A new age woman packed her new age bag. She drove to the airport in her new age Jag. Standing at the counter in her new age way, she had her doctors note for the new age day. It was NOT just a cat, but the comfort animal it is. An agent behind the counter said, “Well, gee whiz.” and she proceeded through the gate to security where they would see what it is. “What it is,” said the guard “is the newfangled way.” His assistant then opinioned “It’s the new age day.” Off to the boarding gate she got seated right quick, right by the air vents to make allergy sufferers sick. She scratched her lovely kitty, behind his soft fluffy ear. If she knew how Evil Cat worked, she would faint from fear.

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Evil Cat poked up through the opening in the carrying bag he was in. He swiveled his neck  around, taking in what he could see and smell. He caught a whiff of fear and trepidation in the metal tube he was in; this was good. An air steward walked down the aisle and checked to make sure the comfort cat was tied in his bag. Soon everyone would learn—the hard way—that keeping the cat in the bag was never an easy trick. Evil Cat understood to some degree the concept of these strange metal beast, and he knew he could cause some grief if he ever got to the person in control.

Evil Cat was greatly surprised at the noise, the shaking and acceleration, and more incredible, that the thing went up and so fast. His instincts told him that he was in the air. This could be good.

The beast stopped shaking so violently, the scent of fear diminished a little, but not completely; the humans were afraid of this beast, and yet they still got inside. So he watched, he waited, his mouth watered for havoc. Swinging open from one end of the tube, a man stepped through the door. He walked down the aisle and joked with a human in uniform. This man did not smell of fear, he was obviously the one who rode the beast, but another was up in front from where the man came. Evil Cat slithered from the sack he was tied in. Whoever thought a cat couldn’t squeeze through a small cat sized hole was a fool. With all the stealth he could muster he made his way forward. At the place where the man had come out, he found a cubby-hole with a view of the door to hide in.

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He waited and watched. It wasn’t long. When the door swung open again, his timing was perfect. Evil Cat entered the cockpit unseen, unheard, he hid behind something small but large enough to cover a cat.

The man sat and tied himself into a chair. What luck. With his victim in bonds, he leapt. Evil Cats preternatural strength and rage made quick work of the pilot. The pilot was blinded and shredded, his cheeks torn, one of them falling away to reveal his teeth; blood sprayed from his face. The co-pilot released himself and tried to fight the roiling ball of fur that was destroying his friend; he fought valiantly but loudly. Back in the passenger compartment, an off duty air marshal slumbered, but was awoken by the screams of pain and fear. This was a deadhead flight back home after a long world wide trek.

Questions raced through the marshals mind as he ran to the cockpit. Did he reload with fragmenting bullets when he left the range? Who was attacking the pilots? Why oh why did he take an extra antihistamine with a glass of beer? Was it that stupid cat the lady brought on board? He pulled open the door. His head felt like it was full of cotton candy. There was blood and torn flesh covering the pilot; the co-pilot was screaming and ramming something on the pilots face. The marshal drew his weapon and fired three shots. No, he hadn’t remembered to reload with fragmenting ammunition. The slugs went through the men. Both the pilot and co-pilot were now dead.

After the Transportation Boards investigation was complete, there were more questions than answers. There was very little left of the plane, passengers and crew, or the house and family the commuter jet crashed into. Foul play was suspected, but nobody could have guessed just how foul.   

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About The Author

Paul Block lives in a small town about an hour and a half west of Chicago. In 2010, he was a transport driver (gasoline hauler), but lost his job due to chronic glaucoma. By the end of 2011, he admitted he could no longer drive a car. In 2012 he even had to give up his bicycle.

Fortunately, he can still read and see a computer screen, but life became a living nightmare of home imprisonment. As his world shrank, he decided to try writing. Now his world is as vast as time and space itself in books and story telling.

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