Good Morning to you,
Welcome to February! I had a crazy busy January but I've become used to that. I had a photo and video planned for you today, but for some crazy reason Google won't allow it. I hope to have the issue resolved by next month's post. Wish me luck! So in place of that I will add a reading. This is the first chapter of my new post-apocalyptic survival thriller coming soon. It's a 9 book series, something brand new to me making me stretch as a writer and I think that's a good thing. Something grand to concentrate on.
Here we go: Race the Sun (World Gone Dark) by January Bain
Chapter One
Burgundy Mackenzie
“The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”
Pablo Picasso
Harlan County, Kentucky
Day One
Blood. It was everywhere.
Rivers of deep red had run down the soiled wallpaper, dripped off lamps, splashed furniture and soaked into bedding. A repellent Rorschach test of sorts only a blood splatter specialist could make any sense of. Now it was mostly congealed, thick with the stench of copper and death. Burgundy Mackenzie was only twenty-one years old and yet already she’d witnessed more than her fair share of murder scenes.
Hell of a way to make a living to her mind, though it paid better than either of her other jobs driving the community bookmobile van or waitressing at Bobby Jo’s Bar & Grill. Enough to make sure her two siblings were still living at home and not in foster care. Plus, her Nana Mackenzie would never have to go without. How such a good woman had raised two such deadbeat sons was anyone’s guess. Her uncle who had stepped up after her father was murdered had proved useless as shite. She pushed the thoughts away about her challenging life of which there was no ready fix onto concrete facts. Focusing on evidence and details helped her make sense of the chaos presenting itself in the bedroom she was in charge of making spick and span.
Fifty-two lives are lost to murder every hour of every day in the world which added up to more than four hundred and fifty-five thousand deaths per year. She shook her head at the shocking statistic she’d read somewhere, wiping up the blood and gore from the floorboards methodically with a cloth rag held in her blue-gloved hands. Books on true crime was an obsession of Burgundy’s and kept her up reading most nights until sleep claimed her.
Back and forth she swiped, the powerful bleach burning the inner lining of her nose. As brutal as the job could be, she found satisfaction in making it look like it had never happened, that some poor soul hadn’t been brutally murdered for sex, fun or profit. But who really cared the reason for a brutal death, only mattered was the result. Innocent people who weren’t here anymore to appreciate life. Besides, she’d prefer to leave that part of the criminal equation to her twin sister Auburn busy studying Forensic Psychology at CSU in LA. The lucky one. The one who gotten away. It was the town’s informal motto, born in Hardin Creek, die in Hardin Creek that scared her the most. Well at least her twin had been saved from an inevitable fate.
While she cleaned, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life the victim had lived that had brought them to this junction. Because the last thing she wanted was to end up in the bullseye of a murderer. Especially this killer. The Hillside Butcher. The woman murdered three days ago lived in an isolated location, even for a holler. This one had happened up past a hillside graveyard, almost to the end of the pavement. But someone had to know something, right? Everyone in the hollers knew each other, went without saying. Why were they keeping silent? She had to ask herself if it one of their own. The thought sent a shiver of dread down her spine.
Back and forth she swiped, the questions plaguing her for answers. It helped make the time go quicker, focusing on trying to solve the case since the lame investigators hadn’t managed to find one single suspect to date and the murders had been going on for nearly a year. So far, the murders were within a forty-mile radius of her home town of Hardin Creek, named after the sheriff’s family of Hardin. Cawood, Loyall, Cumberland and now Coxton, their closest neighbor, they’d all been targeted. Women living alone in the deepest recesses of the hill country being the victims in all the murders.
She wrung out her cloth over the yellow plastic bucket, the red color of the putrid water deepening from the addition of more gore. Back and forth, the repetitive actions lulled her into a meditative state, sending her mind further afield to her twin sister living clear across the country. Was Auburn ever going to come back to Kentucky? The worry she and her homebound siblings were going to be ditched even though the pair of them had made a pack when her twin had first left for LA preyed on her, more of late since school was about to let out for the summer. Again.
She got to her feet and emptied the pail for the umpteenth time in the kitchen sink, then refilled it before hurrying back into the bedroom. She needed to get the job completed and get paid. Poppy needed her prescription filled. But her mind stayed focused on Auburn, pretty much all she could think about of late. Was she going to come home or not?
Her twin had left to go to school first, only fair as she had won the scholarship that Burgundy had also been up for as well. Yes, she had been disappointed it wasn’t her heading to college, but she had been happy for her sister. Auburn had sworn she was going to make sure her twin also had the same opportunity and not get stuck in Hardin Creek. But in three years she’d never been home. Not once. Never reiterated her promise verbally again. Yes, she called though even those bright spots had lessened over time. That girl is all bark and no bite. Her Nana Mackenzie would call it what it was. Auburn was going to fail to live up to her words, sure as shit.
Usually Burgundy managed to suppress her doubts, but not today. Maybe it was the funk of chorine assaulting her bringing the reality of the situation home so hard. Or the hard times that faced her trying to keep her family together without the support of her sibling. Auburn was supposed to come home and give her twin a chance at getting an education. If she didn’t, Burgundy was doomed to getting jobs that only required high school, meaning she may never live up to her potential. Never make a decent wage with job security in a field she actually wanted to be in. Teaching. Straight As in high school didn’t guarantee nothing without support or a chance in life. She was taking long distance ed courses in education, but between looking after her sibling, working three jobs, it had ended up going slower than she’d anticipated. At this rate, she’d be forty before she crossed the finish line.
Burgundy finished the final swoop of her cloth and sat back on the floor on her heels encased in rubber boots, checking if she missed any spot. Satisfied she’d made the actions of the brutal murder vanish to even the most critical eye, she got up and emptied the pail of water, rinsing it clean in the kitchen sink.
She had just finished tying up the final bag of garbage and leaving it by the back door to be disposed of later when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel out front. Her stomach coiled into a knot, unease focusing her mind. Who was it? She wasn’t expecting anyone, at least not until Annabella texted to let her know she was on her way back. She’d lent Annabella the ancient first-generation Jeep Cherokee that she’d bought and had Frost fix up after graduation. He was the same guy who kept it running. Annabella had a good heart, going to see her grandma on a regular basis, and helping her out felt right even as she hoped she’d be back in time to hit the pharmacy to get Poppy’s prescription refilled.
But Burgundy knew instantly the sound of the well-tuned purring motor wasn’t her old Jeep, but a vehicle she didn’t recognize. A gut feeling, something she knew better than to ignore, told her she should make herself scarce. She was all alone with no neighbor within shouting distance, same as the victim had been. At least until she knew the identity of whoever was coming up the driveway.
She hurried into the bedroom where the crime had occurred three days ago and slipped into the clothes closet. Never take chances. She was responsible for her siblings and there was no way could they manage without her. Rory at seventeen and Poppy at only nine with her medical condition and love of riddles, they both needed her.
Cormac, her older brother, was on death row for murdering their father, a drunk only Poppy missed not remembering how bad it had been when he was alive. Cormac swore he was innocent, but the hard evidence had proved otherwise. Burgundy didn’t want to believe he could have done it and in her heart she didn’t, no matter what anyone said. In fact, his case had become the catalyst for her interest in reading every book on true crime she could get her hands on from the bookmobile. She’d recently began reading a John Grishan’s book about innocent people sent to prison for crimes they were innocent of. The non-fiction novel had woken her to the harsh realities of how inept, unfair, self-serving and corrupt the justice system could be, failing far more often than most people realized to find the real killer. If only they knew maybe they’d try harder to change unjust laws, brutal police interrogation practices that allowed police to lie to suspects and junk science like using teeth marks that had been proved to be a flawed form of evidence to avoid wrongful convictions. Blinder mentally to avoid further tedious investigation was alive and kicking. It twisted her stomach to even think about it.
God, she missed her big brother like crazy every day since he’d been locked up over in Lyon County, home to Kentucky State Penitentiary. Cormac had always been there for her, made her feel safe even when their father Lloyd slipped off his meds and went on a drunken bender. Now they just had his loathsome brother, the so-called UncleShaymus to deal with. He was liability enough.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Burgundy pressed her fingers against her forehead where a headache was blooming. Too much bleach. The miasma lingered in her nostrils, like her very nose hairs had been singed off by the powerful disinfectant. Maybe she was developing an allergy to it the way it was bothering her today?
She pressed one eye to the small gap between the bi-fold doors, catching sight of a large figure dressed in dark brown pants and a tan-colored uniform shirt. Huh, one of the deputies had come back. She was about to push open the doors and step into plain view when he suddenly crouched down and pried up the floorboard with a pen knife. She could see his outstretched hand and the gleam of light on the sharp metal and she stopped herself from moving in the nick of time.
Her own hand instinctively went for the Leatherman she wore on her belt. It was a valued multi-tool, a gift of graduation from high school from her friend Frost. Frost Hellebuyck. Now there was a complicated non-relationship. She knew he was interested even though he was seven years older than her and kept his distance most of the time. Perhaps his gift might seem an odd choice for a young girl, but it was one she highly valued. She wasn’t packing any heat to defend herself, though she kept a 9mm by her bedside in case of unwanted visitors and Rory had a hunting rifle, giving Frost’s gift even more meaning today. She knew thinking of such things meant the karma of the current situation was way off. Hill girls learn to protect themselves early, could sniff out danger with the best of them.
What was it he was pulling up from the floorboards? She’d been told the police were finished their collection of evidence from the crime scene, but he had something in his hands. Something he seemed to be petting between his fingers. Her view was somewhat limited with his Stetson hat in the way and the narrow view through the crack in the bi-fold doors and she pursed her lips in frustration. Then when he dangled the item from his fingertips before bringing it up to his face, she recognized what it was. Her heartrate skyrocketed. A long thick hank of dark red hair tied with a pink ribbon. She almost gave herself away as she half-stepped backward in disgust, catching herself before she put her foot down.
Hair.
Exactly what was missing from all the victims. Everyone knew about the so-called trophy. It was common knowledge. She swallowed and took a shallow breath before leaning in to peer through the crack to see what the deputy was going to do next. He was stuffing the bundle of hair into a burlap bag with a gold lettering she’d seen before. Right. A bag for housing good old Kentucky bourbon, but not an evidence bag as she would have expected if he was on the up and up. The harsh reality of the situation hit her in the stomach like a hard slam from an angry fist. This person, a man sworn to uphold the law, could very well be the murderer or someone who knew far more about it than they were letting on. Enough to come back to retrieve evidence he obviously wasn’t going to hand in. None of the ponytails had ever surfaced. Until now. Or least not that she knew of. But journalists had been all over the story which meant it would be a hard secret to keep.
And she still didn’t know his identity. A part of her didn’t want to know. It was the kind of knowledge that could get someone killed in the backwoods of Kentucky. She needed to get out of the house now so badly she was hard pressed not to make a run for it. But she wasn’t a fool. Hell, she’d never been one to suffer a fool gladly as the old saying goes. She had to stay smart and keep her wits about her. Soon as he was gone, she’d get the hell out of there. In the meantime, she took the Leatherman off her belt soundlessly and pried open the sharp knife blade before anchoring it into position at the base of the tool wincing as it clicked into position. She held it in her right hand, ready for action.
If anyone thinks to come at me, you got another thing coming, lawman or no lawman.
A blast of ear-piercing sound erupted inside the house, making Burgundy wince in the closet even as she gripped the knife of her Leatherman tighter. The damn siren. She forced herself not to move, but to stay perfectly still. With all the windows propped open to allow the reek to dissipate, it was louder than normal. She took a deep breath, remembering it was a test scheduled for today even as she kept her eyes riveted on the dark figure that had gone perfectly still in the bedroom. The annoying noise was created from a COWS or Community Outdoor Warning System event, blasted once a month. No biggie. Especially since they’d reduced the length from sixty seconds to ten seconds in the past year. Unlike the frightening drama that was playing out in real time right before her eyes.
Thanks for reading and have a grand day!
Hugs,
January Bain
Storyteller
