I got featured in the justwriteit anthology!
https://my.w.tt/0nbyrzqSFM

This story works on some of the true events of FedEx Flight 705, but most is fictitious.

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FLYING MEMPHIS TO SAN JOSE had about the same entertainment value as watching a schoolteacher scratch derivatives on a chalkboard. The only thing that was different was seeing Bob Small doing the pre-flight checklist when I hopped aboard. Good guy— nothing really unusual about him.

Thirty minutes after takeoff something shuffles in the back. Flight engineer Pip Greenwood suddenly runs into the cockpit.

"Look out!" He cries.

The stench of blood overcomes my nostrils, and when I turn I wish I did not. Pip's head is stained in scarlet, his mouth fading into an unnatural shade of violet. Bob stands over him, clicking a hammer against his palm, his mint-colored polo splashed with blood— Pip's blood.

As soon as he sees me, Bob lunges towards me, his eyes swollen with determination. My instincts tell me to let go of the yoke, but I didn't let it slip. If this madman wanted anything, it was to crash this plane.

The blows land hard, the onslaught seemingly never ending. The plane dips and so does my stomach. Saliva wells up in the back of my throat as I let go of the yoke and punch the guy. He falls and the plane banks a hard right. The co-pilot, Bernard Zimmer, springs like a hare and manages to clock Bob against his temples.

"Pip, are you okay?" Bernard asks, helping him up. His eyes widen with shock, unable to grasp what just happened.

Something nudges my arm.

My arms are raised when I spin around, and Bernard's back to level the plane. But I see it, a speargun beneath Bob's arm.

"Sit down! This is a real gun, I'll kill you," he spits.

Bob is knocked off balance. Pip has grabbed his leg and took the weapon. I take the cue and jump atop him, hoping the impact against the brass panel would end up knocking him out.

"Cap'n, I can't control it. The madman's screwed up my arm," Bernard says.

"Get him!" I clamor, lunging.

Bernard puts the plane into a vertical dive, and when I look out the window the ground is frighteningly close.

"Bernard, what the hell are you doing?"

"Stalling Small!" He shouts, rolling the plane once again, my balance shifted.

I make myself get up within Bernard's disorder and run into the cockpit to grab the headset.

"Center, center, emergency! I've been wounded, we've had an attempted takeover on board the airplane, give me a vector please!"

"Down to 5,000 feet."

"I got him controlled," Pip says.

When I land on the Memphis airstrip, a myriad of emergency vehicles greet us. Bob is contained.

Our injuries were the real scars. I've almost lost an ear. Bernard's skull is severely fractured. Pip damaged his temporal artery.

We could never fly again.

WORD COUNT OF STORY: 466