Maize

Grandpa always told us to stay out of the corn.

"People get lost out there," he said between puffs of his cherry tobacco pipe. "You go in there, you'll never be found."

That's what I'm counting on.

The stalks are at least a foot taller than me, now that summer is in the thick of August. I need the shelter, the tassels hiding the tangled mess of my bun. It's too hot to let my hair down, too hot and too dangerous.

Damn this sticky heat. The moment I ran outside I felt the air wrap around me like boiling plastic, instantly attracting every insect known to man. I knew the corn would be worse, pollen and fibers from the leaves clinging to my damp skin as I silently make my way through the rows.

Follow the rows. Always follow the rows.

Stalks rustle to my left.

I freeze. Crouched low in the dirt, fingers gripped tightly around the heavy barrel of my shotgun, I wait.

Damn deer.

I'm tempted to shoo the doe away but resist the urge. My heart is pounding loud enough as it is, and it's all I can do to keep my breath low and steady. It's a stare-down between us, and I'm worried that if I take one more step forward I'll startle her into giving away my position.

We both hear it.

The deer looks as panicked as I feel, and she swiftly darts away. Her flanks barely rustle the leaves, and I do my best to stay just as silent.

It's only then I realize my big mistake.

I forgot the ammo.

How did I forget the ammo?!

If my skin was damp and sticky from the humidity, it's now drenched in my own fear. My steps quicken, an awkward duck walk with one arm straining to keep a clumsy hold around the shotgun while my other hand quickly checks my pockets. There's only my phone and however many shells were already loaded into the gun when I grabbed it off the wall.

Because having the means to defend myself and get away would be far, far too easy for me. Mama did always say I managed to complicate the simplest things.

I pause. Listen. Scramble inside my head for a new plan I need to come up with and fast. I don't hear anything besides the screeching cicadas, so I do a quick check and pop the barrel open to see just how much ammo I do have. Two slide out, and I'm just about to silently holler for joy when I feel the weight of them in my palm.

Two shells, but one bullet. The other is a dud.

If I make it through the night, I'm protesting tomorrow.

This is all their fault. We never asked for this. The whole point of being in the middle of nowhere was being far away from the chaos of the coasts.

But no. They had to go and make a mess of things.

Just like everything else, it took a little extra time for the first wave to hit our small town. We honestly thought we were safe. Months went by, planting season came and went, and we said our prayers of gratitude every Sunday for God's mercy.

Daddy blamed the fear more than he blamed the people. Word spread fast that we were untouched. People fled their homes to join our safe haven, not once considering the risk. No one had the heart to keep them away. Not even Daddy, who was the first to go.

I blink back the hot tears that threaten to sting my eyes. I can't think about him right now. I can't think about anything other than getting the hell out of here.

The cornstalks rustle loudly behind me. I have just enough distance to keep going, but not enough time. I am careful to stay between the rows and follow the narrow path by the way it curves awkwardly under my feet, the starlit night still too dark for me to see. I am careful. It is not.

I swallow back a yelp when I hear the snarls.

Too close.

Too close.

Too close.

Have to chance it. Have to change course. I hiss through my teeth when the sharp edges of the leaves slice at my skin, and a new sort of panic threatens to burst my heart open. Can it smell my sweat? My blood? Am I leaving an easy trail for it to follow?

No time to find out.

I cut diagonally through the rows, no longer caring about the loud rustling my new trajectory makes. It knows where I'm at. I just pray I'm fast enough, smart enough, to outrun it.

Should've paid more attention to social media.

If I make it through the night, I have a few things to say.

Suddenly my heart leaps for a whole other reason. The silhouette is difficult to make out at first, but the closer I run towards it, the more elated I feel. Daddy's tractor is still out here. I cast a quick glance to the starlight above, thanking God and Daddy for the enclosed cab. My eyes catch the shadowy golden deer painted on the side, and for the first time in ages, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upwards.

No time for nostalgia. Need to get in.

I know it's unlikely for the keys to still be in there, but it was also unlikely for the tractor to be out here. Daddy must have left it the day he got sick.

My feet pause.

No. I can't worry about that right now. One thing at a time.

And I can hear that thing approaching fast behind me.

I yank the door open and it creaks painfully loud, but oh sweet merciful heaven am I happy to climb up inside. I slam the door shut. I'm not sure what makes me want to cry more: the blessed silence, or the warm smell of Daddy's cologne in the leather seat.

I let a few tears fall. I allow my chest to shake with a few sobs of relief, of pain, of terror. The glittery ribbon of the Milky Way reflects the path of my tears, and I wish so much I could have escaped into the night sky like so many others chose to do.

THUD.

I scream.

It claws at the glass, blood smearing everywhere in horrible lines. It can't get in, but it doesn't stop. The tractor rocks when it hurtles at the door.

Again.

And again.

My throat cracks and stings. I have to stop screaming but I can't. My fingers are shaking too hard, making me fumble too violently with the gun. There's not enough room to raise it, to aim it.

I scream again, this time with some sort of survivor's rage welling up within me. My foot connects with the door and kicks out, perfectly timed with the creature's next lunge. It shrieks with fury and falls back onto the corn.

I squeeze the trigger.

The creature falls back again, face twisted with rage, but I don't hear it. I can't hear anything. My ears are ringing too loudly, my head spinning from the reverberation of the gunshot inside the small cab.

No time to steady. Gotta keep moving.

I launch myself from the cab and try to roll when I hit the ground, feeling the wind punched from my lungs as I misjudge the landing. The gun almost slips from my fingers but I manage to hold on as I struggle to my feet.

I can't hear the cicadas.

I can't hear the creature.

I can't hear my own thoughts.

But I have to keep moving.

I don't bother checking to see if it's dead. I dart through the rows once more, relief faint in my mind as I start to hear the way the leaves whisper and rattle against my skin. Given the horizontal path I'm forging, I have to hit a gravel road sometime soon, and the thought fuels me with enough hope and determination to quicken my tired feet. Every inch of me burns and stings and aches, but I don't care.

It tackles me to the ground.

I scream again, feeling more than hearing the sound wrenched from my chest as I flail wildly against the creature. My elbow rams the side of its head and I manage to kick hard against the bloody wound in its shoulder, sending it tumbling enough for me to scramble to my feet. Now my hearing is fully recovered, and I know this by the way the thing shrieks at me with unbridled fury.

I don't know where I'm going. Grandpa was right, it's too easy to get lost in the corn, and now I'm certain this is how it ends. My limbs burn, my body begs for rest, but I can't.

That thing never sleeps.

And now, neither do I.

I manage to run far enough ahead that I can, finally, take a moment to breathe. I hear it whip through the stalks and I brace myself for the final moment. I'm too tired to keep running. My fingers find the locket dangling from the silver chain around my neck, and I clench it in my fist with a choked sob.

I don't know what gives me the sudden idea.

The empty cartridge slips out of the shotgun barrel but I catch it and quickly tuck the gun under my arm. The nape of my neck burns when I rip the locket off, but I'm too focused on stuffing the heart-shaped silver into the shell. I know this is a Hail Mary. I know my chances of survival at this point are dangerously low.

But I have to try.

I don't have time to rethink my plan. The creature suddenly appears a few yards away, and even in the darkness I can see the spittle flying from its mouth as it snarls and seethes at me.

I cock the gun.

It lunges at me.

I squeeze the trigger.

I don't realize how long I've been frozen in place until the weight of the shotgun makes my arms burn. I drop it to the ground, just as I dropped the creature.

It doesn't move. It doesn't make a sound.

I'm so acutely aware of my blood pumping through my veins. Of air entering and leaving my lungs. I feel my feet take me closer to the creature, this time brave enough to check.

My legs give out, and I slump to my knees. The heart-shaped locket Mama gave me for my birthday that I never took off so I could always carry her and Daddy's smiling faces with me...it saved my life.

I slowly reach out, fingers trembling. It's deeply embedded in her chest, the filigree heart pierced inside her own. I find that I don't want to take it out. I don't want to hurt her anymore, even if she can't feel it. She stopped feeling pain days ago after the fever took over.

I carefully brush her hair to one side, unsticking the soft tendrils from her face. What I first think is rain that splatters on her mottled skin I soon realize are my own tears. I want to say her name, but I can't. I want her to hold me, but she can't.

So I lay down beside her, tucking her arm around me like she used to on warm summer nights like this. I use my tears to wipe away the blood from her mouth. I lay my head on her chest, uncaring about the mess I'll probably be in the morning. I close my eyes, and finally let out everything I've been holding inside.

I'm too tired to move. It's too dark to find my way out of the cornfield, and even though the locket is buried inside Mama's chest, I feel like it struck my own.