Robert worked through the evening, stopping only when the light faded and he couldn’t see the fittings clearly anymore. He tested the system with plain water first—made sure the valves opened, the nozzles triggered on motion, and the pressure didn’t snap any of the older pipes. Everything still held.
Then came the mixture.
He filled the tank with a blend of pond water, diluted ammonia, and Marianne’s old compost concentrate. The smell hit him like a slap. It wasn’t toxic—but it clung. It settled into fabric, into hair, under fingernails.
Perfect. He rerouted the system to target just the outer edge of the vineyard—the area where tourists often strayed.
The first to arrive was a jogger in sleek athletic wear and wireless earbuds. She moved confidently, ignoring the faint sign tucked into the hedgerow. As she crossed the mulch line, the sensor clicked.
The mist hit her legs, her shoes, her lower back. She stopped cold. Gagged. Her face twisted in disgust, and she pulled her shirt away from her body. Robert, hidden behind the porch curtain, saw her stagger back to the trail, gagging once before sprinting away.
The second was a man in cargo shorts with a DSLR around his neck. He got a full dose across the chest and arms. He cursed loudly, flailing with his hat, trying to bat the mist away. He stomped back to the road, muttering something about “weird chemical traps.”