The earth felt soft beneath my feet, and then I felt plants submitting to my weight.
I must be near a ditch. Had I made it to the road?
I considered making a break back to the farmhouse, but we were miles from the main highway, and Grandma would come, but against this, No! We needed to regroup and not get pulverized and become lunch for the buzzards hiding out in the trees.
For the moment I’m the backup. I had a few enforcements on hand, but the large-scale ones were in the van, and I wasn’t quite sure what would be the best tool against bad drivers and their racing tractors. I closed my eyes and tried to take in a moment of clarity. My stomach churned when the thick stench of manure broke through the smog and smoke. I stuck out my tongue in disgust but I cheered inside when it was accompanied by wonderfully rick fresh air.
Fresh air?
The tractors, all ten of them, had slowed to a putter and were inching back to the bonfire like a pack of hunting dogs. This abrupt change in pace returned my attention to the bonfire. No one got out, but the tractors created an arch and seemed content to idle in place.
What kind of ritual are you? This whole thing hinged on that question. Pop would undoubtedly know more, but I had to make my best guess, otherwise it was going to go through. This sky seemed a lot darker, but the waves of color were still present, and- I cocked my head as I watched new lines spill from the fire like snakes in a tree. The skylines were inching down to connect to their earth-bound counterparts.
This is certainly something else. The flames flickered, enlarged, and then shrank as they danced across the odd pile of wood. I could make out the bonfire with a more definitive visualization. The pile had an arched frame and symbols, and strange letters glowed with resonating orange light and it moved across each simple like lights being played on a keyboard. A few spots had been burned away, but the whole remained intact and did not hinder the process. This light captured my attention. It was the kind of light you’d mistake for fire, but there was something deeper, something ancient and unrestrained.
What do I do?
I wiped some sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and hastily attempted to swallow. My mouth was coated with dirt, and my side ached. One last tractor trudged across the terrain, heading for the last open spot in the lineup. I watched it go, but then quickly looked at the van, which was still in one piece. That was surprising, but a welcome factor to the situation.
The tractors are a bit too close for comfort. I was startled by how close we had actually been to the bonfire before it had been ignited. I wondered about the ritual, and I tried to imagine how close I would likely get before the group would notice.
I’d probably get inside., but what would stop the tractors from flipping it on its side like the T-Rex from Jurassic Park?
The question was replaced by a gunshot. The crack was sharp, and I saw sparks shoot up into the sky. The last tractor had pulled up to within a few feet of the bonfire. Then the driver, a figure wearing a cowboy hat and a long duster, appeared and used the steps to mount the shell of his ride.
That’s got to be the shapeshifter. I was surprised by the duster. It seemed like an odd choice, but I wasn’t about to question odd style choices to ruin the world. Now in place and using the cylindrical exhaust stack to steady himself. He set himself into place, then spread his legs as if striking a pose. He looked around, yipping and hollering like a cowboy in a busy cattle drive. Then, in a flash of metal, the figure extended his arm above his head again and fired. A second shot ripped across the starless sky, and I watched something ripple across the lines, like a stone across a pond.
The lines began to settle, but as the movements stopped, the lines changed their movements and became brighter and started to spiral. The illumination spread across the field, and I ran to the van, dreading the remote chance that the engines were going to drill down hard and come after me. My muscles constricted and my feet tingled. I reached out to the van door but then froze when I realized a moment too late that footsteps were coming behind me.
It was Mom. She had her coat open, and she had lost her veiled hat somewhere. She spoke to me with rapid speech and a severe struggle to breathe. I worried she was injured but I saw no rips or blood stains on her blouse.
“Mom!” I stammered in disbelief. “You were, how? Where’s Dad, Tony, and Pop.”
“Dad’s going in for the kill,” Mom said, “this isn’t looking good, but we need to back him up.”
“Mom, what about?” I began.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Mom replied.
“Ok,” I said, trying to shake the worry. “Lets grab-”
Mom shook her head, “We can’t. We’ve got to get back to him now!”
Mom hadn’t spoken loudly, but the instant the words passed from her lips, each tractor''s front lights switched on. The circular rays illuminated the area. I came up beside Mom and felt the same unrestrained power embedded in cracks and grooves etched across the shell coverings, tire rubber, and windows of the tractors. The same symbols were ablaze throughout the structure within the bonfire. One tractor shifted positions, and I spotted Dad near a faded red little pickup that had been decades old and hadn’t seen a car wash in a long time.
“He’s going in,” Mom hissed. We ran together but stopped near the edge of the light beams as the engines and exhaust began to fill the air. Mom led the way across the field, staying near the edge, and Dad held a hand in acknowledgment to us.
“Dad!” I called out, but he assumed a tactical position and stance. The kind you see when you’re in the proximity of a hostile target.
“Shows over Someone!” Dad yelled. The tractors calmed down, and the cowboy still atop the tractor beside the fire actually, for the first time, seemed to acknowledge him and our presence. Had he seriously not noticed us? Or perhaps did he care? And where was Suzy in all of this? Wouldn’t be present to make sure this went smoothly? I doubted she was one of the ones driving a tractor. No one emerged from any of the tractors in closed cabs. Both mom and I found our attention jumping from each one, ready to take down anyone who attempted to shoot Dad in the back. Meanwhile, I watched him adjust his duster, and I glimpsed the old-fashioned revolver sitting in a leather holster on his hip. His hand drew uncomfortably close to it. But Dad was not going to hold back, and Mom called as he took a few steps forward to ensure that his own shot would be hard-pressed to miss.
“Touch your gun, and I will shoot you,” Dad yelled.
“Someone, this is over! Tell your crew to shut down the tractors. No funny business!”
The cowboy cocked his head to the side. “Funny business.”
This was the first time the cowboy’s voice sounded like Mr. Morris, but it didn’t sound like the grumpy old farmer we had run into a few weeks earlier, and who I had met several times as a kid.
“I mean it!” Dad bellowed.
“Oh, I’m sure you do!” Mr. Morris’s voice called back.
Unphased by the fact that Dad had a gun trained on him. Like Batman descending from the building. The cowboy stepped to the edge and jumped. His duster billowed and snapped, and I heard spurs jingle when he reached the ground.
That’s no costume. Like a desperado coming menacing into town. The cowboy approached Dad. His duster flapped as he walked, and thanks to the tractor''s light and how close we were, I caught subtle hints of stains across the lapel and near the shirt collar. That was a genuine article passed down through history. But why would a shapeshifter have something like that? And why all these theatrics?
The cowboy stopped with enough distance to rehash the popular western shootout. Shapeshifters could die from a bullet, and he seemed eager to coax Dad into pulling the trigger. Dad stayed firm, while the cowboy adjusted his weathered hat, which looked worn and old. There were obvious cracks and patches, and the leather coil along the brim was broken and frayed.
“Last chance,” Dad said, “Tell your crew to turn the tractors off. This thing is done!”
“My crew?” Mr. Morris’s voice asked. He sidestepped, and I heard the jingle of his spurs, and then he pulled the bandana off his face.
“Pyron isn’t coming back!” Dad said.
“No kidding!” Mr. Morris said. He sounded a bit puzzled, “but it doesn’t stop a bunch of idiots and newbies from trying.”
“What?” I muttered.
Dad gave a slight movement with his shoulders, and Mr. Morris took off his hat and his skin assumed a transparent consistency and purple vein spread across his skin. Dad shuffled and seemed to be trying to pull the trigger, but it wouldn’t work.
“Ah!” Dad cried, and he released his grip hesitantly and moved a few backward in retreat. Dad’s gun remained where he had been holding it without any visible help. The gun twisted and shook slightly. The three of us stared at it, horrified that it was going to be turned in, focusing on any of us. But then with a flick of the wrist. The gun went flying into the night.
A shapeshifter wouldn''t be able to do that. That sort of power was something only a magician or a wizard could do. Dad cleared his throat and clenched his fists. We had been up against terrible odds before. And Dad was a rather good example of keeping his cool under pressure. But with hardly any effort, Dad had lost his most viable weapon. In any instant, all of our skills, all of our experiences, all of our training, and the knowledge we had accumulated over hours of study from our ancestors who had taken on monsters in a variety of situations. It was all trivial.
Dad let out a huff. “Where is Suzy Sourblood? Is this the part where we jump into a roll call?”
“No,”
Dad brought his fists up. “Drop the act. We know you''re a shapeshifter, and everything that has happened in town has been building up to this moment. You tried to hide under the radar, but you weren''t good enough. There were monsters and beings on to you from the beginning.
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Mr. Morris pursed his lips, and he furrowed his brow in bewilderment. Briefly, it seemed like he was about to transform. But instead, he shot dead and reproving glare. Mr. Morris waved a finger right in front of Dad''s face. Then he pulled back his coat. And brush the hand against the gun he still had strapped to his hip. As his fingers brushed against the metal. We all saw a purple essence rise from its surface. Even in the darkness, I could see Mom''s face go white.
“We were wrong. He''s not the shapeshifter, honey,” Mom said, aghast. “He''s a necromancer.”
“R.I.P.?” Dad snapped in alarm.
Mr. Morris uncharacteristically snickered at us in amusement and annoyance. “No, I''m not. R.I.P. I''m good, but I''m not that good. You’d be dead, trust me.”
Dad unclenched his hands and raised them up by his face for a passive surrender. “Then what is all this?”
“It''s a call to the wild.” Mr. Morris replied. “And to your credit, you''re not entirely wrong. Ever since Suzy and her group have been running around town. I knew it was them, as did several people. Most of them decided to run for cover. Me. I was smart enough to see an opportunity, and I was not going to look at a gift horse in the mouth.”
“What about Pyron Fowler?” Dad asked, “If you''re a necromancer, wouldn''t you want him to come back? Couldn’t this opportunity be a problem for his return? What if they decided to come after you?”
Mr. Morris scoffed at that. “I know some late boomers would love to have Reagan back in the White House. Fowler did a number on the practice and on society, but he was a hack. There have been plenty of people who’ve tried to find his body and bring him back. The funny fact is, only a handful of us seem to know that the fairies took his head. This could be a problem, and maybe they’ve gotten lucky. I doubt it personally. Dark witches are scary, but they’re not invincible. You’re only as smart as the information you have.”
Mr. Morris fingered his gun, “and I''m glad the infamous monster assassins I’ve been told about aren''t as dumb as history has made you look.”
Monster Assassins? Did he actually just say that?
I looked at Mom and Dad, who both looked stone cold confused at the comment. Mr. Morris puffed out his chest. And he assumed what to him would have been a confident expression. He looked a decade younger than he had the last time. His shoulders were broad, and his vitality doubled.
“Haha.” Mr. Morris laughed, and he pulled his hands together to offer us some sarcastic applause. “Wow, that was far more satisfying than I thought it would be. For years, I''d imagined what this moment would be like. I grew up terrified that people would see zombies working in my fields. I worried that reanimating animals would start to rot before I could sell them. Every time, I wondered if I was getting to my front door, walking into my barn and having someone try and shoot me in the back, or prime me for information. The Foster family of Monsters Assassins. I’m no academic, but this is history in the making. You’ve all been stories for so long, I’ve wondered if you’ve been real.”
I wiggled my toes and mentally acknowledged my shock and astonishment. Monster hunters were common enough, but he didn’t miss a beat. Monster assassins and there were stories about us.
“This is historic?” Dad pressed. “How is it historic if you’re taking advantage of other bad guys and their hard work?”
Mr. Morris pulled the bandana around his neck, then scratched at the scruff on his chin. He had obviously shaved in a few days, but it hadn’t quite become a full beard.
“You should like a monster lawyer.” he replied, “aren’t assassins just supposed to get in, shoot the place up, and then make their getaway?”
The question seemed to amuse him but then he shrugged it off. “Jim, you talk a great game, and I’ll admit you seemed to be more knowledgeable and prepared than some, but you are out of your league.”
Mr. Morris reached into his duster pocket and pulled out a leather-covered book from its steps, and he dropped it just shy of Dad''s feet. Then he brushed his hands together.
“Not that it matters.” Mr. Morris continued. “you’ll probably keep pestering me with questions and stall all of this until your family members hiding somewhere out there can into position to try and take me out.”
Mr. Morris put a hand over his eyes, but it was all for show. “This is an opportunity, and don’t log me in among the petty critters who rip people''s heads off or scare people into doing their dirty work. No, I do what I do because I’m great at it, and I’m aiming for something higher, something everlasting and wonderful.”
You are something else, Mr. Morris.
The abrupt end to the conversation without any threat tossed some worried glances between the three of us. Dad was the first to move. He dropped his hands, and we hurried up beside him.
Mr. Morris, meanwhile, reached the nearest tractor, climbed back up the steps, and heaved himself onto the hood. Once in place, he seemed composed and had his attention squarely on the bonfire while smoke curled around the edges of a circular pit that had been visible in the beginning. The flames licked the border and then curved like softly swishing curtains, but the distinct edges quickly began to coalesce like a stream of steam above a pot. Why wasn’t he scared that we would attempt something else? What contingencies did he have that made me self-assured and self-absorbed to think that his plan wasn’t going to fail?
“Dad, what do we do?”
For the first time in a while, Dad didn’t seem quite sure. He watched the fire and then glanced down at the book lying in a pile of dirt a few inches from his feet. Dad wrinkled his nose and then stooped down to snatch it.
“Honey, No, no,” Mom began.
“NO!”
Dad recoiled, and dust and small rocks pattered against the aged leather cover. Dad jumped upright as Pop and Tony hurried over. I looked at Pop, who had his teeth clenched and his face was flushed.
“Don’t touch it!” Pop exclaimed, “At least not bareheaded. I heard everything he said and ruled one about dark beings, and necromancers never touch anything they offer: weapons, foods, and objects like books.”
“Would Mr. Morris be foolish enough to give us a grimoire?” Mom asked. “He was wearing gloves.”
Pop handed Dad some gloves, but Dad didn’t seem too eager to put them on. “My point exactly, leather journals are prime real estate for fanatic scribbles, deadly drawings, and invisible worst enemies. He could have compelled a spirit to exist within those pages.”
“It would have been child’s play,” Mom confirmed.
“I thought spirits could only possess living things,” Tony said.
“That’s true, but possessed objects are typically referred to as cursed objects.” Mom explained. “Don’t get me wrong, there are curses like difficulty sleeping, breathing, or seeing yourself as an old person in the mirror. There are curses and there are curse breakers. You must break a curse to fully eliminate it, just like washing a shirt to remove a stain. On the other hand, a possessed object is a similar but different kind of challenge because when a nearly sentient being resides inside the object. If you don’t know it''s there, it will link itself to you until it''s exorcised.”
“It''s no picnic to extract them either,” Pop added. Clearly, he had dealt with a few possessed objects in his career. “If you get marked by a possessed object, the spirit inside has nearly complete rein to make your life miserable. They''ll follow you around, and it''s basically where the stories of imaginary friends came from.”
“Message received,” Tony said, “don’t touch the book. Can anything be possessed?”
“Pretty much,” Pop said, looking hard at this blaze and structure.
“What about tractors, Pop?” Tony added grimly.
Pop’s eyes widened with alarm. “Yes, yes they can.”
At that moment, it all made sense and like a scope coming into focus, my attention zeroed in on the nearest tractor. Sparks dance across the tractor''s tires and a ghastly fog spills from the cracks. Joints, bolts, and the engine’s grill. My entire body tensed As the tractor''s outer shell expanded, cracked, bubbled, or became warped and went rigid. Each of the tractors began to undergo some kind of transformation. Their exhaust stacks curved like devil''s horns or split and twisted to become spears. The particular models with headlights transformed from standard rectangles to narrow eggshell shapes with varying hues of orange and red. They were literally burning with what I could only assume Pop would call Hellfire. They paused in harmony. While the engines and exhaust now sounded like. Not just dogs barking. There was a deep, throaty thrum to their sounds. Each beat sent a chill down my spine and made me squirm.
“Oh crap,” Tony said. Look at the windshields.
I glanced at the windshields. Right on cue, the wipers screeched across the glass, and they maintained a narrow-angle resembling angry-looking cartoons that wanted to glare at another character or the reader themselves. This look wasn’t funny; in fact, it was downright devilish when put together with the flaming fires and menacing purple sigils.
The open cab tractors, while they didn''t have any windshield wipers to speak of, their buckets or the fork attachments immediately became curved or jagged, resembling dinosaur-sized teeth. Once visible, the front lights on the loaders cracked and sizzled before becoming narrow tear dropped shaped dots of light that looked like dilated pupils with a beast like viciousness.
“Thanks for appeasing the showman in me!” Mr. Morris said triumphantly, “That was golden! And, Oh, it fills me with no small amount of pleasure to see and point out that good old Teddy Roosevelt feared what would happen to the West. And it only took centuries, technology, and a bunch of idiots to prove him right.”
He unholstered his gun and fired into the air. There was no discernible target. But he seemed to be doing it with a reason and was content to do so. After several shots, I figured the magazine or chamber would be empty, but he continued to fire without any sign that he would stop. I made a note to talk to Pop them, an enchanted gun with an infinite magazine.
“Oh, how I''ve dreamed of the open range.” He said with longing in his voice. “I''ve played and toiled in these fields for so long I want to ride free.”
“What is his game,” Tony yelled.
“He''s acting too nostalgic,” Dad said, “and nostalgia at this level could only lead to something catastrophic. He doesn’t like how the world is, so he wants to have a reset.”
“That makes him unpredictable, and you lost your gun, James,” Mom said, “we can’t beat him. Not like this!”
My parents locked their eyes and held it for several seconds. “We haven’t lost yet and I’m not ready to give up.”
Dad popped his neck and pulled free from Mom''s grasp. Smoke curled around him, and we lost sight of him for several seconds. When he reappeared, thankfully, the tractors hadn’t moved, and Dad, doing his best to ignore them, strolled to a point and then cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Roosevelt was worried about the West,” Dad said, “but I bet professors would say that change had to happen; society was evolving! Why go through all this trouble? What is the call of the wild? I don’t get it.”
The tractors backed away, and the tractor Mr. Morris was on top of did an about-face, crept up to him and stopped to where Mr. Morris could move to his knees and talk.
“Herbet, it looks to me like just begging for trouble. M.A.G.E could arrive at any moment, and you said you’re taking advantage, which means you hope this will work, but we can’t be sure of anything. Magic is unpredictable.”
Mr. Morris tapped on the tractor’s engine and the idling lowered to a level close to a cat’s purr or the next best thing if someone was trying to recreate the sound with old gears and a scratchy fan belt.
“Jim, you and I both know magic is at our fingertips, and magic is unpredictable, but you can channel it into incredible things. I use my skills, as do you, but unlike you, I’m not scared of the unknown. I embrace it.”
His expression then hardened. “I assume your weapons and clothes have some magical protections, but you’re not fooling anyone, especially me. You play it safe, and you’ve reached the end of your rope. You’re trying to salvage your confidence and take on a new challenge. It pathetic that you’re trying to assume a high ground to keep us lowly monsters in our place?”
“You consider yourself a monster?” Dad called out.
Outraged, Mr. Morris shook his head and dismissively gave my dad a rude gesture. “Only on paper because I do things that people disagree with, or what the powers that be have decided should be frowned upon.”
“Dark magic is not just frowned upon like a poor choice.” Dad shot back. “It’s a vice that tears your soul apart. No one should compel another, and you shouldn’t desecrate the dead for profit.”
“That funny,” Mr. Morris shot back. “a murderer is lecturing me, a necromancer of morals. You come after monsters and then do what? Go on with your lives unafraid of the looming consequences. Aren’t you scared that there are beings who could squash you like flies? You don’t get to lecture me! I almost lost everything because of you.”
Dad lowered his gaze and Mr. Morris looked seconds away from spitting in his face.
“You didn’t lose everything because of us,” Dad clarified resolutely. “You would have because you were stupid enough to light the fuse before clearing the area.”
Dad''s argument was sound, but Mr. Morris wasn''t having it. His discourteous attitude wasn''t surprising, but it was the only way Mr. Morris would give us some information.
“I''m not having this debate with you,” he spat. “Do you really think you could talk me down?”
“Honestly,” Dad said. “Not really.”
My heart was pounding for the next part. We all knew what was coming. I just needed to be ready.
“Then why” Mr. Morris began. But Dad cut him off.
“When the bad guys are really angry what most crave more than power is validation,” Dad confirmed. “But honestly, all this chatter was meant for, was to give my family a chance to make a move.”
Mr. Morris glared at Dad and then up at us. I clenched my fists and flung my hand outward in an instant.
When a Foster says, they’re not ready to give up. That is code for a sneak attack.
I realized my fingers and my tambourine soared through the air like a frisbee with percussion accompaniment. Dad hurried back a few steps, and the tractor kicked balls of fire into the air. Mr. Morris rose to his feet, and as expected, he trained his gun on me. The surprise had baited his reaction time, and my instrument gained speed, jiggling and rattling as it flew straight toward his chest. Mr. Morris tried to fire, but the motion was impulsive, and the recoil threw off his balance. He remained atop the tractor and grunted as he composed himself, brandishing his gun to take a second shot. The individual symbols encased in the wood were the next enforcement to active. Mr. Morris fired, and his bullet hit the wood frame, and it splintered, but a second later, the frame fell away, and like tiny shooting stars, each symbol either struck Mr. Morris, some in arms, legs, and chest, while the rest hit the tractor and burst in pockets of bright light. The tractor puffed smoke into the air and its engine growled in discomfort. The other tractors followed suit, and they attempted to assume a different formation, but their movements were erratic and a few hit into each other as they tried to escape the light blasts.
Grandma would definitely call this bedlam.
Now that my tambourine was expended. Mom, Pop, and Tony put their own tools to use while I engaged my zap ring and moved in a wide arch, looking for a chance to get in close. Tony was the closest and had a gun himself. With expert precision and control, Tony leveled the gun and fired. Mr. Morris brought his arm to his face and the bullet struck his shoulder, but instead of a howl of pain and blood. We watched the translucent outline of a person materialize in front of our faces. There were definitive features, but I cringed when I heard a “Ye ha!” as it vanished.
“Don’t waste the bullets,” Pop snapped. “His duster is possessed.”
“Herbert, don’t do this!” Dad yelled.
“I’m too close to give up now!” Mr. Morris hollered. He fired a shot and then yelled. “Take them out! And make it hurt.”
The tractors immediately assumed a single fire line like trained soldiers. I found myself near a ditch, so I hurried and climbed inside. We had used our opening, and Mr. Morris now knew that we weren’t playing games, and he was done with civility. I rolled into the depth, and the prickly brush, weeds, and small rocks bit into my exposed skin by my legs and thighs. It was uncomfortable. But for the moment, at least in my primary concerns. Dow here, I didn''t have to worry about being flattened or impaled for the moment.
I peeked over the edge of the ditch as a rusty orange tractor did a doughnut, allowing some kind of attachment with circular blades to rise in the air like a spiky ball and chain. Tony darted sideways like a football player and then dove to avoid getting hit before he pulled off his own trick to avoid getting crushed. Dad, meanwhile, employed the disorienting derby to his advantage. Pop hurried to his side and handed him something. Then he booked it as fast as he could through a gap near the old red truck and the bonfire. The tractors hadn’t noticed him, and Mr. Morris observed our response and leveled his gun toward Tony who had taken off and had reached the rear of the van. For a brief instant, his legs were exposed when he tossed the door open. He jumped as a bullet struck the door and I assumed he was scrambling. Two shots followed; the first hit close to the original, and the second pierced the window, but Tony wasn’t stupid. He would know to stay clear of that.
Dad leaped over the old farm truck, leveled a new gun, and fired. Mr. Morris’s tractor mount ground its wheels into the dirt and Mr. Morris cursed as it pulled away. The bullet hit the window, but it didn’t break the glass.
Dad fired several more times. A few of the bullets struck the tractor, but it only seemed to antagonize the spirit inside the machine. Mr. Morris laid out a string of profanities and ordered it to return to its original position. The tractor relented, took aim, and fired at its tire. Mr. Morris was ready for this, and he didn''t employ his earlier trick, but he fired several shots that pushed Dad to dive into the back of the Red Farm truck for cover.
“Do you know why Custards Last Stand went wrong?” Mr. Morris cried, As Tony, who had managed to slam the van doors shut, took off at a run with several objects in his arms. “Do you know why McCarthy was so scared of communists?”
I wasn''t sure how, but Mr. Morris magnified his voice when presenting these historical questions, and his tone came off as vengeful. He really wanted to drive something home and make the argument hurt.
“It was because of all of you, the Fosters. There was always at least one who was around to make a blunder of everything.”
Mr. Morris fired a single shot, which was the loudest of all he had let off. The tractors pulled away from any pursuit and settled on a path around the perimeter of the field. They would have disappeared if it hadn''t been for the light that was the indication of their possession. They began to maneuver in a single line. The purple energy traced the sigils and their tires dug into the ground, kicking up small mounds of dirt that looked like a barrier for a makeshift track.
“I think you Fosters would be surprised about some real history.” Mr. Morris spat, “And you''re not going to mess this up for me. Let''s see how you do without all of your fancy toys!”
I watched Mom approach the van. Pop steps behind her. Mr. Morris put his fingers to his lips, whistled, then pointed right at them.
“No!” I cried, “Get away from the van.”
I was too far away, but Pop and Mom were smart and managed to grab a duffel bag, and they barreled away, disappearing beside or within the nearby ditch as a loader tractor with a bale fork jaw charged the van.
Horrified, I clapped a hand to my mouth as the curled teeth cut through the van’s shell, and the tractor lifted it up and flung it backward. The van came down with a crunch, and the line of tractors passed over a part of it without breaking formation.
We were stuck.
“It''s time for the last ride,” Mr. Morris cried, as thunder cracked across the sky and a deep boom cascaded from the bonfire.