The gravity of the situation is 9.807 meters per second squared, just like everywhere else on Earth. That’s what I tell myself to stay calm. Gravity is a constant. I am a man of science, of physics, I use numbers to explain nature, but I can’t explain anything happening on this airplane.
A floating corpse in a scarlet-stained wedding dress made her way toward the back of the plane, clawing at the air, causing an invisible hand to cave in people’s chests. Their chest cavities crumpled, as if exposed to the vacuum of space, quite literally breaking their hearts. Now bleeding from the eyes and mouth, her victims appear sad for her.
The Bride, as I call her, has killed almost everyone. There’s no way of knowing if anyone is still alive. I’ve locked myself in the cockpit attempting to regain control of the airplane after the pilots were slaughtered in their seats.
The backstory I have created is that the dead bride’s body was being transported in the plane’s cargo hold. I can only assume tragedy struck on her big day, and she is now exacting her revenge on the poor souls of this plane.
I escaped as the airplane entered a nosedive, the centrifugal force of inertia canceled gravity and the pools of blood on the floor began to rain upward. I slid towards the front of the plane on the blood-slicked floor, momentarily delaying my dance with death.
I slammed into the cockpit. I pushed the door open, seeing it was being blocked by the bodies of the pilots, who were already weeping members of The Bride’s wedding party. Powered by fear, I dragged their limp bodies out the door, squished into the pilot’s seat, and locked the cockpit behind me.
I hear a voice, but can’t find the source. I wipe the blood off the controls and find the radio. The tower asks what happened, but an explanation is pointless.
The pilots are dead and I need help landing this plane. Explain it to me like I’m five.
The voice from the tower gives me expert instruction. Focusing on the task, following the cold logic of the mechanics allows me a bizarre moment of calm.
The gravity of the situation is 9.807 meters per second squared, just like everywhere else on Earth.
I actually think I can do this.
The cockpit door is ripped off its hinges.
All I have to do is land the plane.
The Bride hooks a boney finger into the side of my mouth.
I pull back on the controls.
All I have to do is listen to the voice on the radio and land the plane.
The Bride turns my head to meet the eyeless gaze of her bloody skull.
I now know what I have to do.
I turn off the radio.
I stop pulling on the controls.
I stop fighting against gravity and instead let it save us all from this evil.
I tell my bride, “Til death do us part.”
