Cult on the Hill - Waterhouse, D. L.
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I climbed into the mangled remains of the aircraft, suspended perilously in a tree. Inside, it was a filthy pig pen. I tried not to imagine what creepy, crawly things might be creeping and crawling on my person by morning. I searched through the fuselage of the downed aircraft in search of something to eat, only to find a plastic food container full of empty beer cans. The bottom of which flowed in tobacco juice and spittle. Saliva began to fill my mouth as the nausea quickly rose from the pit of my stomach upward. I knew I had but one second before I would puke my guts all over the only…mehr

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I climbed into the mangled remains of the aircraft, suspended perilously in a tree. Inside, it was a filthy pig pen. I tried not to imagine what creepy, crawly things might be creeping and crawling on my person by morning. I searched through the fuselage of the downed aircraft in search of something to eat, only to find a plastic food container full of empty beer cans. The bottom of which flowed in tobacco juice and spittle. Saliva began to fill my mouth as the nausea quickly rose from the pit of my stomach upward. I knew I had but one second before I would puke my guts all over the only shelter I had for the night. Making a mad dash for the open side door, I thrust my head over the edge. Standing on the limb of the tree, directly below was the killer, a large man, with a scoped, high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder. Stunned, he looked up at me, his mouth wide opened in abject surprise. By now the nausea had reached critical mass, and the contents of my stomach erupted like a waterfall, directly into the murderers gaping pie hole. I was as startled as he. Jumping to my feet I reached for my .44 magnum and peered again through the open door. The big man had fallen from the limb onto the ground below and was frantically attempting to shoulder the large caliber rifle. Quickly, I squeezed off the first round. The wooden stock exploded in his hands, and he dropped the shattered weapon. Still spewing the puke from his mouth, he drew a handgun and aimed it toward me. Rapidly, I squeezed off two more rounds as three, orange and white lights, blinked at me from his right hand.