The Last Scarecrow

37 | Reunion

"You'll let me go?" she scoffed. "I'll do as I please."

Erin inched towards them.

"Stop right there, missy! That's quite close enough."

The surviving mannequins were making their way through the detritus, forming up around Twelve and Erin.

Loren shuffled back. "I will have a human body. I'll find a way." The wickerwoman flexed her trigger finger, pushing the muzzle harder into Marshall's temple. "I won't be trapped inside this body of damp leaves and mouldy grass and itchy nettles forever."

Erin smiled.

Loren noticed.

"What it is?" she spat. "What are you smirking at?"

"There aren't any bullets left."

"What?"

"I used them on The Patchwork Woman, on Number Eight," she said. "And I nearly got her too."

"Lies," Loren said, raising the gun into the air and pressing the trigger.

Click, click, click.

"Also," Erin added, gazing over the wickerwoman's shoulder.

"What are you—?"

But it was too late.

Tomas grabbed her, pulling the pistol away.

"No!" Loren screamed, struggling to break free.

Marshall dropped to the ground, crawling away.

With a grunt, Tomas ripped the pistol from Loren's grip as Jack appeared holding the top half of The Patchwork Woman's abominable skin. Thrusting it over Loren's head, he pulled the patchwork flesh past her shoulders like a strait jacket.

Inside, the wickerwoman let out a blood-curling scream.

"You wanted to wear human skin," Jack said. "Well, it's all yours."

Jack and Tomas lifted her then— kicking and screaming— and dumped her into the heart of the dying bonfire.

Erin jumped up, but felt Twelve's rubber gloved hand pull her back.

"Don't look," the scarecrow said, but Erin's eyes never faltered.

Loren, encased in The Patchwork Woman's revolting skin, thrashed around in the fire. Her tortured screams rang through the night for a time, before they faded into moans and whimpers, and finally silence.

Her body became still and lifeless, engulfed in fire and flames and death. Loren turned to ash in minutes. The shape of her body recognisable for a while until the wind rose, pulling her apart, scattering grey flakes in every direction.

Cords of dark light twisted over the bonfire, ascending towards the stars.

The mannequins moved in on Jack and Tomas, weapons pointed at their chests.

"Put the pistol down," Erin said.

Tomas obliged, slinging it aside, raising his hands above his head. The mannequins secured the wickermen, taking them to the stables.

Erin scooped Marshall off the cobbles and sat him against the farmhouse next to Twelve. His face looked rubbed and scratched by the itchy cloth. His body raw from the boiling water in the roll-top bath. Erin instinctively put out a hand and touched the side of his face, inspecting his injuries.

Marshall's skin goose-bumped at her cool touch.

Erin blushed. "Are you okay?" she said.

"Thanks to you," he replied.