Page 21 of The Dire Legacy

My heart races until the blood in my ears deafens even the thunderous snores from the guard.

An itchy feeling creeps into my bicep of my wounded limb. No. Not yet. It signals the beginning of the reknitting.

Here I go. I might get lucky and this whole scheme kills me.

Win. Win.

Staying low, I spring from my seat and bee line for the pilot. He’s leaning back in his chair with a tablet holding his gaze.

The broken bones lodge in the pulsing artery of his neck and he lets out a gurgled cry. Blood surges down my arm and sprays across my chest as I rip my makeshift dagger backwards and stab again.

They’re coming. A muffled yell erupts from one of the guards and I catch a glimpse of him working his way out of his seatbelt.

Freeing myself from the pilot in another wave of hot liquid squirting over me, I throw myself on the joystick of the plane, wedging myself between the twitching legs of the dying man and the yoke.

The nose drops quickly making my stomach roll. Thumping and cursing from the aisle tells me that they lost their footing and are struggling to make it to me.

A high pitched squeal comes from the control panel.

It’s like the whack-a-mole game I saw on old game shows. Every light I see, I try and flip it off.

Turning dials and pressing buttons, I can hear grinding through the wings that makes us shudder.

Oh, old man lost enough. He slumps over me and congealing blood drips down his chin onto my face.

It’s creepy how his eyes stay open. Like a giant doll, the shine in them fades until they’re muted.

G forces press me painfully against the hard bars near the floor.

I have a feeling I’m setting myself up for a lot more hurt.

The goons in the back are yelling obscenities, but I can’t discern the words.

“Make sure your tray tables are in their upright and locked position.” I could have totally rocked this job in the old world.

The pedals move on their own, pushing against my back.

Interestingly, my arm is now fully healed. Just in time for us to crash and burn.

Fingers wrap around the shoulder of the dead pilot, pulling him off the yoke.

“What have you done?” It’s the oldest guy. I wonder if he was younger or older than the pilot? His helmet still covers his face so it’s hard to tell. He grabs the controls and heaves them backwards.

The change of direction makes my insides want to rip through my belly.

A weird sound echoes through the fuselage. Tapping that turns to thumping then crashing.

With a violent rending, metal screams as it’s torn and crushed. Frantic pressure rips through me into an explosion of agony. Darkness covers my vision as I’m tossed around. I can feel myself being stretched and impaled.

Black bursts swim in front of my eyes.

A cushion of warmth covers me and I fall into an abyss.

Chapter 9

Michael

Sam is persistent. As the weeks pass, my pack is forced to consider moving north out of the city. Increased patrols from the prison have taken out six members just this week.

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