Presents...

I was the first to wake from the awful crash, and I would like to say for the record that the accident wasn’t my fault. My first sight was that of a very pointed branch mere inches from my neck. Gingerly, I pushed the branch to one side and checked on the rest of the passengers. Some were groaning - a good sign - while others sagged in their seats unconscious: well, I hoped it was that. Imperial Airways takes a dim view of their employees killing their customers.

More and more started to come round with the help of Mr. Herbert Nails, a doctor who seemed to have suffered only a splinter in his little finger, and Fr. Edward Case, a priest who, having suffered no injuries whatsoever, appeared very much to have God on his side. Dr. Nails worked fast, going through the group, checking for injuries, amazed that out of the 10 people left on the plane no one had suffered anything at all serious.

Yes, that right, I said 10 passengers. I know Imperial Airways always carries more but they had disappeared at the same time as the back of the plane. It was nearly 9, but Mr. John West, a pilchard tinner (don’t ask), had managed to grab onto the back of a seat as the plane fell apart around him and made it down with the bulk of the airframe, suffering only a slight cut. A very lucky man indeed.

Eventually the rest of the passengers woke up. One man, Mr. John Rhys-Lloyd, found a curious cube under one of the seats. Black, covered with ornate copper markings, it certainly did not belong to the plane. As he picked it up he began to feel dizzy. I put that down to delayed shock, but when others touched it and experienced the same reaction I began to think otherwise. A young lady, Tamarind Walton, had luckily brought her Lacrosse stick with her, and she carried the odd cube around with that. Mr. Rhys-Lloyd also found a silver dagger. There doesn't seem much else I can say about that, either. Obviously, some of the passengers' luggage had spilled during the crash, but I was seriously beginning to wonder what type of people I had been carrying on the plane.

Then I saw Brian, our Air Steward, stumbling his way through the woods towards us. I felt joy at seeing him still alive! The last time I saw him was as he was mincing down the aisle of the plane dishing out food and a forced smile, but there he was, somehow surviving being sucked out of the plane and falling thousands of feet. People around me started to shout and waved him over, but all Brian did was growl and continue his stumbling walk towards us. I saw that he was covered in blood and his face looked badly cut, and I called Dr. Nails over to see if he could help. The next thing I knew Brian was trying to attack the good doctor. I heard someone, I think it was Daniel Rutherstone, gasp the word ‘zombie’. Then I heard someone shout the word ‘run’. I was torn as to what to do - surely Brian was in dire need of medical help? But the air steward seemed strange: maybe it was the way he shambled, maybe it was the way he smelt, or maybe it was the way that half of his face was missing and yet he was still moving about that triggered alarm bells in my mind. Either way, I started to believe Mark Spencer when he said that the Steward was already dead.

We started to run away, leading the creature (I don’t think I can refer to it as Brian anymore) around and about the plane, hitting it with everything had - axes, branches, even gunfire (no, I don’t know where the guns came from). Mr. Spencer hit upon the idea of pumping out what little fuel remained in the torn wing and covering the vile creature, setting it alight. After one of two close shaves in which Mr. Spencer nearly got mauled in his brave endeavor, our shuffling carcass went up in a ball of flame. Ha, so much for the living dead! But then the walking corpse continued to move - it was still alive (of sorts). We ran.

The woods continued on for some distance before we emerged into a clearing. There was a house, little more than a hut, with a very quiet generator puffing next to the doorway. At last, sanctuary! As we made for the building a second shuffling figure emerged from the shadows, looking decayed and worm-eaten. We ran for the door. Then there was a cackle, a spark, and a smell of burnt flesh, and some of the group, Dot Kirkpatrick and Brandon Lancer included, got blasted off their feet - there was a metal grid in front of the door and it was wired to the generator! As we tried to drag our friends to safety and away from the conniving cadavers we heard a voice in the building shout: "Thompson, go away! Leave me alone!". Dr. Nails, along with Bartholomew Crowstone, pleaded with the man inside the house to open the doors, and for a while it was tricky whether he would. But eventually common sense won out (once the man inside was convinced that we were very much  alive) and the doors were opened. The group rushed in, leaping the grid to safety.

The man hurled the doors shut once we were inside and threw the lock across. He then demanded to know who we were, where we had come from. We answered, becoming more and more aware that this man, Edward Shannon, seemed a little ... unstable, especially to be having dangerous work tools close to hand. Various members of the group took charge of these, Spencer and Nails looking most comfortable with the shovel and pick axe. Shannon, as it turned out, was an archaeologist who was working here with a colleague investigating five ancient pillars that were scattered around the woods near by. He proceeded to blurt out that Thompson had suffered an ‘accident’ while they were out in the field and, with little else he could do, was forced to bury the poor chap nearby. Unfortunately, he had refused to stay dead and buried and had been harassing Shannon for the last few days.

I hope you noticed I used quote marks on the word ‘accident’.

Looking at the disheveled and disturbed archaeologist seemed to galvanize people into action. Maybe it was because looking at him was a glimpse of their own future if they were stranded at this strange place for too long. Maybe it was the way he had a facial tick and a hatchet far too near to hand for comfort. Either way, people wanted out.

A small group decided to go back to the plane to drain the rest of the fuel, thinking to use it in the generator. Another brave band decided to have at look at the stones. The remainder stayed at the house to keep an eye on things and Shannon. Rather them than me, I thought at the time, so I decided my catlike skills could be put to better use in the fuel gathering. I joined West, Nails and Case (sounds like a good name for a firm of solicitors) and we charged out of the house and through the woods, getting only mildly lost once. To our dismay we found both of the devilish dead encircling the smashed airframe. Our small party snapped into well-oiled action; West drew off one stumbling cadaver with harsh words and a branch while Case goaded the other with an axe. Nails and myself went for the plane, and I kept a look out while the good doctor pumped the last drops of fuel from the wing. Once done, we charged back to the house at speed.