Kid Ballistic: Attack of the Pack-O-Lanterns!

Whenever there was fire, Sid Mason was bitten with the craving for tobacco. It could be his sense of drama, demanding a stylish end to some torrid action-packed affair, just like the movies. Maybe he was some Pavlonian poster child, conditioned to light up when his eyes spied flame, or when his nostrils had the scent of smoke. You know how you need to urinate worse when you hear running water?

Kid Ballistic examined this phenomenon, as a pumpkin patch burned to ash not twenty meters in front of him. Orange light flashed and flickered onto him, the tree line, and a shoddy, rotting forest cabin nearby. The black smoke rose high towards an even blacker autumn sky, fed by burning, prickly vines and roasting winter squashes. He sat, in-costume, on the mud of a long rural driveway that led to this derelict domicile and its adjoining grove of gourds. His posterior and feet were planted on the ground and he rested his arms around his knees.

It was cold everywhere, except the inferno and the neatly wrapped, burning cigarillo that hung from Sid’s chapped lips. A chilling breeze swept away the occasional, exhausted sighs of smoke the poured out of the young gun’s mouth. Sweat and ash and pumpkin guts dirtied his skin, and Sid scratched at his dark hair, removing a string of orange fruit and its seeds, tossing it aside onto the grass. More seeds like it, within the pyre of pumpkins, popped and exploded from the heat.

Kid Ballistic flopped backwards into the mud, and emptied his lungs of air, smoke, and everything else there was. He felt his nerves beginning to unwind.

“$&@# Jack-o’-Lanterns.”

THIRTY-THREE HOURS EARLIER!

“I $&@#ing love these things!”

Kid Ballistic, incognito by his usual jeans and camo jacket, held the glowing, hollowed out vegetable in front of him, as his seven-year-old neighbor, Tommy Larson, looked on, nervously. The lantern smiled back at the teenager in earnest as Sid inspected the decoration. The child eyed the teenager with a mix of awe and terror. He wasn’t used to profanity.

“Don’t drop it!”

Sid made a face at the child. “Kid, relax.” His eyes set back on the pumpkin. “So you - what - grow them just to hollow them out?” Sid asked, reluctantly handing the lantern back to his neighbor, more careful with his grip.

“Well we don’t grow them. We got ours from this lady outside of town.” The kid set down his pumpkin, and stretched his arms out as wide as he could. “She has this biiiiiig pumpkin patch; some of them are bigger than me!” He was smiling again, upward at the teenager.

Sid looked down at the lantern. “And you just carve some face on it, and put a candle in it?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, everyone in the family gets one! Then we put newspaper on the table, and we do it together. It makes a mess!”

Sidney’s quick eyes returned to the little orange facsimile. He had never really seen a Jack-o’-Lantern before, not for real. In his younger, globetrotting days, he and his father didn’t celebrate holidays, American or otherwise. But something about these pumpkins captivated Sid. The whimsy and macabre in their carved expressions, the way they lit their hollow insides, the sidewalks, and people’s windows with his favorite color: orange. He even liked the way the pumpkins smelled, for some indiscernible reason.

He tried to imagine he and his father carving these vegetables on some kitchen table, on some chilly night in the American Autumn. At times like this he would try to picture his mother, making up voices and words for her in his head. It was difficult enough to see his father enjoying something as “pointless” as carving a vegetable in some comfortable house. It was impossible to know what “mom” looked like, or what she would possibly say to either of them.

The child absorbed the awkward silence, peering up at his taller neighbor. “This year we got two each, so one for me, and then I carved one for mom!”

“So it’s like a gift?”

“Yeah! Christmas is for presents, but everyone likes a Jack-o-Lantern!”

Sid’s eyes set on the kid, who beamed up at him.

“Everyone huh? Where can I find this lady and her pumpkins?”

THE NEXT DAY

Two hours from town, nestled in the Michigan countryside, in what was, by all appearances, a trackless forest, Sid found the very patch his the Larson boy had spoken of. It was a dismal looking place, despite the palisade of orange, red, maroon, and yellow-leafed trees surrounding the cabin. The structure itself was made of gray and brown timber. It couldn’t have more than one bedroom. Sid had the scent of mold as he approached. His boots stuck in the mud of the driveway, or what passed for one. The cabin’s one rickety window was dark, and its chimney was clear of any smoke.

Almost in protest to the dreary house, fenced in by an equally ratty fence, was a large, almost glowing grove of pumpkins. His neighbor was no liar: some of these orange monstrosities rivaled the motorcycle Sid rode in on. Green vines and their leaves wrapped and wreathed about the floor of the patch.

Sid strolled right past the garden gate, into the mass of vegetation, his boots crunching against a few vines. The place brimmed at Sid. He felt as if he was walking through a truly unique place, and as if every pumpkin was some bauble or charm that could be seen, but never touched.

So the teenager knelt and touched anyway, placing his hand on a plump orange lantern-to-be. It was - strangely - warm against his fingers. Odd. Are they supposed to be warm? He was no botanist, but Sid had trouble calling into mind any vegetable that warmed itself.

“You’re trespassing.”

A voice as ragged and aged as the nearby cabin crept into Sid’s ears from behind him. His nerves jumped, and he leapt to his feet, turning to face the source of the accusation. Years of drills and danger begged his hands to go for the .32 in his jacket. Sid had been getting better at resisting that urge.

His eyes took in yet another gray sight among a field of green and orange: an old, slender crone of a woman, with ash-colored hair down to her waist, wearing black jeans and a gray shirt, tucked into those jeans, all neatly tied with a black leather belt. Her face was sunken and wrinkled, weathered by years that Sid didn’t dare estimate.

“I’m a customer. How much for these things?” Sid began digging in his jacket pocket for his wad of cash. The lady held up a hand in a smooth, almost slow-motion gesture.

“I don’t sell to children.”

Sid glared at the old relic of a woman. “I'm not a child, grandma. But a little boy told me you did.”

“Little boys are fond of little lies.” From behind her gray hair, dark brown eyes made contact with his. Sid felt queasy, all the sudden. The old orbs in the lady’s head looked black, from his vantage point, not brown.

“Listen, I’m here, I’ve got cash, lady. What’s the problem?”

“I’m not interested in your money.”

“Then what else?”

The crone folded her arms, and approached Sid, her feet refusing to make a sound as they traversed the pumpkin patch. She reached a slender, bony hand out to touch Sid’s black hair.

Sidney wasn’t having it. He recoiled, jerking his head away, but not before her quick, flowing fingers snatched a couple strands from his head. The brief episode put Sid off balance, and the young gun fell back onto his rear. His teeth clenched up at the old lady; his throat growled.

“What’s the big idea, you old bag?”

The woman ignored him, and peered at her strange prize, pinched between two fingers. Sid swallowed, taking in the sight. His feeling of nausea only mounted further.

Then the woman spoke, “This will do. Go ahead, child. Take as many pumpkins as you like.”

Sid frowned up at her, before scrambling to his feet. Her use of the world child made him bristle. “You just wanted some hair…?”

Wordlessly, the mysterious pumpkin-keeper turned and took her leave, strolling silently amidst the grove. Sid didn’t have time to ask again. What kind of creep was this woman? What could should she possibly want with his hair?

Before anything too specific could form in his mind’s eye, Sidney shuddered, and tried to focus. He now had carte blanche to plunder this patch of its orange wonders. That’s what he came for, and he was not going to waste the opportunity, strange as it was. He began perusing the garden, his eyes instinctively turning to the derelict cabin every few moments. He felt like he was being watched. But backwaters made people strange. Sid learned this well in his childhood. That was enough to dismiss this encounter and continue shopping.

EIGHT HOURS LATER

Rock ‘n’ roll blared throughout Sid’s basement hideout, and the smell of pumpkin innards wafted and mixed with cigarette smoke. He had been at the holiday carving for the better part of six hours now. He had managed to pack thirteen pumpkins on the back of his motorcycle, and he was on number six now. Because even during arts & crafts time, Kid Ballistic was a fan of overkill. Why start small? Besides, they weren’t all for him.

With his Gerber utility knife, he had done pretty well for his first time. The first was the easiest, though perhaps not the simplest: Sid carved his very own symbol, the Jolly Bomber. It was easy because Sid had plenty of practice carving the icon into wood, concrete, stone, car doors, etc.

Then he carved a more traditional face onto his second pumpkin, a goofy, Halloween-camp smile, with blocky teeth and happy eyes. Sid planned to find some ear muffs for this one. Because it was going to be Ollie’s.

Next, Sid got more advanced. The third vegetable sported a wide, wide grin, with a little nose, whiskers, and cat’s eyes. He almost screwed those up, but ended up with a decent likeness of Cait Sith!

The fourth was meant for Olevia. This one was more traditional, too, though Sid managed to carve a ring of flames around the face. He felt the deep, juvenile urge to give it cleavage, somehow, but he resisted. If he wasn’t going to carve “LONGWANG” into the pumpkin's skin, he wanted to keep it clean altogether. Sidney figured he could put a green light stick into this one, instead of a candle.

The fifth resembled Maverick, with a wicked looking grin, speed lines going back across the pumpkin from the face, and its eyes rendered as goggles.

For hours, Sid worked non-stop on his new favorite hobby, his hands soaked with pumpkin juice, his table even more so. He sloppily swiped the guts of each fresh project into the trashcan nearby. Fatigue was beginning to set in at the edges of his focus, but he tried for just one more.

Sid had saved some vines from the grove, and had reattached them to the stalk of this particular pumpkin. Eight in total, matching the eight eyes he had punched out in the pumpkin’s flesh with his knife. He tried his best to get Recluse’s “face” right, and he was met with success: a couple mandibles completed the effort.

Sid set his knife on the table, and leaned back in his folding chair. He was sweaty, crashing from a caffeine kick, and messy with pumpkin residue. The pumpkin stared back at him with a facsimile of Recluse’s eight eyes. It was probably his best work yet.

“HA! I’m a natural!" Sid chuckled to himself, stretching, and then standing from his resting position. Dizziness overcame him for a moment, and the teenager shook it off, steadying himself on the table with one hand.

Maybe that was enough for one night.

Lazily, with a great, wide yawn, the pumpkined-out superhero shuffled towards his cot. Nevermind the mess, never mind the loud music. It was time for bed

The teenager flopped his physique onto the fabric of the cot, burying his face in the pillow. That face wore a little, satisfied smile. He felt his brain slowing down to welcome the coming slumber. His eyes closed, his ears began to fuzz out the music that resounded across the concrete. His mind still wandered a scattered path, but he could feel the unconsciousness coming on.

He still had half the team left. He had a giant orange monstrosity just for Stegoboy. Sid had saved the orangest pumpkin for Taffi. And he was going to carve the angriest face with lightning bolt eyes for Blue. His mind poured over the plans for the rest of his lanterns-to-be, before slipping into quietude.

THREE HOURS LATER

An alien and skin-bristling HISS woke Sidney from his sleep. The overwhelming, weighty sense of being watched kept Sid from moving, though his nerves begged him to react. He only opened his eyes, revealing an empty room. Though the mess of carved pumpkins he left on his table was conspicuously absent; only the uncarved gourds remained.

There was another eye-widening HISS from the darkness, overpowering his lullaby tunes.

In futility, Sid’s eyes darted around the dark, trying to pierce the veil and decipher the source of his goosebumps. Something was in his room, and it sounded hostile. Quickly Sid’s mind reviewed the location of every failsafe, every hidden weapon, every not-so-hidden weapon, and every escape route.

His thoughts were interrupted by an orange glow, suddenly blooming from behind his furnace. Then another, from his stairwell. A third began emanating from below his cot.

HISS!

A prickly green vine wrapped painfully around Sid’s throat, and yanked him up off the cot. Sid grunted and choked as he was hung from the ceiling, and his hands grasped frantically, tearing at the vine. He dangled and twitched, unable fill his lungs with air. His ability to move and to think was swiftly beginning to ebb away. His eyes registered a glow from above, and Sid struggled to turn his head up and behold.

His Recluse lantern stared back at him from the ceiling, clutching, upside down to the ceiling with the mess of vines Sid had given it for legs. One of those vines pulled ever tighter on his throat. Sidney gagged and twisted; the Spider-lantern only watched with its unchanging, arachnid-like face, an eerie light glowing from within the pumpkin.

Sid reached up with both hands, and clutched at the fatal vine. Utilizing every bit of his waning upper body strength, he climbed up the vine like a rope towards the Spider-Lantern. The creature’s other “legs” began to attack Sid, trying to restrain his arms and legs. But Sid was able to swing back on the spider’s leg, and on the return, lifted his legs and collided with the pumpkin’s “face”, kicking it with both legs. They both fell from the ceiling, and Sid crashed onto his cot with half his body, sending a sharp pain across his back. Kid Ballistic gasped for precious air.

The Spider-Lantern hissed and flailed on the ground. The noise was ear-splitting, and was soon joined by others from around the room. The glow from beneath the cot grew brighter, and another jolt of pain resounded across Sid’s back, like teeth. The teenager growled in pain, lurching forward, and twisting. Another lantern, with whiskers and a large, toothy, and apparently, hungry grin was flung from his back. Sid clutched behind him, holding himself up with a single arm as he looked on in disbelief. The Cheshire-Lantern had blood on its pumpkin teeth, and it leapt forward for another chomp.

Sid’s reflexes kicked into gear, and he tumbled to the side, out of the warpath of the monster. He got to his feet, but was soon thrown back onto his stomach by a freight train from behind. He lifted himself up, trying to catch his breath, and knew: he needed a weapon, and right quick.

Coughing, and ignoring the wound at his back, Sidney leapt to his feet and rushed for the table, where lay his Gerber utility knife. Just as his hand grasped the handle, he felt the rough and prickly texture of a vine slip around his ankle, and yank with impossible force. Sid held onto the table, unwilling to fall on his face again. The whole table screeched on the floor as it, too, was dragged towards the Spider-Lantern. Sid twisted and cut at the vine clutching his heel.

Before he could think, another massive blow struck against his shoulder, with only a brief glimpse of orange to signal the source’s passing. Sid hit the cold ground again, and nearly dropped his knife. That had to be the Nitro-Lantern, his gift to Maverick. Somehow, these pumpkins had come to life overnight, and took on the powers of their face-claims!

Kid Ballistic scrambled for the stairs. If he could get outside, he could maneuver. Maybe even call back-up. He needed to get control of the situation now!

But the stairs were hit with a cold snap, suddenly taken by frost and a sheet of ice on each step. Sid was knocked aside, against the wall, by the speeding Nitro-Lantern, and he saw the malevolent Ice-Lantern, spitting ice onto the stairs from its blocky-toothed grin.

“Ollie you sonofabitch! OW!” The Cheshire lantern had crept up on him and bit down on his leg, drawing blood yet again. He could see the Spider-Lantern approaching, too, with its eerie gait of eight vines propelling it forward, likely for a bite of its own.

Sid’s jaw tightened in rage, and he stabbed furiously at Cait Sith’s former gift, plunging his knife several times into the pumpkin. A resounding, feline yelp escaped from the empty recesses of the evil lantern as Sid made new holes in its skin. He felt the jaws of the monster slacken, and the Cheshire-Lantern fell to the concrete, its glow faded, and its head nearly torn open.

Sid lunged forward and threw his knife at the Spider-Lantern, where it plunged hilt deep between its left grouping of eyes. The creature began flailing again, attempting to tear the knife free, but only carving its face more.

Kid Ballistic’s hands itched for a gun. Any gun! He dived over the recoiling Spider-Lantern and rolled back towards his cot. His wall of weapons stood before him. Unfortunately, none of these were loaded. However, his vest lay slack over his workbench’s chair, and there was a fully loaded shotgun attached.

Sid’s ears heard a whisp of air coming at him from behind, and he turned to take another hit from the Nitro-Lantern. But this time, the young gun’s quick hands grasped at the speedy, flying vegetable and held fast. It still hurt, but the evil pumpkin was caught.

He could tell he didn’t have the leverage to simply crush the Nitro-Lantern in his arms, so Sidney stumbled over to his workbench, struggling to keep the jerking pumpkin from escaping. With a finger, he switched on his bench grinder, and shoved the monster against one of the spinning wheels. At 3600 RPM, the silicon-carbide wheel tore into the Maverick-wannabe, and the creature hissed against Sid’s belly in a sickening death cry while bits of pumpkin began flying upward towards the ceiling and into Sidney’s face.

Sid pushed until the pumpkin had been torn in half, gritting his teeth and roaring through them in a sound of barbaric triumph! He let the remains fall to the floor, hands reaching for his trusty shotgun, turning to pump and fire just in time to blast the wounded Spider-Lantern apart, spraying more orange gibs around the basement.

Holding his boomstick, Kid Ballistic’s eyes scanned the room for the rest of the Progeny Pumpkins. He did a count in his head. Three down…

That familiar, nerve-wracking hiss came again, from behind his furnace. Sid aimed down iron sights at the source of the sound. A floating, grinning pumpkin rose from behind the machinery. This was the Wang-Lantern. Sid squeezed at the trigger of the shotgun, pumped, and squeezed again.

The incendiary pellets bounced right off the Wang-Lantern, spraying about like sparks across his room.

“No, no, no!” Sid growled. A sudden chill, that quickly became a burning sensation hit his right arm, and KB recoiled, turning, perhaps unwisely to face the Ice-Lantern, spewing cold at him. Reflex took over, and Sid threw his last remaining shells of incendiary buckshot at the monster.

This time, they worked, blowing holes in the pumpkin and setting it on fire. It shrieked and collapsed on itself, a pile of burning, melting, and ripped Halloween vegetable.

Now it was just him and the Wang-Lantern. The flying pumpkin spit its own blast at Sid, this time it was green fire, and heat washed over him in a sweat-inducing wave. Kid Ballistic barely backpedaled in time to escape the actual flame. “GAH!”

The stairs were frozen, his ammo was useless, and help was likely minutes away, when death-by-pumpkin was but seconds away.

Perhaps sooner, for the Lash-o-Lantern flew towards Sidney with deadly purpose, and nearly collided with the young gun if not for a quick, and lucky roll to the side. The Jack-O-Lantern slammed into his gun rack, crushing and twisting its frame and contents with a resounding CRASH!

This was bad. This pumpkin was going to tear him apart if Sid didn’t think of something.

The glowing, levitating monster turned its eerie gaze towards Sid yet again, pulling itself free of the crater in his wall. A gun was lodged in its teeth, and the Wang-Lantern snapped the rifle between its orange jaws.

Sid’s mouth went agape, sad for the lost weapon, and amazed at the creature’s strength.

KB snatched his belt from the ground; it had been flung, like many of his belongings, when the Wang-Lantern impacted his wall. The belt was still adorned with several grenades.

It was risky. Hell, it was downright suicidal. But Sid, with his lightning-quick fingers, yanked each pin, and tossed the belt at the Lash-wannabe, who eagerly chomped onto the multi-bomb.

Sid twisted on his feet and bolted away, diving over and behind his furnace, crashing painfully against the wall, scraping and bruising much of his body during the maneuver.

Then Kid Ballistic was deafened, his bones and teeth rattling in his body, his head nearly split open by the sound and force of the explosion he had set into motion. Debris and shrapnel whizzed past and ricocheted about as Sid clutched at his ears and closed shut his eyes, lying on his side behind the furnace.

Did it work? Sid opened his eyes. The ceiling hadn’t collapsed on top of him. Sid let go of his ears, and despite the screeching coming from within, he heard nothing. The young gun swallowed and climbed the furnace, ignoring the scrapes, the bruises and bite marks of the battle prior, to sneak a peek at his domicile.

He had done a number alright; on the pumpkin, and the entire basement. Dust clouded the Boom Cave, but the eerie glow of the Progeny Pumpkins had been extinguished, for good, it seemed. The ceiling looked ready to cave, and bits of wood, brick, metal, weapons, computers, and just about everything unshielded from the blast had been scattered about by the explosion. Mixed with this myriad of materials were bits of orange pumpkin meat.

Sid crept, carefully, out from behind his furnace, wincing a little at the damage his body had incurred, reminding him with every step that he was injured. The coast - incredibly - was clear. He walked across the piles of rubble, surveying the damage. Every bit of orange in the room drew his eye in a brief twitch of panic, but each time, he was reassured that it was only a remnant of the monsters.

Sid’s rapid-fire brain didn’t know where to begin. How did these pumpkins come to life? Why? How was he going to explain this to his landlord? Police? The team? What would his neighbor think about this story? He was going to have to set up a new Boom Cave, entirely from scratch. He was going to have to wipe his computers, if any had survived, and move whatever ordinance he could before the authorities confiscated it.

Sid’s eyes were drawn to a snapped apart vinyl record lying in the dust. He let out a breath of air: a growl, a groan, and a whimper all at once: he was going to have to get a new record collection, too.

Then a particularly large glimpse of orange caught his eye, and he froze. Suddenly the headcount didn’t add up. There was one pumpkin left, one he had forgotten: his own. Still as stone, Sid watched for movement, fought past the ringing in his ears to listen for that ungodly hissing sound. But there was none.

The teenager crept to the bit of orange, and saw the remains of his pumpkin, a mutilated Jolly Bomber grinning back up at him, silent and bearing no signs of life. Why hadn’t it animated, like the others? What if it had? Would it have been able to use guns? What if it were a bomb instead?

Sid’s boot landed squarely on the face of his pumpkin, and he crushed the vegetable into the rubble, twisting his knee to grind it apart. He wasn’t taking any chances.

The orange fruit, mottled with dust and bits of glass and rock, clung to his boot. Sid exhaled again, and looked through the destruction. There was so much to do, but one thing had to take priority.

Revenge.

THREE HOURS LATER

The flames of his retribution burned hot, twenty meters away as Sidney Mason lay in the mud during the calming aftermath of battle.

When he arrived to take the old crone to task, weapons in hand, silver bullets chambered, Cait Sith’s charm resting in his vest, he found nothing. The hag had left with no traces, leaving only her cabin and the pumpkin patch to bear Sid’s wrath. That was enough for him.

Sidney wanted to fall asleep in the cool mud, next to his giant bonfire. But he had to make sure every last pumpkin was ash. Every few minutes he would sit up, and if a pumpkin hadn’t caught fire? He’d blast it with a few shots from his .45, the shots roaring over the cacophony of the flames, into that trackless forest.

Sid’s mind returned to that picture-perfect image, of a family never-to-be, his mother, his father, and himself, carving pumpkins on some wooden kitchen table covered with newspaper. It felt absurd before, but now Sid imagined the pumpkins coming to life, and attacking him and his family. He knew his father wouldn’t have it. Smiling up at the stars, Sid pictured Marcus Mason Jr. gunning down hordes of killer pumpkins with an automatic rifle. He saw himself by his father’s side, firing twin .45s. He didn’t imagine his mother would do anything different. Sid couldn’t picture much at all about the woman, but his gut said she’d find a way to fight too. Maybe with a rolling pin?

The image tickled at Sid’s diaphragm, and he chuckled up at the sky. He pictured then his teammates taking on their counterparts. The scene was equally amusing, though both held an undertone of sadness. He’d probably never see that picturesque family reunited, carving pumpkins for Halloween. And he had just blown up his basement to kill his teammates’ gifts. His friends’ gifts.

Sid wasn’t sure if he’d ever see a Jack-O-Lantern the same way again. Hell, his Jolly Bomber looked more like one with every glance down at his belt buckle. That was going to take some doing to wash out of his brain.

But whole affair, absurd as it had been, was sitting pretty well in Sid’s gut. Yes, he needed a new Boom Cave. Yes, he was now going to have to resist shooting old ladies on sight. But Sid realized, through all the dust, pain, and pumpkin guts, that he had a reason to carve those pumpkins, beyond the novelty. He had people in his life; he had a family, of sorts. It was weird. It was trouble. But even when they weren’t around, Sid knew they had his back. So if that meant tangling with killer pumpkins every once in awhile, so be it.

Sid could picture more than one Happy Halloween in his future, where once there had been no such thing.