Luke let go of his machete, and his mouth dropped in horror. Two wide-body fuel jets were headed towards them, working in the wheat fields. The jets swept across the land, pouring the toxic shredder gas over their heads. Luke inhaled the green smoke, and it tasted like puke. The golden wheat absorbed the poison, changing the colour from yellow to grey.
The gas burned the inside of his throat and nose. He'd coughed uncontrollably, his head spun like a pinwheel. Collapsed onto the dirt like a brick of dominoes flicked by a finger.
Taking the sleeve of his tunic, he covered his face as he'd crawled on the dirt. His limbs were weak, and his eyes were bloodshot. He could barely move from excruciating pain.
Luke coughed up blood. Blisters covered his sore, red skin. He passed out.
Steve and Maxwell were fifty feet away from the wheat field. He stood by the wooden shed. Lucky that the airplanes did not pour shedder gas over where he stood. The guard dug into the pocket of his black pants to pull out his cellphone.
"I'm calling the paramedics." The guard announced.
Ten minutes later, ten ambulance vans arrived at the reformed camp. Twenty paramedics wearing hazmat suits rushed out of the vans to search for people in the fields.
Steve's eyes widened. Two paramedics carried Luke on a stretcher. Luke's eyes were closed, and white foamed trickled down from his bluish, swollen lips. Strands of his hair fell from his head and onto the dirt.
Steve yelped, "Luke!"
The paramedic shook his head. "He's dead. He has been poisoned by shredder gas. You can't touch his body because he is contaminated."