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The sequel to Drip Castle, Liquid Moon(edited) is well under way! The prologue can be found below!
Prologue
December 22, 1971.
Pat Galverson sat on the log bench of his plywood lean-to and poked the bonfire with a long stick. A flash of bright embers rose up but were quickly extinguished and carried away on...

 the blowing snow into the night. He looked out onto Yars Lake but he was lucky he could see more than a few feet of snowshoe tracks beyond the light cast by the fire. He stood, then stroked his white beard as he watched the snow swirling overhead. He looked back at the warm glow of his cabin window, lighted by the hanging lantern. Should he check his ice-fishing hole one more time? He pulled back his tan leather mitt to check his watch. 7:40pm. Storm or no storm, he decided one more look couldn’t hurt for the reward of some fresh pickerel for the morning’s breakfast.
Strapping on his oval snowshoes and grabbing his six-volt square flashlight, he began a memorized march out onto the lake. Fifty feet out, he slowed his pace.
“What the hell?” he asked himself. “That a plane?”
He looked up into the darkness of the falling snow, trying to use his bush pilot’s ear to decipher the sound. That ain’t no Norseman or Beech, he thought. He continued to walk, concentrating the whole time on the drone of the plane to gauge its direction. Reaching his ice fishing hole, he squatted down to check the line, then suddenly stood.
“Shit, that plane is circling!” he said out loud as he looked up again.
Vainly, he searched for the flicker of navigation lights but could see nothing. Almost immediately, he was distracted as, to his right, the sound of the plane’s engines became more distinct. He eyes widened as he spotted the signature of bright white landing lights.
“Jesus living Christ!” he yelled out as a twin-engine Cessna burst into view through the blowing snow.
The plane roared within hundred feet of his head. He ducked instinctively, and then turned to watch in shock as the Cessna came down on the snow covered lake. It skipped off the lake and then came down with force, but the wheels were of little use to support the weight of the plane on the snow.  The fuselage lurched wildly as its left wing clipped a snow drift, then flipped onto its roof before sliding another hundred feet.  It finally slammed into the rocky shoreline of Yars Lake. Pat watched in stunned silence as a small fire erupted from the right engine.
“What the fuck! What the fuck is this?” he yelled out, already adopting his best snowshoe racing gait to rush to the crashed plane.
When he reached the plane, he shielded his face from the heat of the engine fire and made his way around to the cockpit. Here he found the right side of the plane torn open and the pilot lying sideways, suspended by his seatbelt. Blood was dripping from his head onto the snow.  Pat came close and kneeled down underneath the hanging pilot. Grabbing the collar of the leather jacket, he pulled the pilot back and used his flashlight to try and examine his injuries.
“Buddy…you okay?” he asked.
He shone the light on the pilot’s face, then took a deep breath as his eyes dilated in sudden realisation.
“Fuck…Rick! Is that you? Are you okay?”
Rick Torrison looked back at his former boss from Brown Airways. His breathing was shallow from a punctured lung.
“Pat, take it. Take all of it,” he rasped.
Pat yanked out his fishing knife to cut the seatbelt straps.
“Take what? What the fuck are you talking about?”  “I’m going to get you out of here Rick. You’re going to be okay. Hold on!”
He cut through the straps and pulled Rick from the wrecked cockpit of the burning plane. Rick cried out in pain as Pat struggled to drag him out of danger, down the shoreline to the forest’s edge. Gently, he laid Rick down and took off his own wool toque to place under Rick’s head.
“Rick…Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing out here with that plane? Is there anyone else on board?”
Rick turned to look at Pat, his head wound now clearly visible in the flickering light of the plane fire.
“No one.” Rick struggled to reply. “Just gold.”
Figuring Rick was disoriented from the crash, Pat unzipped his parka and used his knife to cut off a strip of his bush shirt. Placing it over Rick’s head wound, he hastened to reassure him.  
“Don’t worry about any fucking gold Rick. Here or anywhere else. I’m going to check the rest of the plane. Be right back!”
Pat headed back to the plane and retrieved his flashlight from the snow. By now, the flames were beginning to die down and he was able to reach the passenger area of the plane. He shone his light through the open space left by the broken back door but saw nothing other than a compartment half-filled with snow.  He was turning to go back to Rick when his eye caught the glint of the fire off an object in the snow. Stepping forward, he leaned down to examine the half-broken crate.  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said under his breath.
He looked up again, then shone the flashlight towards the cargo door. Now he could see a number of other crates showing through the snow. He stood and rushed back to Rick.
Pat put the flashlight down and kneeled beside Rick, whose eyes were now closed. He placed his leather mitt on Rick’s shoulder.
“Rick! Rick, wake up!”
Rick slowly opened his eyes and stared up at Pat.  He took a laboured breath and struggled to speak.
“Save my mom, Pat. Save her with that gold.”
“What the fuck are you talking about Rick? Where did that fucking gold come from?”
Rick coughed and blood came from the corner of his mouth, his eyes blinking slowly.
Pat grabbed hold of Rick’s leather jacket.
“Don’t you die on me, Rick. Don’t you dare die on my fucking lake!”
Rick reached up and grabbed Pat’s arm as his eyes slowly began to close.
“Fucking MS!”