This time around the prompts for the group I landed in were:
Psychological horror, anyone? Will that count with the judge(s)?
Considering I'm terrified of flying and have to fly twice between now and the end of the year (for writing conferences, natch), kinda ironic, huh? Probably shouldn't have written a plane crash story, ya think?
But I did. Because apparently I can't resist a challenge. Not that I knew they were going to throw a plane scenario at me. Not to mention the 1,000 word limit was going to make me cut more than I wanted to. I finally clocked in at 980 words. So close.
And you know what? The story in my humble opinion turned out pretty good.
With all that in mind, here's what I came up with in the space of about two hours this late afternoon/early evening.
Come Fly With Me
I can’t believe I thought it was really nice of him to make the invitation. We were pretty rough on him in college. I’m not sure why he hung out with us, except that maybe he hadn’t had anyone else to hang out with. Being the picked-on little brother of our social circle was apparently preferable to not being part of anything at all. And of course, being college kids, we weren’t the most thoughtful bunch, so we were happy to oblige. Someone had to be low man on the totem pole.
I’d pretty much
forgotten him in the almost three years since we graduated. Then came the news
that he’d won the lottery. Well, almost. He had five of the six numbers. How
very Cameron – almost but not quite. Still, almost three hundred thousand
dollars is pretty sweet. It wasn’t the twenty-nine million that six matching
numbers would have paid, but it was three hundred grand more than ever fell
into my lap.
There was talk
he was going to use the money to fulfill his long-time dream of getting his
pilot’s license, but other than that he faded away again. Until, when out of the
blue, he emailed the old college gang with a proposal. He wanted to fly us all
to Las Vegas for a big blowout weekend. He had just enough lottery money left
to rent a private jet and spring for Sin City.
If he’d had that
sixth number he’d have been able to buy a private jet instead of renting one.
He was finally going
to get to be big man on campus. After some discussion, we decided it was the
least we could do for him, after being kinda shitty to him in school. I know
that sounds weird, but it felt like we’d made the transition from stupid kids
to mature adults and were going to make up for past transgressions.
So that’s how we
end up here on a gorgeous Friday evening, boarding a very snazzy plane. It looks
like something a celebrity would own. And Cameron actually looks smart in his
pilot’s uniform.
There’s no crew.
Cameron makes a big to-do about setting us up with a boatload of hors d’oeuvres
and drinks, then cheerfully waves as he disappears into the cockpit. I have to
admit it’s really impressive.
As the engines
fire up, I get a brief jolt of adrenaline as it occurs to me that we’re kind of
taking his word that he’s knows what he’s doing. But off we go, without a hitch.
Vegas, here we come! He really does know what he’s doing. We’re having a blast.
After a while,
the intercom crackles to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain
speaking. If you haven’t already, please check the fridge for additional drinks
and snacks.”
It’s a perfectly
normal mini-fridge. We all had them in college. I open it and with a sickening
jolt realize our lives have just gone to hell. There’s no drinks, no snacks.
Just a weird-looking package with wires curled around it.
I can’t move.
Eventually the others notice and wander over. All we can do is gawk at it. There’s
also what appears to be blood on it. Because springing a bomb on us isn’t
enough.
We try the cockpit
door. It’s locked up tight.
“Ladies and
gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. The door is reinforced, so don’t
bother trying to knock it in. Also, I have a gun. Please enjoy your flight.”
And then, to emphasize his point that now we’re at his mercy, the plane
suddenly goes into a nose dive that probably only lasts a few seconds before
leveling out, but feels like forever.
Then the bastard
turns on the seatbelt sign. Asshole.
The promised
wi-fi is non-existent. We’re cut off from the rest of the world and at the
mercy of someone who should never have wanted to see us again. How did we miss
that? I just sit there in shock. A couple people are crying, others pacing,
trying to come up with a plan.
After
punctuating our flight with a few more quick dives, Captain Cameron cheerfully
informs us that we’re approaching our destination, the neon lights of which we
can see if we look out the left side of the plane. It’s an appropriately eerie
sight, as the brightly lit city sits there like a crazy carnival in a sea of
black, just floating in the middle of nowhere. An oasis in the desert.
I recall that
however socially stunted Cameron might have been, he wasn’t stupid. His grades
were almost always A’s. He never agonized over exams and finals and papers like
the rest of us did.
Was he smart
enough to build a bomb? Shouldn’t it have gone off by now?
Cameron’s smug
voice comes over the intercom again. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you haven’t
already, please finish your drinks and return to your seats. We will be landing
soon.”
I consider the
possibility that he’s just screwing with us. Put us in fear for our lives. I
imagine him smiling and thanking us for flying Cameron Airlines as we, shaking
and crying, exit the plane, never to be the same. It’s one hell of a revenge
plan, assuming that’s how this plays out.
That’s when he
overshoots McCarron. So low over the airport, terrifyingly so.
Someone points
out the Bellagio’s dancing fountains rushing at us. Cameron’s going to make a
big splash, literally and figuratively. The bomb was just to set the mood.
I don’t know
what I was thinking, taking this trip. I was taken in, played. We all were, by
Cameron, of all people. Cameron the clown, Cameron the seemingly cheerful butt
of so many jokes during our carefree school days.
Cameron the pilot. Cameron, who is about to take out the Bellagio fountains and us with them.
Note: Eeep...while re-reading it here I found an editing error, a dropped word. Make that 981 words...and I went over it so many times :(
Update: Just discovered it's spelled McCarran, not McCarron. SMH.
Update: Just discovered it's spelled McCarran, not McCarron. SMH.
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