This is a short story prompt I had to do for English Class. Hope you like!
(P.s. those of you who are reading The Truth, I'm thinking of a new chapter. Writers block.)


1. Crashing Down Around Our Feet

    "What do you do for a hobby?" A person once asked me.

    "Oh," I replied smiling, "I kill zombies." The fellow had blinked and leaned closer, lowering his voice.

    "Zombies don't exist ma'am..."

    "Have you ever seen one?"

    "Well, no."

    I remember slapping his shoulder. "You're welcome."

    The pilot jerks on the levers as a new wave of red light washes over the cockpit. He slams his finger against a crimson red button. "We're losing altitude!" He yells at the copilot.

    The copilot brings his sleeve across his forehead, nervously wiping away beads of sweat. "I know, sir. We'll be on the ground within two minutes if we don't do something!" 

    The pilot curtly nods. "Aye. We need to tell the passengers-," The plane starts to violently shake, cutting the pilot short. With an overpowering lurch, the copilot smacks his head against the dashboard, knocking him unconscious. He slumps back in his chair with blood trickling down from his hair line. 

    "Sam!" The pilot yells; but upon second thought renders the waste of his energy useless. He stands up and presses a button on the intercom and picks up the phone. "Passengers, please buckle your seat belts and turn off all electrical devices. Remain calm and stay seated. Thank you."


    An alarm sounds behind the pilot as the nose of the plane dips downward. Lunging forward, he wraps his sweaty palms around the steering mechanism and yanks it up. "Come on!" He yells to himself. A loud electrical buzz sends the steering mechanism flying off the receiver and into the pilots hands. He stumbles back and drops the useless piece of metal. 

    "Passengers ," the pilot says as calmly as he can, now leaning against the cockpits door frame, "We're going down."

    My father was the pilot on that faithful night, flying the American Express Flight No. 00274 from Chicago to San Diego. I had only been eight at the time, but I was in the back of the plane playing a game with one of the stewardesses. My mother died a few years earlier from an "animal" attack. So I usually went on flights with Dad unless I was with my grandparents. 

    Once the flight went down, it crash landed in a field. Half of the passengers were wiped out by the impact, but those still alive struggled to free themselves from this metal deathtrap. I had been lucky enough to be protected by the stewardess, Melanie, who had been playing with me previously. 

    My father limped to the back of the plane where I had remained, and pulled me out into the crisp night air. He cradled me in his arms close to his chest as we made our way through the debris. Shadows enclosed around us. People who weren't really people anymore. These particular people were alive in ways they shouldn't be. 

    They stay hidden, eclipsed by the darkness. Their brains function without memory, full intellectual use, or self control. These people- these monsters- crave nothing more than human flesh. What we currently refer to as zombies, or "walkers", stalk the night in our reality. Don't believe me? Too bad; I might just need a  Friday night off...

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