Tales from the Flashback: by Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Just … don’t move, she told herself, understanding that if she moved even a little the thing would apprehend her at once, then virtually held her breath as the velociraptor—yes, velociraptor, just like in Jurassic Park, only this one was blue-black and had a mohawk of oil slick-colored feathers—cocked its head at the screen. At last it lowered its head and she dropped to the carpeted floor, but waited before drawing so much as a breath.

The cabin was quiet except for the drone of the engines and the wet, gristly eating sound—even the TVs had fallen back into static—and she inhaled slowly. Then, just as slowly, she began crawling forward, toward the closed curtain of business class ... and the cockpit.

Scarcely a moment had passed before she heard labored breathing and saw another raptor lying on its side between the seats, foaming at the mouth, dying. Something went drip … drip … drip nearby.

It was headless man, his body draped over a seat like so much dirty laundry, his blood falling in droplets to the floor. And there, in the middle of the stained carpet, lay a gun. A revolver. A big one.

An air marshal, she thought, and reached for the weapon. Yes, there. And there. Gold rings and bullet noses, just visible inside the chamber. But how many? She found the latch and popped open the gun—she was fortunate to know something about revolvers, having spent much of her youth target shooting with her father—and was disappointed to find only two bullets left. It would have to do. Then she crept forward along the carpet … until creeping forward more would expose her to the raptors, and peeked around the edge of a seat slowly.