Luke dropped his machete, his jaw slack in horror as the low twin-engine roar rattled the air. Two wide-body fuel jets swept across the wheat fields, laying down a thick, heavy curtain of green shredder gas. Luke inhaled the mist and gagged—it tasted like vomit and battery acid.
Golden four-foot stalks drank the poison, shrivelling into a single foot of rotting grey stubble.
The chemical fire scorched his throat and nasal passages. A violent fit of coughing wracked his lungs, his head spinning out of control until his knees gave out, sending him crashing onto the dirt like a row of dominoes flicked by a finger.
Dragging the coarse sleeve of his tunic over his face, he clawed his way through the dust. His limbs cried out, failing, as his bloodshot vision blurred. White-hot pain seared through his body, heavy and paralyzing.
Luke hacked up blood, splattering red drops across the withered leaves fallen from the stalks. Weeping blisters erupted across his sore, red skin before the darkness swept him under.
Fifty feet clear of the spray line, Steve and Maxwell stood frozen near the wooden tool shed. Fortunate to be outside the spray zone, they watched in horror as the was field full of bodies seizing on the ground.
The guard near them unclipped a heavy walkie-talkie from his duty belt and jammed down the call button, his voice cracking into the mic.
"Dispatch, this is Post Four! Code Red! Air strike on the south field—chemical agent! We need HAZMAT and mass-casualty units at baseline 45 now! Movement in the field is down!"
Ten minutes later, the wail of sirens cut through the camp. Heavy-duty transport vans and specialized HAZMAT units tore through the perimeter gates. Responders suited in thick yellow rubber and respirator masks spilled out, unloading orange plastic stretchers into the contaminated dust.
Steve's eyes widened. Two paramedics carried Luke on a stretcher. Luke's eyes were closed, and white foam trickled down from his bluish, swollen lips. Strands of his hair fell from his head and onto the dirt.
"Luke!" Steve ran towards them, his voice cracking.
The lead paramedic shoved Steve back with a heavy rubber-gloved arm, his voice muffled behind a plastic visor. "Back off! He's dead. Gas liquefied his lungs."
Steve reached towards Luke, wanting to brush the hair from his forehead. "But... how do you know he's—"
"I said stay back!" the paramedic shouted, locking eyes with Steve through the glass mask. "He's hot! Hot zone contamination! You touch him, you die next."
They hauled the stretcher into the back of the transport and slammed the doors shut. Steve stood frozen, his heart throbbing in his chest.