The Dead

Chapter One: The Crash

The plane had been in the air for hours, cutting through the sky with the smooth precision of modern engineering. Michael Clark glanced out the window, his thoughts drifting to the anniversary getaway he and his wife, Samantha, had planned for months. They were on their way to a secluded island resort, far from the chaos of their busy lives. The stress of work, the pressure of deadlines, all forgotten as they soared above the clouds, heading toward a blissful escape.

But then, without warning, the plane jolted violently. The calm hum of the engines sputtered, and a deep mechanical groan rattled the entire cabin. Michael's heart skipped a beat. He gripped the armrest, eyes darting toward the flight attendants. Their faces, normally so composed, were now filled with alarm.

"What was that?" Samantha asked, her voice laced with unease. Her fingers curled tightly around his hand.

"I don't know," Michael muttered, his throat dry. The seatbelt sign flashed on, and the lights overhead flickered before plunging them into near darkness. A shrill scream came from somewhere behind them.

The plane tilted sharply, sending passengers crashing against the sides of their seats, and the roar of the engines sputtered out entirely. Oxygen masks fell from the ceiling with a whoosh, and chaos erupted. Some passengers scrambled for masks; others, frozen with fear, did nothing but stare out the windows in shock. The seat belt straps were too tight, the air too thin.

"We're going down!" The captain's voice crackled over the intercom, sharp with urgency, but there was no comfort in his tone—just cold, unavoidable truth.

Michael turned to Samantha, his eyes wide with panic. "Stay calm. We're gonna be okay. We just—"

Before he could finish, the plane tilted again, this time sending him and Samantha tumbling into the aisle. The world outside the window twisted, a blur of clouds and sky, and with a deafening crash, the aircraft tore through the atmosphere and slammed into the ocean.

When Michael opened his eyes again, he was gasping for breath, saltwater burning his lungs. His body felt heavy, the weight of the water pulling him down. His vision swam in and out of focus, but through the fog, he saw the distant beach, a strip of sand that seemed impossibly far away. Desperation kicked in, and he kicked his legs, pushing himself toward shore.

"Samantha!" he gasped, coughing up water as he swam. His hands scraped against jagged metal debris, but he ignored the pain. The crash had thrown them from their seats, flung them into the ocean—but he had to find her. He had to make sure she was still alive.

Then, just ahead of him, he saw her. Samantha was swimming toward him, her face pale but determined. She was breathing heavily, clutching a piece of wreckage. When she saw him, her eyes filled with relief, and she swam harder, pulling herself onto the sand beside him.

"I'm here, I'm here," she whispered, her voice shaky as she collapsed beside him, coughing up seawater.

They lay there, gasping for air, the remnants of the plane scattered across the beach behind them, smoke still rising from the wreckage. The ocean roared in the distance, but for now, all that mattered was that they had survived. But as they sat up, Michael couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone.

The other survivors were beginning to stir.

A tall man with a thick beard and a leather jacket was pulling himself from the surf, drenched and exhausted. He looked around with wide, frantic eyes before spotting a group of children near the wreckage. He moved toward them, his voice firm but kind as he tried to calm them down.

Another man, his shirt torn and his suit jacket hanging off one shoulder, staggered to his feet. Blood ran down his forehead, and his eyes were wild, scanning the beach as though expecting something to emerge from the trees.

A middle-aged woman, her arm bent at an awkward angle, limped toward the shore, her face pale with shock. She gritted her teeth, fighting the pain as she tried to collect her bearings.

As Michael and Samantha helped each other to stand, they noticed more survivors emerging from the wreckage—some were hurt, others seemed dazed, but all were alive. There was a woman in her early twenties, clinging to a younger man—her boyfriend, perhaps—her hair matted with blood. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, with glasses, his hands trembling as he staggered toward the group. A pair of older adults, a married couple, had miraculously found each other amid the chaos, both looking shell-shocked but intact.

Michael glanced at Samantha, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. "We need to make sure everyone's okay," he said quietly.

She nodded, scanning the group. "We have to stay together. And we need to find shelter, water, and food. We have no idea where we are."

As the group gathered near the wreckage, the tall man with the beard—whose name, as it turned out, was Ben—stepped forward. "We need to move. This place doesn't feel right," he said, his voice low but urgent.

"What do you mean?" asked the business-suited man, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"I don't know. But I've been through enough of these kinds of situations to know that we don't just sit around. We need to get away from here," Ben said, his gaze flicking nervously toward the dense jungle on the edge of the beach.

Samantha moved closer to Michael. "We don't even know where we are. What if we just wait here for help?"

"I think Ben's right," Michael said, his voice steady but uneasy. "We need to find a safe place to regroup, figure out our next move."

Before they could discuss further, a low growl echoed from the jungle—deep, menacing, and almost too far to be real. It was followed by the distinct sound of something large moving through the underbrush.

Everyone froze. For a moment, the world was still, the only sound the crashing of waves against the shore. And then, the growl came again, louder this time—closer. Michael's stomach clenched.

"What the hell was that?" one of the younger men, the one with the bloody shirt, whispered, his voice trembling.

"I don't know, but it's not good," Ben said, his eyes darting around. "That's not any animal I've ever heard before."

Another sound followed—scraping, crashing through the jungle, like something big was moving fast, but not quietly. Whatever it was, it was coming for them. And it wasn't alone.

"We need to move," Michael said urgently. "Now. Get everyone together."

Samantha grabbed his hand, her face pale with worry. The other survivors nodded in agreement, fear rising in their eyes.

Ben led the way, and the group followed quickly, leaving the wreckage of the plane behind. Michael could hear more growls, low and guttural, echoing through the trees. The sound was unmistakable—something was stalking them, something they had yet to understand.

The survivors moved inland, toward the dense jungle, their hearts pounding. But every step they took seemed to draw them closer to the unknown danger that lurked just beyond the tree line.

Behind them, the growls grew louder.

And in the distance, hidden among the trees, something else moved. Something that watched. Something that waited.