Descent

by Colleen Foley

Grey-green smoke wafted upwind as the crop burned.

“Smells like chamber pots in hell.” I chuckled, aimed, and fired one round at the biggest fruit still not burning. It died in a satisfying spray of tumor and tomato guts.

Seth gave me a What the shit? look and diverted me, pointing skyward. "Okay, Mr. Myopic, focus! What if it's airborne?”

I headed for the car.

“Call Jimmy from the road. We'll figure it out. C'mon, chop chop.”

“Nate, what're we doing?”

“We're gonna find whoever did this and make tomato soup out of them.”

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