You draw a line directing the ship to the nearest landmass—Puerto Rico—and pour yourself one of the stale, sediment-filled beers that are the only drink onboard. You sip it while you sail, breathing a sigh of relief when you spot land on the horizon.

As the ship nears Puerto Rico, a stormfront appears. You are soon subsumed into the storm’s grey, wet, wind. Tossed on huge waves, you struggle to stay on your feet. Just when you think you can’t take any more, you reach the eye of the storm and the ship comes to a halt in a flat calm.

There is a desert island to the ship’s starboard side, and the only thing you can think to do is launch a rowboat and row towards it. You stumble ashore and see, on the sandy beach, the remains of a plane crash. Your gut tells you to row back to the ship, but you’re hungry. So you pick through the plane’s wreckage for a lunch of individually-wrapped bread rolls and tiny cans of soda. You’re just unwrapping a mini chocolate muffin when you see people further along the beach. You wave and shout to get their attention, and they start towards you.

But they’re not people, they’re zombies, the undead crew of the downed plane. You realise too late that you have made a grave mistake, as the zombie cabin crew advance on you, chanting, ‘Groupon, Groupon, Groupon’.


Rachel Macaulay writes The Links, a soap opera in an email. Readers say it’s the perfect coffee break read, and if you live for drama, you’ll love it!

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