Cult on the Hill

Amazingly, the fuselage of the mangled floatplane remained intact-a perfect shelter for the night. Only one question remained. Was the murdering killer of little girls planning to come back? I decided to stay just in case.

The back of the fuselage was a filthy pig pen. Under a cowling blanket, I discovered a cooler full of stale bread. I found a plastic food container full of empty beer cans-the bottom of which flowed in tobacco juice mixed with spittle. Saliva began to fill my mouth as the nausea welled from the pit of my stomach. I dashed to the open side door and thrust my head over the edge. Standing on a tree limb directly below was a large, bearded man with a high-powered rifle. Startled, he looked up at me, his mouth wide opened in abject surprise. By now, the nausea had worsened, and the contents of my stomach erupted like a waterfall, directly into his gaping pie hole.

Frantically, I grabbed my .44 magnum and blindly discharged three rounds over the edge of the cargo door opening. I didn't recall the bullets hitting the fuselage, but I do remember one hitting me in the arm. It went limp, and my weapon fell to the ground below.