Plane No 8.

It was a private beach. He unlaced his shoes, peeled of his socks, and took it all in.

In front of him lay what remained of the small plane he had chartered. The only thing he could think about was how to get back to them. No one else knew anything about them.

He rummaged through the plane’s wreckage, trying to search for anything that might be of use to him. There was a flashlight, which he grabbed, only for him to realize it was covered in a sticky blue substance.

As he looked up he realized the goo was dripping from a centralized spot. The temperature had dropped to the point he could see his breath. An eery feeling ran up the back of his neck. Goosebumps ran up his arms. Air like breath blew in his ear. When he turned to look he saw….

...eyes and rows upon rows of teeth, from the ugliest beast he has ever seen. Never taking his eyes off Ugly, the sword is in place, at the same time Ugly lurched forward to kill, instead it howls and falls on the blade, his open mouth inches from his face, still dripping goo.