1936 saw the last flight of any sort of aircraft over Gods’ Hollow.
For years I had been arguing for the prohibition of travel, either military or commercial, over Gods’ Hollow. I went so far as the State House in my attempts, calling in favors my family had cultivated over centuries.
All my efforts were in vain.
Air travel was coming into its own, and despite the Depression, far-sighted politicians saw the monetary benefits of refusing to place any prohibitions on that means of transportation.
I wish I could say that the wreck of The Boston Zephyr had as victims several of those politicians. Unfortunately, as is so often the case, the two men who died were Army pilots attempting to map the Hollow from above.
They paid for it with their lives, which I ended for them on Ash Court, their bodies engulfed in flames and half-eaten by the creatures which had brought the plane down.
I am uncertain as to the exact heritage of the creatures. They appeared vaguely humanoid with wings and teeth similar to some of the blood-feeding bats in the lower Americas. When The Boston Zephyr had traveled over the Hollow, I watched the creatures rise up and swarm over the plane. I raced to town, following the erratic flight of the plane and arriving moments after it crashed.
For several minutes I kept my Colts busy, laying waste to as many of the damned things as I could kill. Members of the militia joined in, and we made short work of 29 of the creatures. The pilots, doomed by their injuries, begged for death, and death I gave them.
No one flies over the Hollow now.
Occasionally, I see one of the creatures rise up, and I take my time with a long rifle to bring it down. It is a rather peaceful way to spend a summer evening.
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