The Last Scarecrow

31 | Cap Gun Explosives

Returning to the barn, Erin carefully stashed the cap gun explosives at the bottom of a tin cylinder filled with nuts and bolts. She'd also collected two dozen wooden struts from beneath the beds, a handful of coins, and a stack of old newspapers. In the farmhouse basement she'd found a woven washbasket and filled it with the one thing her father had forbidden her from using on her scarecrows: the Coldharbour High School American Football kit— a team that he coached on the weekends— complete with shoulder pads and helmets.

It had taken several trips to transport all the sports equipment, but she was excited to see it all piled up in the barn.

"Go Redkites," muttered Erin, inspecting one of the scarlet jerseys.

Turning to the angular frames of the new scarecrows, she considered each one in turn. Picking the sturdiest-looking monstrosity, she slung one of the shoulder pads over its head.

"You can be the Quarterback," she decided.

Erin scrunched up handfuls of newspaper and, after dousing them in motor oil that she'd previously used to lubricate their joints and hinges, packed the torso to bursting.

Taking the reels of cap gun explosives, she carefully threaded them through the oil-soaked newspaper, being sure to leave an end poking out at the top of the spine. Concealing the makeshift explosives, she slipped a large scarlet jersey over the top, silver numbers showing on the front and back. She did the same to the other scarecrows, stuffing the oil-soaked paper into their chests and wrapping with cap-gun explosives.

Next came their heads.

Initially, they were a mix of colourful balloons inflated inside sackcloth, demonic faces drawn on the front with sharpie pens. Erin untied the balloons and let them deflate, refilling each with gasoline that she syphoned from Pa's tractor. This done, she slipped them back into the sackcloth and placed a battered helmet on top.

She stood back to admire her latest creations.

They were scarecrows, for sure.

Redkites, indeed.

But they were also undercover resistance fighters.

Berserkers.

Born to fight. Born to burn. Born to die!

For a moment she felt sorry for them, but they were not alive. They had no words, no feelings, no personalities. They were just numbers on football jerseys, a dirty dozen.

11, the Kicker.

18, the Quarterback.

23, 25, 39, Defensive Backs.

43 and 47, Linebackers.

50, the Centre.

80, 82, 85, Wide Receivers.

And 89, the Tight End.

But how was she going to bring them to life and make them fall in love with The Mother of Scarecrows? If Jack and Tomas were to be believed, wickermen and mannequins and scarecrows were animated with human spirits.

Where was she going to get those from?

She prayed for a miracle, arranging the football jerseys over the last of the brand-new scarecrows. "I'd quite like to keep you all," she told them. "But, like you, I have no choice."

Sighing, Erin returned to her workbench and laid out the coins that she had collected in the farmhouse. There was a mishmash of currencies, but that hardly mattered. Most were the size of a penny, two were a little bigger.