"The Back Field":
I started that morning like any other, driving out toward the rows of grapevines in Arvin, where the land stretches in long, quiet lines under a pale sky. My job as a pruner kept me mostly alone, clipping back the overgrowth to ready the vines for next season. The work was repetitive, steady—the kind that quiets the mind if you let it. Mr. Ramirez, my boss, had assigned me the back section, far from the road, where the hum of engines faded into wind and birds. He trusted me there because I knew the land better than most and didn’t mind the solitude.
I thought I liked being alone. That day taught me otherwise.
The dirt path to the back field was rough, scattered with stones that rattled beneath my old truck’s tires. The morning light came in gold, still cool enough to breathe easy. I was halfway down the track when I noticed something strange—fresh tire tracks veering off into the vines. Not from our tractors; too narrow. Looked like a car had been out here, maybe late in the night. I paused, frowning at it, then shook my head. Kids, I figured. Maybe someone looking for a place to drink.
I parked and got to work. The air smelled of dry soil and sap. The rhythm of snipping branches soon took over—snip, step, toss, repeat. The only sounds were the crunch of my boots, the faint hum of bees, and a crow calling somewhere far off.
Around mid-morning, I heard it: a soft rustle deeper between the rows. I stopped mid-cut, holding my breath. Could’ve been a rabbit. Maybe a coyote nosing through. But something about it—too slow, too deliberate. Like someone trying to move quietly. I turned my head and called out, “Hello? Anyone there?”
Nothing. Just the vines whispering in the wind.
I shrugged it off and went back to work, though I couldn’t shake the feeling I wasn’t alone. Mr. Ramirez always warned us to watch for strangers—people cut through these fields sometimes, or worse, hid in them.
By noon, I was sweating through my shirt. I sat beneath a thick patch of vines for shade and pulled out my sandwich. My phone buzzed—Elena calling.
“Carlos, you okay out there?” Her voice was soft, warm, the kind that always made the world feel smaller, safer.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “Just quiet. Usual stuff.”
“You sound tense,” she said. “Make sure you drink water. And come home early, okay? I made your favorite stew.”
I smiled at that. “I’ll be there soon. Love you.”
“Love you too. Be safe.”
I hung up, chewing slowly, feeling her words fade into the stillness around me. Then the sound came again—closer this time. A rustle, a pause. I rose, scanning the green corridors of vines. Nothing. Just the still heat.
I moved to another row, deeper in. The vines were older there, thicker, curling around the wires like veins. That’s when I spotted something half-buried in the dirt—a glove. Not mine. Leather, worn, one side dark with stains. I picked it up, turning it in my hand. It smelled faintly metallic, sharp and sour. My stomach tightened, but I pocketed it anyway. Maybe one of the other workers had dropped it.
The afternoon stretched on, hours blurring together. Then came the sound that froze me where I stood—a low, broken moan from somewhere ahead.
Not an animal. Human.
I gripped my shears like a weapon. “Hello?” I called out. “You hurt?”
No answer. Just the vines swaying slightly in the breeze.
Against my better judgment, I followed the sound. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting someone—or something—to move behind me.
The rows opened into a small clearing where a maintenance road cut through. That’s when I saw it. At first, I thought it was a mannequin, maybe some sick prank. But as I stepped closer, the details came into focus—pale skin, limbs twisted, a body arranged with unsettling care. A woman. Naked. Headless.
Her neck was a clean cut—surgical. No blood around. Both thumbs missing, hands folded neatly on her stomach.
A noise escaped me, half gasp, half curse. My shears fell from my hand.
I fumbled for my phone. “911,” I whispered as it rang. “There’s a body—in the vineyard off Sebastian Road. She’s… she’s been murdered. Please, hurry.”
The operator’s voice was calm, mechanical. “Sir, stay on the line. Are you safe? Is anyone else there?”
“I—” I looked around. The vines shuddered somewhere behind me. Branches snapping. Someone moving. “I don’t know,” I whispered.
The sound of retreating footsteps echoed between the rows. Whoever it was hadn’t gone far. I backed away from the body, scanning the green tunnels, every rustle now a threat.
It felt like an eternity before I heard sirens in the distance. I called Mr. Ramirez next, my voice shaking. “Boss, you gotta come. There’s a dead woman here—she’s… mutilated.”
“Carlos, slow down. Are you sure? Stay where you are. I’ll call the police.”
I barely heard him. Something shifted in my peripheral vision—a figure darting between the vines. Tall. Dressed in dark clothes. Watching me. Then gone.
“He’s still here!” I yelled into the phone. “He’s still—”
I dropped the call and ran, heart pounding, lungs on fire. The vines whipped at my arms as I tore through them. Behind me came faint snaps, like someone giving chase. I didn’t look back. I just ran until I saw my truck and slammed the door, locking it fast.
As I sped down the dirt path, dust swirling in the mirror, I caught sight of another vehicle—half-hidden behind a wall of vines. A dark sedan. It pulled away slowly, almost casually, disappearing toward the hills.
The police came soon after. The place swarmed with flashing lights, yellow tape, detectives combing the rows. One of them, a tall woman with tired eyes, asked, “Did you see anyone? Hear anything unusual?”
I told her about the glove. The footsteps. The figure. “He was still there,” I said. “He watched me.”
She nodded grimly. “The head and thumbs—means he didn’t want her identified. This wasn’t random.”
That night, at home, I sat at the dinner table, staring at my untouched bowl of stew.
“What if he saw me?” I whispered to Elena. “What if he knows who I am?”
She squeezed my hand. “You did the right thing. The police will handle it.”
But a few days later, the glove I’d kept in my truck—gone. Vanished without a trace.
Then came the phone calls. No words, just breathing. Slow, deliberate.
I changed my number. I moved to Bakersfield. Quit the vineyards for good.
Years passed. They eventually identified her—Ada Beth Kaplan, sixty-four, from Canyon Country. Cancer survivor. Lived alone. No one had even reported her missing. But her killer? Never caught.
Sometimes, when I drive past those endless green fields, I still catch myself scanning the vines for movement.
And in those moments, I swear I feel it again—that quiet, deliberate rustle.
As if someone’s still out there, watching, waiting for another soul who works alone in the rows.
"The Ash Pit":
I’d been working those vines up on the ridge for months—pruning, tying, and shaping them as the cold hung heavy over the Mendocino hills. The land belonged to a small outfit with no name worth remembering, just a few dozen acres of grapes clinging to the slopes above the Navarro River. The rows stretched endlessly, their bare tendrils rattling in the wind like dry bones. My cabin sat at the edge of the property, a rough little place built from pine, with a stove that smoked too much and a bed that creaked with every breath of wind.
Most days passed in silence. I liked it that way. I’d wake before dawn, boil coffee, and work until my fingers numbed, the fog rolling off the valley like ghostly waves. Occasionally the owner would ride up to check progress, or a neighbor would stop by to trade eggs for wine, but mostly it was just me, the hills, and the cold air.
Then came that afternoon in early January of 1911—a date I’ll never forget.
The sky had that pale, washed-out look it gets before dusk, and the wind was still. I was halfway through pruning when I noticed a thin ribbon of smoke twisting up from the far end of the ridge, just beyond the upper rows. Too thin for a brush pile, too low for a chimney. My first thought was a vagrant’s campfire. But something about it looked wrong—too controlled, like someone didn’t want it noticed.
I set down my shears and followed the path uphill, the dirt soft under my boots. As I climbed, a strange odor met me—something acrid and foul, like burned hair and meat. I pressed my sleeve to my nose and kept going, heart beginning to pound.
When I reached the clearing, I stopped dead.
There, in a shallow pit, was a smoldering heap of ash and wood, smoke curling in lazy, gray tendrils. The air shimmered with heat, and flies already gathered in a black halo over it. I nudged at the pile with a stick, half afraid of what I’d find.
That’s when I saw the bones.
Long ones, brittle and cracked. And then something round, half-buried—a skull, blackened but unmistakable, the sockets hollow and staring.
I stumbled back, bile rising in my throat. The silence around me pressed close, broken only by the faint hiss of cooling embers. I don’t remember running down the hill, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, I was throwing a saddle over my horse and riding hard into Boonville.
I burst into Sheriff Donohoe’s office still covered in sweat and ash.
“Sheriff,” I gasped, “you need to come quick. There’s bones up on the ridge—human bones, I swear it.”
He looked up from his desk, unimpressed at first. “Slow down there. You sure they ain’t from a hog or a deer? Folks burn carcasses all the time.”
“Not this,” I said. “Skull’s too big. Too human. And the smell—God, the smell.”
That made him move. He grabbed his hat, called his deputy, and together we rode out, the hooves clattering on the frozen road. The sheriff stayed quiet most of the way, asking a question here and there.
“Anyone been up that way lately?”
“Just the neighbor, Pete Gianoli. Lives in the old cabin by the creek. Keeps to himself mostly.”
We reached the clearing before dark. The sheriff crouched near the ashes, turning pieces over with a gloved hand. “Jawbone,” he muttered, holding it up to the light. “Split ribs… looks like axe marks.”
I felt the chill spread through me.
They searched the surrounding brush and found a torn coat, half-buried under oak leaves. Inside the pocket were a few coins and a rusted clasp knife. I recognized it instantly—it belonged to Joe Cooper, a drifter who’d been missing a few weeks. Last anyone saw him, he was heading up toward the ridge with a jug of wine, promising to help Gianoli fix his fence.
The sheriff straightened up slowly. “Well, that’s our man, or what’s left of him.”
By nightfall, word had spread through the valley. Folks talked in low voices outside the saloon, speculating about what kind of monster could do such a thing.
That evening, the vineyard owner stopped by my cabin. He stood in the doorway holding a lantern, his face pale.
“Heard what you found,” he said. “You holding up?”
“Trying,” I said. “But it don’t feel right. Whoever did this—he’s still out there.”
He nodded grimly. “Lock your door tonight, son. If the killer’s local, he won’t take kindly to being found out.”
I did just that. As the wind rattled the shutters, I sat by the window with my rifle laid across my knees. Every sound set my nerves on edge—the creak of timbers, the distant cry of a coyote, the whisper of vines brushing the cabin walls.
The next day, Sheriff Donohoe came back with more men. They rode straight to Gianoli’s cabin. He met them at the door, calm as could be, but his eyes gave him away—shifty, dark, calculating.
“I burned some rabbits,” he told them when they found the jug inside. “Maybe some bones got mixed in. Ain’t no crime in that.”
The sheriff stared at him a long time. “You’re coming with us, Pete.”
As they led him away, he turned and looked straight at me. There was no anger on his face, just a cold, knowing stare that made my stomach turn.
The trial came in March. The courthouse was packed, the air thick with curiosity and fear. I testified about finding the bones, the smell, the skull. The prosecutor painted Gianoli as a violent man, but the defense argued the evidence was circumstantial. Without a full body, the jury couldn’t be sure.
In the end, Gianoli walked free.
Rumor had it he bragged about the killing afterward—said Cooper tried to cheat him, and things got “out of hand.” But no one could prove it, and no one dared press him further.
I went back to the vines, but the ridge never felt the same. The wind seemed colder there, the earth heavier. Sometimes, working alone, I’d catch movement out of the corner of my eye—someone watching from between the rows.
One night, I woke to the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps outside. Gravel crunching. Then silence.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, clutching my knife. Nothing answered but the wind.
Come morning, I found boot prints in the mud—leading straight from my door toward Gianoli’s cabin. I rode to town again, told the sheriff.
“He’s watching me,” I said. “I can feel it.”
The sheriff nodded. “You’re not the only one. He’s been making threats to witnesses. Stay armed.”
Weeks later, they arrested him again—said he’d threatened to kill two men down by the store. This time, he didn’t fight. The court sent him to the state hospital in Napa, where doctors called him insane.
They said he confessed there. Told one of the attendants he’d chopped Joe Cooper up after an argument and burned what he could.
Even with him locked away, the dread didn’t leave. The ridge seemed haunted by it. I’d walk through the rows and imagine the bones buried beneath, feeding the roots.
By summer, I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed what little I owned, left the cabin, and headed down the coast. But the image still follows me—the burned skull, the smell of ash and blood, the feeling of eyes watching from the dark.
Some things, once unearthed, never go quiet again.
"The Long Rows":
I started that morning like any other, walking the long rows of vines in the far corner of the Sonoma County vineyard. The air was cool, the fog just beginning to lift off the hills, leaving the dew glistening on the leaves like glass. I worked alone most days—just me, the shears, and the whisper of wind through the branches. Out here, the vines stretched forever, green walls swallowing sound and sight, so that the world beyond a few feet simply ceased to exist.
I had been pruning for months, sunrise to sunset, earning just enough to send home. My name didn’t matter much here—just another pair of hands from Mexico, chasing the steady rhythm of work, trying to hold on to a dream that kept getting smaller.
That morning, Ramon came late. He was one of us, strong, quiet, but lately... different. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn like he hadn’t slept in days. He muttered to himself as he sharpened his knife, the rasp of metal echoing too loud in the still air. I lifted my head from the vines and nodded. “Morning,” I called, trying to sound casual.
He just stared—expression blank, unreadable—and then walked off toward the far edge of the property where the supervisor, Ken, usually inspected the irrigation lines. I watched him go until the vines swallowed him whole.
By noon, the sun was relentless. The rows shimmered in the heat, and the hum of insects filled the silence. My hands burned from the shears, but I kept clipping. Work kept me steady. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a sharp pop—like a firecracker far away. I paused, listening. Another pop, closer this time.
I straightened up, scanning the rows. Nothing but vines shifting in the wind. I told myself it was just machinery, maybe a tractor backfiring. But something in my gut twisted.
A few minutes later, footsteps crunched through the dry soil behind me. It was José—his face pale, his shirt smeared with dirt and sweat.
“You heard that?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounded like… shots.”
He nodded, looking over his shoulder. “Ramon was arguing with Ken earlier—about pay again. Ken told him to calm down or leave. He didn’t take it well.”
We stood there, the vines rustling softly around us, the world suddenly too quiet. I could hear my own pulse in my ears.
We decided to check it out. The walk toward the irrigation lines felt endless, the rows seeming narrower with every step. The smell of earth grew heavier, wetter. The air felt wrong—thick, unmoving. Then we saw him.
Ken lay face down between two rows, blood soaking the soil beneath him. The red spread like spilled wine, dark and glistening under the sun.
José gasped and stumbled back. “Madre de Dios…”
I knelt, my hands trembling as I touched Ken’s neck. No pulse. His skin was already cold.
“He’s gone,” I whispered.
José’s eyes darted around wildly. “Who did this?”
Before I could answer, we heard more footsteps—fast, heavy, coming closer. We ducked behind a thick cluster of vines, holding our breath.
Ramon appeared, moving through the rows with purpose. There was a gun in his hand. His face was twisted, his jaw tight, eyes unfocused. He looked like a man already lost.
José gripped my arm, whispering, “That’s him.”
We crouched lower as Ramon stopped just yards away, scanning the vines like a hunter. His breathing was ragged, almost animal. Then, after a long moment, he kicked at the dirt and muttered something in Spanish I couldn’t catch—something about “all of them”—before stalking off toward the main road.
We waited until the sound of his boots faded, then ran. The vineyard was a maze, every turn the same, the air thick with panic. We reached the small tool shed near the boundary fence—a wooden structure that smelled of oil, dust, and rust. We slammed the door and braced it with a shovel.
Inside, it was stifling. Dust hung in the sunbeams cutting through the cracks in the wall. José sat on the floor, shaking. “What do we do?”
“We wait,” I said. “Someone must’ve heard the shots.”
But no sirens came. The only sounds were the ticking of the old clock on the shelf and our own breathing.
Then—a scrape outside.
We froze.
Another scrape, closer. Then the door handle began to turn.
“Who’s in there?” Ramon’s voice. Calm. Too calm. It carried a strange, dangerous edge.
We didn’t move.
“I know you’re in there,” he said, voice rising. “Come out. We need to talk.”
The handle rattled harder.
“Open the door!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the wood. The whole shed shook. José whimpered. I grabbed a rake, holding it tight, my palms slick with sweat.
Then—silence.
A heartbeat later, the door exploded inward with a gunshot. Wood splintered. José screamed. Another shot cracked the air, tearing through the boards.
Light spilled in through the hole—and then Ramon’s shadow.
He stepped inside, gun raised, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “You saw nothing,” he said.
José bolted for the side. Ramon fired. The sound tore through the shed like thunder. José dropped instantly, clutching his side, blood soaking through his shirt.
Something inside me broke. I swung the rake with everything I had, hitting Ramon’s arm. He cried out, dropping the gun. We both dove for it. He was faster, grabbing my throat and slamming me to the ground. His weight crushed me, his hands iron around my neck.
“You should’ve stayed out of it,” he hissed. His spit hit my cheek as I clawed at his face. My vision darkened, the edges closing in. I kicked wildly, one heel catching his jaw. He fell back just enough. I lunged, grabbed the gun, and aimed it at him.
“Stop!” I gasped.
He laughed—a hollow, broken sound. “You won’t shoot. You don’t have it in you.” He took a step closer, eyes burning.
“Why?” I asked, voice trembling. “Why Ken? Why us?”
He stopped, shoulders heaving. “Because everything’s gone. My wife left. My kids hate me. Ken wanted to fire me. I gave everything, and it was never enough.”
He looked more lost than angry now, a man eaten alive by despair.
I backed toward the door, keeping the gun steady. Then I turned and ran.
The vineyard swallowed me whole. The rows seemed endless, twisting, alive. Leaves clawed at my face as I sprinted. Behind me, Ramon’s footsteps pounded closer.
“You can’t hide!” he shouted, voice echoing through the vines.
I dove low, crawling under the tangled branches, my breath loud in my ears. Dirt filled my mouth. I could hear him just a few feet away, boots crunching the soil.
Time lost meaning. The sun slid lower, turning everything gold and sinister.
Then—sirens.
Faint at first, then louder.
He heard them too. His footsteps broke into a run, away this time.
I waited until I was sure he was gone before I staggered out of the rows. Police cars pulled up near the entrance, lights flashing red and blue across the fields. I stumbled toward them, waving weakly, the gun still trembling in my grip.
They shouted commands, took the weapon, surrounded me—but I pointed back toward the vines, gasping his name.
They caught Ramon that evening, miles away. He had killed his family before coming to work. Ken was just another in a long unraveling.
I told them everything. But the fear never left.
Now, years later, I still dream of those vines—the way they swayed and whispered as if they were alive. In the dark, I hear his voice calling through them, calm and steady. The vineyard is still there, stretching across those hills like nothing ever happened. But I know better.
Somewhere between the rows, something still lingers.
Madness. Guilt. The echo of footsteps that never really stopped.
"The Contractor":
I came to the Sacramento Valley in early 1971, chasing rumors of steady pay among the fruit fields and vineyards. I’d been drifting for years, crossing the border and working my way north through California’s farms, never staying long enough to grow roots. This place, though—it felt different from the start. The land was wide and endless, vines stretching like green corridors beneath the pale blue sky. You could walk half a mile down a row and feel like the last man alive.
My name is Luis. I took work under a labor contractor named Victor—a broad-shouldered man with a scar down his cheek and a quiet, heavy stare. He hired men like me: the wanderers, the ones nobody would come looking for if we disappeared.
At first, everything seemed normal. Victor picked us up in his battered truck at dawn and dropped us at the vineyards or peach orchards. We worked until our hands blistered, until the sun sank low and painted the hills in red light. He paid in cash, no questions asked, which suited men who carried more past than future.
But after a few weeks, things started to feel wrong.
The first to vanish was Pablo—a thin man from Guadalajara who’d shared my bunk. One morning, his bed was empty. His duffel was gone, but his jacket still hung on the post by the door. Pablo never went anywhere without that jacket.
“Where’s Pablo?” I asked Jorge, a stout man with a mustache, while we tied vines in the far rows. The air smelled of crushed leaves and dust.
Jorge didn’t look at me. “Probably moved on. Maybe found better pay.”
“Left his jacket,” I said.
He hesitated, knife poised midair. “Victor said he quit last night. Got in a fight. Don’t ask questions, Luis. Just keep working.”
But I couldn’t shake it. Pablo had talked about sending money home to his sister. He wouldn’t have left without telling me.
That night, the bunkhouse felt colder. I lay awake on my cot, listening to the wind slide through the vineyard like a whisper. Once, I thought I heard something outside—the scrape of a shovel against dirt—but when I held my breath to listen, it stopped.
A few days later, another man was gone. Manuel, quiet, kept to himself. He’d been complaining about back pain. Victor pulled him aside to talk that morning, and by nightfall, Manuel’s place by the fire was empty.
“Anyone seen Manuel?” I asked as we ate our beans from tin plates.
Raul, an older man with hollow eyes, looked up. “He went to town for medicine. Victor took him.”
“But Victor’s truck hasn’t moved,” I said.
Raul’s expression tightened. “Then maybe he walked. Don’t ask questions, amigo. You’ll just bring trouble.”
The others stayed silent, heads low. I knew then that everyone felt it too—the strange quiet that followed each disappearance, the way Victor’s eyes lingered too long.
Weeks passed. The crew kept shrinking. First Tomas. Then Eduardo. Then little Francisco. Each time, Victor had an excuse: “He got drunk and left,” or “He owed money, ran off.” But his words always came too easy, too smooth.
One afternoon, while pruning vines in a far corner of the property, Jorge motioned me over. His hands trembled.
“I found something,” he whispered. “Out by the orchards. Fresh dirt turned over. Like a grave.”
My stomach clenched. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Victor’s truck tracks were there too. I think he’s killing them.”
I stared at him. “Why? What for?”
Jorge’s voice dropped. “Money, maybe. Or something worse. He looks at us like we’re already dead.”
That night, Raul joined our whispers by the fire. “I’ve heard stories,” he murmured. “Men like him prey on drifters. They take what they want. No one asks.”
I started sleeping with a knife in my boot. Every creak of the shack set my heart pounding. I counted the hours until daylight.
Then one evening, as I washed at the pump, Victor came up behind me. “You look tired, Luis,” he said softly. “Back hurting?”
“A little,” I lied, my hand still in the cold water.
“I can take you to town for medicine,” he offered. “Or… maybe you’d like to earn extra tonight. Double pay.”
The same lie he told the others.
“I’ll pass,” I said, forcing a smile.
He stared at me for a long moment. “Suit yourself.” His hand brushed my shoulder before he walked away. It felt like a warning.
That night, I told Jorge and Raul. “He asked me to go with him. Like Manuel.”
Jorge’s face drained of color. “We leave tomorrow.”
“But where?” Raul said. “We’ve got no money saved.”
Before we could answer, footsteps crunched outside. The door creaked open. Victor stood there in the lamplight, his shadow long across the floor.
“What are you boys whispering about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Raul said quickly. “Just the work.”
Victor smiled—small, tight, wrong. “Good. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
The door shut. The silence after was unbearable. I didn’t sleep that night. I watched the moon crawl across the floorboards, one hand on the knife.
By morning, Jorge was gone.
His bunk empty. His tools missing. His boots by the door.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
Victor, loading the truck, said flatly, “He quit. Said he had family trouble.”
Raul wouldn’t look at me. I knew.
The truck rattled along the dirt roads, past endless rows of vines. Every mile felt like a countdown. When we stopped for lunch, I walked toward the peach orchards, pretending to stretch my legs.
That’s when I saw it—a patch of soil, freshly turned. Something sticking out. A shoe.
My throat tightened. I brushed away dirt. A hand emerged, gray and stiff. Jorge.
I staggered back, heart hammering. My vision blurred. The world tilted.
A truck engine roared behind me. Victor’s voice: “Luis! What are you doing out here?”
I turned. He was stepping out of the cab, shovel in hand.
“Just—just getting air,” I said.
He tilted his head. “See anything interesting?”
“No.”
He smiled faintly. “Come with me. I need help with something.”
I froze. “What is it?”
“A hole,” he said. “Needs filling.”
Every instinct screamed run, but the fields stretched wide and empty. He’d catch me before the road.
We walked in silence through the vines. The air felt heavy, the ground soft beneath my boots. My hand brushed the knife in my boot, fingers slick with sweat.
He stopped near the grave. “You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice was calm.
“Saw what?” I said, though my throat barely worked.
“The body,” he said. “You shouldn’t have gone poking around.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why kill them?”
He shrugged. “They argue. They steal. Nobody misses you men.”
He lifted the shovel. Sunlight flashed on the metal.
I lunged, drawing the knife, slashing his arm. He cursed, dropping the shovel. We hit the dirt, grappling. His hands locked around my throat, squeezing. Spots burst behind my eyes. I kicked, twisted, drove the knife into his side. He bellowed, blood spraying warm across my face.
I tore free and ran—through vines that clawed at my clothes, over irrigation ditches, toward the distant road. Behind me, Victor screamed my name.
A car appeared—a farmer’s truck. I waved frantically. “Help! Please! He’s trying to kill me!”
The driver stopped. I stumbled toward him. Behind me, Victor froze at the vineyard’s edge. His face was pale. Then he turned and ran back into the rows.
The police came later. They searched the orchards, the fields, the irrigation ditches. They found twenty-five bodies. Men like Pablo, Manuel, Jorge. Men who vanished into the soil, swallowed by the same earth they worked.
Victor was caught weeks later, hiding near Bakersfield. He confessed to everything. Said it was “just business.”
I left the valley soon after. But sometimes, in the stillness of dawn, I smell the vineyards again—the mix of dirt and grape and sweat. I see the shovel glint in the sunlight. And I wonder how many more lie buried under those quiet fields, waiting for the harvest that never came.