The mud hardened on his kneecap. The solar array hummed a low, annoying note. It was time.
The wrench slipped off the bolt. Jesse’s knuckles slammed into the frozen steel of the solar panel strut. He did not yell. Yelling brought the monitors. Instead, he shoved his fist into his armpit and squeezed his eyes shut. The sky overhead was a brutal, blinding orange. The leaves on the ground were neon yellow and plastered to the mud like wet paper. Fall was here. The sun was dying faster every day, and the cold was making everyone’s brain slow and stupid.
"You stripped it."
"I didn't strip it."
"I am looking right at the threads, Jesse. They are flat. You made them flat."
Carmen was lying on her stomach in the wet leaves. Her datapad was cracked down the middle. A spreadsheet glowed on the screen. The spreadsheet was titled 'Projectile Math' and it had three hundred rows of numbers. She tapped the glass with a dirty fingernail.
"Pass me the grip-pliers," Jesse whispered. He pulled his hand out of his armpit. The skin across his knuckles was bright pink.
"We only have twelve minutes before Higgins checks the south quadrant."
"Pass the pliers."
Carmen kicked her boot backward. Her heel hit a metal toolbox. She dragged it closer with her toe, reached blindly inside, and pulled out a heavy black tool. She shoved it into Jesse's chest.
"If we get caught stealing carbon fiber from the town grid, they are going to make us scrape the algae vats for a month."
"It's scrap," Jesse said. He locked the pliers onto the ruined bolt. "They replaced these struts yesterday. They threw them in the discard pile."
"The discard pile is still commune property."
"The commune is boring."
Jesse leaned his entire body weight into the pliers. The metal groaned. A sharp snap echoed across the field. The bolt spun loose. Jesse fell backward into the mud. A long, black, carbon-fiber rod slid out of the holding bracket and dropped perfectly into Carmen’s waiting hands.
"Got it," she said.
"That's three."
"We need four for the throwing arm. And we need the heavy counterweight."
They scrambled up. The wind hit them. It was sharp and freezing. It slapped Jesse’s ears and made his eyes water. He wiped his face with a mud-caked sleeve. They dragged the three black poles toward the edge of the woods. The trees here were massive oaks, their trunks thick with green moss.
"Hide them behind the dead stump," Jesse pointed.
Carmen shoved the poles into a tangle of dead ferns. She kicked a pile of wet, rotting leaves over the shiny black material.
"Summer is over," Jesse said suddenly. He stared at his muddy boots. "It's just dark and cold now. And it's going to be dark and cold for six months."
"That is why we are building the trebuchet," Carmen said. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Ballistics cure sadness. We discussed this."
"I know."
"When we launch a three-hundred-pound object into the stratosphere, your brain will produce serotonin. It is a scientific guarantee."
"Are you two down there?"
A voice boomed from the gravel path above the solar array. Jesse froze. Carmen dropped flat onto her stomach. Jesse fell beside her. His chin hit a rock. He ignored the pain. They held their breath.
Monitor Higgins was walking the perimeter. His heavy boots crunched loudly on the gravel. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He stopped. A flashlight beam swept over the tops of the solar panels, casting long, weird shadows across the mud.
"I swear I heard metal snapping," Higgins muttered to himself.
Jesse pressed his face into the dirt. The flashlight beam swept right over them. It illuminated the bright yellow leaves just inches from Jesse’s nose.
The crunching boots started again. They faded down the path.
Carmen exhaled. "He's gone."
Suddenly, the community loudspeaker crackled to life. The speaker was attached to a tall wooden pole in the center of the town square, half a mile away, but the sound was deafening. It squealed with static.
"Attention, residents," came the voice of Mister Barnes. It was a dry, scratching voice. "This is your Harvest Festival committee chair."
Jesse rolled onto his back. He stared at the graying clouds.
"The festival commences in exactly forty-eight hours," the loudspeaker blared. "I am instituting a strict, zero-tolerance policy on projectiles. I repeat. No flying objects of any kind. We are all aware of the zucchini disaster from last autumn. The greenhouse glass has only just been fully repaired."
Carmen sat up. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face.
"He didn't say anything about pumpkins," she whispered.
"He said no flying objects."
"A pumpkin is a vegetable. Technically a fruit. It is a harvest offering. If a harvest offering happens to travel through the air at high velocity, that is simply an aggressive delivery system."
"You are insane."
"We need the fourth pole," Carmen said. She stood up and brushed the mud off her knees. "And then we need to find a target."
Jesse looked up at the sky. The orange light was fading into a bruised purple. The wind howled through the solar panels, making them hum like a giant, angry hornet. He felt a tiny spark of warmth in his chest. He grabbed the pliers.
"Let's get the last one."
The wheelbarrow tire was flat. It thumped against the uneven dirt path, vibrating straight up Jesse’s arms and shaking his teeth. Inside the wheelbarrow sat a monster. It was a three-hundred-pound pumpkin. It was bright orange, covered in warts, and asymmetrical. It looked like a giant, diseased brain.
"Push harder," Carmen demanded. She was walking backward in front of the wheelbarrow, guiding the front lip over the tree roots.
"My spine is going to snap."
"Use your legs."
"I am using my legs. The tire is completely flat."
"If we stop, it will roll backward and crush us."
They were navigating the narrow trail behind the old dairy barns. The path was hidden by tall, dead grass that whipped against Jesse’s shins. The sun was fully down now. The commune was lit by strings of warm, yellow LED bulbs strung between the houses, but out here, it was pitch black.
"Hold up," Carmen hissed. She threw her hands out.
Jesse dropped the wheelbarrow handles. The heavy metal legs slammed into the dirt. The giant pumpkin shifted, rocking the barrow violently side to side.
"What?"
"Someone is by the barn door."
Jesse squinted through the gloom. A figure stood near the massive sliding door of the storage barn where they were hiding the trebuchet frame. The figure was holding a lantern.
"It's Old Man Martins," Jesse whispered. "He's checking the locks."
"He wasn't supposed to be on rotation tonight."
They crouched in the tall grass. The cold seeped through Jesse’s jeans instantly. His knees ached from the earlier fall in the mud. He watched Old Man Martins rattle the heavy iron padlock on the barn door.
"If he goes inside, he’s going to see the throwing arm."
"It's covered in a tarp."
"It's twenty feet long, Carmen. A tarp doesn't make it invisible."
Martins turned. He held the lantern up, sweeping the light across the dark field. The beam caught the bright orange rind of the giant pumpkin sitting in the wheelbarrow.
"Who's out there?" Martins yelled. His voice was gravelly.
Carmen stood up. She didn't hesitate. She marched straight out of the grass and into the lantern light.
"Just us, Mr. Martins."
Jesse groaned inwardly. He stood up slowly, keeping his hands away from the pumpkin.
Martins narrowed his eyes. He stepped closer. The lantern light illuminated the deep wrinkles around his mouth. He looked at Carmen, then at Jesse, then down at the monstrous pumpkin in the flat-tired wheelbarrow.
"What in the name of the grid are you two doing with Mayor Lin's prize squash?"
"We are transporting it," Carmen said smoothly. Her voice did not shake. "For the festival."
"The festival is in two days. And the display is in the town square. You are heading toward the abandoned storage barns."
"We are taking the scenic route."
Martins stared at her. The silence stretched out. The wind rustled the dead grass. A crow screamed somewhere in the dark woods.
"I know what you're doing," Martins said softly.
Jesse's stomach dropped. He felt sick.
"You're stealing it."
"No."
"You are going to hollow it out and turn it into a boat. Like those kids did in Sector Four last year."
Carmen blinked. She looked at Jesse. Jesse looked back. Neither of them said a word.
Martins sighed. He reached into his heavy canvas coat and pulled out a small, glass jar. The jar was filled with a thick, amber liquid. He held it up.
"I didn't see anything," Martins said. "But I have a terrible cough. And the medical tent is out of lozenges."
Carmen’s eyes went wide. She reached into her own jacket pocket. She pulled out a small, plastic squeeze-bottle filled with black market honey. It was the good stuff. The stuff harvested from the forbidden hives near the old highway.
She tossed the plastic bottle to Martins. He caught it with one hand.
"Pure clover," she said.
Martins popped the lid, squeezed a drop onto his thumb, and licked it. He closed his eyes. He nodded once.
"You kids be careful with the rind. It's thicker on the left side. It'll list to port if you put it in the water."
He turned and walked away into the dark. The lantern light bobbed until it vanished behind a row of trees.
Jesse let out a massive breath.
"Grab the handles," Carmen said. "We need to rig the sling tonight."
They pushed the wheelbarrow the rest of the way, dragged the sliding door open, and shoved the pumpkin inside. The barn was cavernous. In the center of the dirt floor sat the machine. It was a terrifying structure of salvaged wood, tension cables, and the stolen black carbon-fiber struts. It looked like a giant, mechanical praying mantis.
"We need a test fire," Carmen said. She walked over to a wooden crate and pulled out a small, green gourd. It was the size of a baseball.
"Inside the barn?"
"The doors are open. We fire it out into the field."
Jesse grabbed the heavy winch handle. He cranked it. The gears clicked loudly. Clack. Clack. Clack. The massive throwing arm lowered toward the ground. The tension in the cables whined.
Carmen loaded the green gourd into the canvas sling.
"Trajectory is set for thirty degrees. Wind is out of the north. Firing in three."
"Two."
"One."
Carmen hit the release latch with a heavy wrench.
The noise was incredible. A violent THWACK echoed off the barn walls. The throwing arm blurred upward. The green gourd vanished from the sling.
Jesse ran to the open door. He looked up at the night sky.
"Where did it go?"
"Wait for it," Carmen said, standing beside him.
Far out in the darkness, high above the tree line, stood the town’s primary wind turbine. Its massive white blades spun slowly in the night.
CRUNCH.
The sound was distinct and terrible.
Sparks showered from the top of the wind turbine. The red telemetry dish mounted on the side of the turbine nacelle suddenly detached, dangled by a wire, and fell into the woods.
The turbine blades shuddered. A loud, grinding noise filled the air.
Instantly, every single yellow LED light in the commune went completely dark.
Jesse stood in the pitch black. The silence was absolute, except for the wind.
"Okay," Carmen’s voice came from the dark. "We need to adjust the trajectory."
The rain hit the barn roof like a handful of gravel. The temperature had plummeted twenty degrees in an hour. Jesse’s breath plumed in the cold air, white and thick. He rubbed his hands together. They were numb, covered in grease and dirt.
"We cannot leave it in here," Carmen yelled over the sound of the storm.
"Why not?"
"Because the rival farmers from Sector Two are looking for the carbon fiber. I saw them talking to Higgins. They are checking every storage shed."
Jesse grabbed a flashlight and pointed it at the machine. It was fully assembled now. It was ten feet tall, a menacing skeletal frame of wood and black composite.
"It is too big to move."
"It has wheels, Jesse. We put wheels on it for a reason."
"We put wheels on it to get it to the stage! Not to roll it through a freezing storm in the middle of the night!"
"If they find it, they will dismantle it. They will take the fiber. Push."
Jesse pressed his shoulder against the heavy wooden base. The wood was damp and rough. Splinters bit into his jacket. He dug his boots into the dirt floor and shoved. The trebuchet groaned. The wheels squeaked. Slowly, agonizingly, it rolled forward.
They pushed it out of the barn and into the storm. The freezing rain hit Jesse’s face like tiny needles. Water immediately soaked through his collar, running down his back. The ground outside was turning into a sea of slippery mud.
"Where are we taking it?" Jesse screamed over the wind.
"The community greenhouse."
"Are you out of your mind? The doors are locked!"
"I have the override code. Keep pushing!"
They shoved the massive machine across the field. The wheels sank deep into the mud, leaving deep, parallel trenches. Lightning flashed, illuminating the silver frame of the giant greenhouse fifty yards away.
Jesse’s arms were burning. The muscles in his back screamed. Every time he blinked, freezing water got into his eyes.
They reached the glass doors of the greenhouse. Carmen punched a code into the keypad. The light turned green. The heavy doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.
Warm air rushed out, hitting Jesse in the face. It was a massive contrast to the freezing storm.
"Push it in! Quickly!"
They shoved the trebuchet over the threshold. The front wheels caught the edge of a raised planter box. The entire machine tilted violently to the right.
"Hold it!" Carmen shrieked.
Jesse threw his entire body weight against the frame. His boots slipped on the wet tile floor. The machine teetered, the heavy throwing arm swinging dangerously close to the glass ceiling.
The right wheel slammed down into the planter box.
SNAP. CRUNCH. SQUISH.
Jesse froze. He slowly aimed the flashlight down.
The wheel had completely flattened a row of delicate, green vines. Bright red, perfectly round heirloom tomatoes were smashed into a pulpy paste across the white tiles. Seeds and green slime coated the heavy rubber tread of the wheel.
"Oh no," Carmen whispered.
"These are Mister Barnes’s prize vines."
"We can clean it up."
"You cannot clean up a crushed tomato, Carmen! It is structurally compromised!"
Jesse dropped to his knees. He stared at the mess. A sudden, overwhelming wave of panic hit him. It wasn't just about the tomatoes. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. He was turning twelve in two weeks. Twelve meant he had to pick an apprenticeship. It meant the end of building stupid things in the woods. It meant schedules, and rotas, and community board meetings. The sheer, terrifying weight of growing up crashed into him right there on the wet tiles.
He grabbed a heavy wrench from his belt. He crawled over to the base of the trebuchet. He found a tension cable. He locked the wrench onto the bolt and pulled.
"What are you doing?" Carmen asked.
"Tightening the lateral stabilizers," Jesse grunted.
He pulled harder. The cable hummed. His knuckles turned white. He didn't want to think about apprenticeships. He wanted to launch a giant vegetable into the sky. He wanted to break things. He wanted the world to stay small and manageable.
"Jesse, that's tight enough."
He kept pulling. The metal dug into his palm. The skin blistered red.
"Jesse!"
He snapped out of it. He dropped the wrench. It clattered loudly on the tiles.
Outside, a dog started barking furiously. Flashlight beams swept across the frosted glass of the greenhouse walls.
"Sector Two farmers," Carmen hissed. She grabbed Jesse’s collar and dragged him down behind the massive, wooden base of the trebuchet.
The shadows of three large men appeared against the glass. They were standing right outside the door.
"I see tracks in the mud," a deep voice muffled through the glass.
"They lead right up to the door."
The door handle rattled. Violently. The metal frame shook.
Jesse held his breath. He pressed his back against the cold wooden beam of their machine. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
"Pad's locked," the deep voice said. "Nobody's in there. Just the plants."
"Check the perimeter."
The shadows moved away. The flashlight beams faded.
Jesse let his head fall back against the wood. He closed his eyes. "We are going to federal prison."
"The commune doesn't have a prison."
"They will build one just for us."
Carmen wiped tomato guts off the wheel with her sleeve. "We just need to survive until tomorrow morning. Then, we make history."
The morning was brutally bright. Frost coated the grass, turning the entire commune into a field of glittering diamonds. The sky was a hard, pale blue. The storm had passed, leaving the air biting and sharp.
The Harvest Festival was in full swing. The town square was packed with people wearing thick wool sweaters and drinking hot cider from metal thermoses. Banners made of recycled canvas flapped in the wind.
At the far end of the square stood the main stage. It was built from reclaimed timber and decorated with cornstalks. In the center of the stage, Mayor Lin’s prized organic squash display sat on a velvet-draped table. The squashes were arranged in a perfect pyramid. They were green, yellow, and white, gleaming in the sun.
Jesse stood behind a row of porta-potties, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was shaking. It wasn't the cold.
"Are we really doing this?" he asked. His voice cracked.
Carmen stood next to him. She was holding a large, red button connected to a spool of wire.
"We spent three days building it. We destroyed a telemetry dish. We murdered six heirloom tomatoes. We are past the point of no return."
The trebuchet was hidden behind the stage, draped in a massive brown tarp. They had rolled it out of the greenhouse at dawn, before anyone was awake, and parked it right behind the soundboard.
On the stage, Mister Barnes tapped the microphone. A loud whine pierced the air.
"Welcome, citizens," Barnes droned. His voice echoed off the brick buildings. "To the forty-second annual Harvest Festival. Let us celebrate the bounty of the earth, and the efficiency of our solar grid."
"Now," Carmen whispered.
Jesse sprinted from behind the porta-potties. He grabbed the edge of the brown tarp covering the machine. Carmen ran up to the soundboard.
The sound engineer was a teenager wearing giant headphones. He was looking at his phone. Carmen reached over, grabbed the main microphone cable, and yanked it out of the board. The stage speakers popped loudly, then went dead.
Barnes tapped the microphone again. Nothing.
Jesse ripped the tarp off the trebuchet.
The machine sat there, a terrifying monument of black carbon fiber and salvaged wood. The giant orange pumpkin was already loaded in the canvas sling, resting on the grass.
The crowd went completely silent. Three hundred people stared at the massive contraption towering behind the stage.
Barnes turned around. His jaw dropped. He pointed a trembling finger at the machine.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Carmen grabbed a megaphone from the soundboard desk. She clicked it on.
"Behold!" her voice boomed across the square. "The cure for seasonal depression!"
"Stop them!" Barnes shrieked. He lunged toward the edge of the stage. "That is a projectile! I specifically forbade projectiles!"
"Fire!" Carmen screamed.
She slammed the red button.
The electronic release latch clicked.
The massive wooden counterweight plummeted. The machine groaned, a deep, terrifying creak of straining wood and metal. The black carbon-fiber throwing arm whipped forward with blinding speed.
The canvas sling snapped open.
The three-hundred-pound pumpkin launched.
Jesse watched it go. The physical reality of the moment was staggering. The pumpkin didn't just fly; it tore through the air. The sheer velocity of the massive orange sphere created a low, whistling sound. It arced high into the pale blue sky, perfectly blocking out the sun for a fraction of a second.
The crowd gasped as one single entity.
The pumpkin reached the apex of its arc. It hung there, suspended over the square. It was glorious. It was the most beautiful thing Jesse had ever seen.
Then, gravity took over.
The trajectory was not aimed at the empty field beyond the square.
It was aimed straight down the center line of the stage.
"Oh no," Jesse whispered.
The giant pumpkin plummeted. It hit the velvet-draped table with the force of a meteor.
The impact was deafening. A massive CRACK echoed off the buildings. The table instantly splintered into a thousand pieces of flying wood.
Mayor Lin’s perfect pyramid of prized organic squash was obliterated. Green and yellow shrapnel exploded in every direction. Chunks of wet pumpkin rind flew into the crowd. A massive wave of orange pulp washed over the front row of folding chairs.
Mister Barnes stood frozen, completely covered from head to toe in bright orange slime. A single, perfectly intact white squash rolled slowly across the stage and bumped against his boot.
Total silence hung over the square for three long seconds.
Then, a child in the back row started laughing.
"Run," Carmen said. She grabbed Jesse’s sleeve.
They didn't hesitate. They bolted. They ran past the porta-potties, jumped over a row of recycling bins, and sprinted toward the dense treeline at the edge of the commune.
Jesse’s boots pounded against the frozen ground. His lungs burned. The cold air felt like glass in his throat. But he was laughing. He couldn't stop laughing. The terrifying weight of being twelve, of the dark winter, of the rules and the rotas, had entirely vanished.
They hit the treeline and dove into the thick brush. The neon yellow leaves crunched violently under their feet.
Behind them, the town square erupted into chaos. Sirens wailed. Voices screamed over megaphones.
"We did it!" Carmen gasped, leaning against a massive oak tree. She was covered in mud and sweat.
Jesse wiped his face. He grinned, his chest heaving.
The woods swallowed them whole, but the sound of Mister Barnes's boots snapping branches right behind them meant the game wasn't over yet.
“The woods swallowed them whole, but the sound of Mister Barnes's boots snapping branches right behind them meant the game wasn't over yet.”
