Skittering in the Underbelly

It's dark in the deep hold that you find yourself nestled in. The cold metal of the plane is pressed up against you, your belly to its in a way that that feels almost too intimate to describe. Though you cannot see outside, the pressure you can feel all around you lets you know that you are in the air. The domain of the gods, pierced by mortals. Perhaps that is why you exist: as a reckoning for mankind’s sins. The hairs on your body stand up almost as though responding to this pressure. Though you have become so attuned to the air, every time you ascend fills you with joy. There is a sense of thrill that comes from sneaking aboard: darting in and up the ramp right underneath the exhausted gazes of the men stacking the luggage underneath the floorboards of the plane’s cabin, but nothing compares to the rush you get when the wheels finally depart and the ground becomes just a patchwork quilt of green, brown, and gray.

The suitcases shift and scratch against one another as the plane hits a turbulent patch of air, and you quickly shift out of the way of the tower in danger of falling. Your talons leave behind small trenches in the metal underbelly, but you don’t pay much attention to it as you watch a particularly hideous green suitcase tumble off the top and spill open onto the floor. Clothing flies throughout the underbelly like confetti in a parade. Curious, you scratch an article out of the air. It is a blue, clearly meticulously ironed, button up shirt. Most likely, it belongs to one of the dozen businessmen you watched get on this plan from your hiding hole in the hold. Chortling to yourself, you begin to rip out the seams, leaving only the top stitch on each side loosely bound so that the slightest bit of pressure would cause the shirt to fall into pieces. A good prank, you think to yourself as you drop the shirt against the metal floor. You wonder what the man would say if he saw his shirt reduced to useless scraps of fabric. Perhaps he would laugh, or cry, or get so angry he would throw something. The fantasy quickly drains from your head. It won’t happen. You have a job to do, after all, and in all your years in existence, you have yet to fail. The shirt will remain in a crumpled heap, a private joke between you and the metal floor of the plane in the sky that the owner will never know about.

You begin to weave your way through the forest of luggage, cocking your head to the side to attune your ears to the sounds above. The wheels of the drink cart squeak as the flight attendants make their way through the narrow aisle. There is a general hum of voices, and though you could pick out any particular conversation if you chose, you doubt that any of the words would truly catch your fancy. Humans tend to be quite boring creatures when you get right down to it. Instead, your attention is directed at a very particular spot in the ceiling of the underbelly. The buzzing that emanates from within is a siren’s call. Spotting what appears to be a relatively stable stack of suitcases, you scramble up the side and onto the top one. Inches from the ceiling of the underbelly, the buzzing has grown ever louder. Ravenous, destructive hunger overtakes you, and using your claws, you tear a hole in the metal ceiling.

Wires of varying lengths, colors, and thicknesses crisscross one another in this liminal space. Casually, you reach in and pluck one out. It’s rather thick, with black and green plastic wound tightly around it to protect from the electric current flowing through it. Though plastic isn’t the greatest taste, you know the treat inside is worth the slight discomfort.

Biting into the wire is a moment of pure euphoria. Sparks dance along your teeth and shock through your body like a throbbing heart. The cord is now completely severed. Throwing those down, you pick up another one and happily munch away. Faintly, you can hear the pilot’s growing concerns as, piece by piece, their plane begins to fail. Having satiated your hunger, you burrow into the sparking hole you have made and begin to crawl through. Panic seems to be spreading through the main cabin now, and there are frequent footsteps back and forth as the flight attendants attempt to keep the plane calm. As you continue to worm your way through the hole and up into the cabin above, you notice the break and fuel lines and, just for fun, slice through those.

Satisfied that the liquid is spilling out at an unstoppable rate, you break through to the cabin level. An anxious leg bounces in front of you, and you scurry towards the front. The din in the cabin is unbearable. People are screaming, children wailing, and the ding of the warning lights is increasing in volume at a steady rate. You’re so lost in the noise that you fail to notice the child’s foot squished in the gap underneath the seat. You shrink back instinctually, and watch as a round face enters into the small gap. Their eyes are so wide that their irises don’t touch the edge of their eyelids. Normally you would tease a child like this, but judging from the steady pressure changes you can feel, your gorging feast in the belly is bringing this tragedy to its inevitable end much sooner than usual. You hiss and bare your fangs. Immediately the child begins crying, and is quickly picked up by thick arms that you guess are from an adult of some kind. Paying no further thought to the child, you continue on your way, leaving the child screaming about the monster under their chair behind you.

At last, you exit the forest of seats and legs and scamper over to the thick curtain hiding the metal doors to the cockpit. The fabric is coarse against your palms as you rend deep gouges through it. The cabin is a flurry of action, so no one pays you any mind as you continue to tear at the fabric. After a particularly hard tug, it falls down, and reveals the cockpit door. Though the metal of this door is not as delightful as that of the belly, you quickly teethe your way through it and into the pilot’s domain. They are pressing every button they can in the hopes of gaining some control over the plummeting plane, all the while screaming pleads into the dead radio. You mosey my way over and begin to scramble up the back of the copilot’s chair. You can see the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as my claws grate against the metal fasteners. Reaching the headrest, you leap onto the dashboard and glance out the window. The plane is below the clouds now, and though it is nearly impossible to tell from this high up where exactly you are, the pilots seem to be steering (as best they can with no power) towards a massive lake. You smile gently, wondering if this is one of the few instances in which somehow people survive one of your attacks. Perhaps that businessman will get to see his shirt after all. Stranger things have happened.

“Is that a gremlin!?” the pilot shouts behind you. You glance over your shoulder at him and smile. Then, shaking your body so that your fur lays flat, you curl up on the dashboard. Your face is pressed against the cold tempered glass. Such a thin shield between you and the air. It feels like coming home. One of the pilots is now muttering a prayer as they continue to will the plane towards the lake. Part of you is almost rooting for them to make it there, but the truth of the matter is, it doesn’t mean much if they do or not. You will survive. You always do. Raising your head, you stare unflinchingly at the land and water that is quickly rising up to greet you and smile once more.