Kentucky Blood (Book I of the Kentucky Blood Series)

KENTUCKY BLOOD

BOOK I OF THE KENTUCKY BLOOD SERIES

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is not a standalone story, and this book is not a complete arc. It’s the first chapter of a single, continuous saga: one long descent that will span many books and many years.

You’ll find no neat resolutions here. The questions raised in these pages—about truth, motive, and the darkness we carry—aren’t meant to be answered quickly. This book sets the stage, sharpens the knives, and draws the map. The journey won’t be clean, and the people you meet may lie to themselves more than they lie to you.

Some doors will open. Some won’t. Not yet.

But everything you notice matters. Every hint, every clue, every lie, every truth. I haven’t written a puzzle with missing pieces—I’ve written a slow descent. You’re not meant to solve it.

You’re meant to feel it coming.

- ATS

Let’s read Kentucky Blood!

* indicates a flashback

*** indicates a scene change

CHAPTER I

TIME TO RODEO

Sometime in the 1990s

Raven County, Kentucky

“Daddy, can we take him to Strawberry Fields now?

I’m gettin’ tired of feedin’ him...”

When you kidnap people, tie’em up, and torture’em in your garage, it changes your view on life.

The way you look at garages is changed.

The way you look at everything is changed.

Probably forever.

Rhonda stared at the garage.

Every time she drove past somebody’s house, she’d wonder if they hid people in their garage, too.

Her right hand trembled as she lit her cigarette. She let the smoke hang in her mouth, taking comfort in its taste: slightly sour, rich and earthy—with a hint of truck-stop coffee. Nearby birds chirped their afternoon melodies, but she barely heard them. Before her stood the most important garage in the whole wide world.

(“we’re gonna find it, daddy…”)

(“the temple…”)

The garage stood alone, near but separate from Daddy’s house. Little white ghosts, grinning jack-o’-lanterns, vampire bats, and buck-toothed witches decorated its sides, some hanging from the roof. Felt like overkill now, a mask to hide what they inflicted upon the asshole within. No hidin’ the violent necessities of their Quest for The Temple, though—a pig, no matter the lipstick, still squeals “Oink!”

(“no, please stop, I don’t know any—”)

These days, the garage door, off-white and ominous, stood out the most. Damn thing pulled at her like a magnet, like it had something to say.

But what?

Didn’t know, but it felt beyond her. Beyond her family. And far beyond the pieces of shit they dragged inside.

She took a hit of her cigarette.

The garage door. When had they last even opened it?

Tilting her head to the afternoon sky, she blew smoke toward the clouds.

Maybe when they brought the fucker in. Tied his ass up.

Got him ready for the Family Welcome.

They always screamed a lot then—

—during the Welcome.

(“please don’t do this!”)

(“y’all don’t have to do any of this!”)

(“i don’t know nothin’ about no temple!”)

The garage absorbed their screams, like the mop she used to soak up their blood. Sometimes, when she looked at the garage—any garage—she couldn’t help but hear those screams, like she couldn’t stop the blood oozing from the mop.

(“not my fingers not my fingers not my f—”)

The tremor in her right hand worsened.

What about his perspective?

The perspective of the dipshit inside?

Do you feel different about garages now, too?

Her gaze drifted down the gravel driveway, settling on blades of grass poking between the rocks. She scratched the back of her neck and sifted her fingers through her wildly cropped blonde hair.

Not like it matters…

You ain’t ever gettin’ out…

‘Til we take you to Strawberry Fields.

Taking a final drag of her cigarette, she blew out smoke in rings, a trick an older boy had taught her around ten years ago, when she was eleven or twelve. The last ring drifted toward the garage door, then dissipated. She raised her hand to flick the cigarette away—

No.

Not on Daddy’s driveway.

After sliding it in her pocket, she pulled out a new one. Marlboros. Medium. The red-and-white label kind. The kind Daddy smoked. Tiny golden sparks flickered as she struck her lighter.

Fuckin’ thing won’t light…

The tremor in her hand made it hard to steady the lighter, the flame dancing just out of reach.

“C’mon, motherf—”

The cigarette ignited, but the lighter slipped from her grasp, falling to the gravel driveway.

“Shit!”

As she bent to retrieve it, something pulsed from the garage door—like a heartbeat. A new possibility, both fascinating and unsettling, dawned upon her:

What if the piece of shit sensed her standin’ near the door?

What if bein’ tied up, blindfolded, and gagged for so long had increased his other senses tenfold, like how blind people just knew somebody nearby watched’em?

She took a hit of her cigarette, letting the smoke drift from her mouth.

Can you sense me lookin’ at you, you piece of shit?

Narrowing her eyes at the door, she tried to read his thoughts.

Bet you’re thinkin’ of how to escape, ain’t ya?

I would, if I was you…

Her eyes widened.

But good thing I ain’t you.

A strange hum arose—like the buzzing of a thousand bees—before piercing the air with a needle-sharp whine. She glanced about, only to realize it came from her mi—

That sound!

It whined sharper, louder.

That fucking sound again!

Her right hand trembled so hard she dropped her cigarette.

That sound that sound that soun—

She only saw the garage door now, only the white—that terrible off-white of the door and she didn’t see herself, she didn’t see anything except the door, the white, the off-white and the whining got louder and louder and it hurt her brain it hurt her mind it hurt her insides and she felt—

sick.

(what are you doing, rhonda?)

(what are you and your family doing?)

Ripping her gaze from the door, she turned and fell to her knees, coughing and spitting. The whine faded, but the driveway gravel melted into puddles of gray and white. For one terrifying moment, she lost herself in those puddles (what are you doing, rhonda?), but soon enough the rocks solidified, providing clarity and stillness to focus on.

Still on her knees, she grabbed her cigarette and brought her twitching hand to her mouth, mustering just enough lung power to take another drag.

Gotta remember what the doctor said…

(breathe)

(breathe)

(focus)

Focus on somethin’ peaceful…

(breathe)

(breathe)

(focus)

She looked at the trees.

(breathe)

(breathe)

(nature)

A calm fell.

(focus)

(focus)

(calm)

The sick feeling faded.

(breathe)

(breathe)

(peace)

The tremor in her hand eased.

(focus)

(focus)

(strength)

Branches rustled nearby. Two sparrows fluttered and chirped at each other, fighting or mating; she couldn’t tell. Either way, the smaller sparrow kept trying to escape the bigger one. Why didn’t it just fly away? Maybe it couldn’t—maybe something bound it to this spot, like she and her family remained bound to the garage and the assholes inside. Or maybe it just hoped the other sparrow would give up.

Maybe the piece of shit we got tied up is thinkin’ like that...

The garage beckoned her gaze once more.

Maybe he thinks we’ll just give up, and let him go...

Rising, she kicked a piece of gravel.

Bet they all thought that…

She turned toward the garage.

But especially him.

She felt okay now.

Everything felt okay now.

She could look at it now.

We’ve never kept one alive as long as him...

Of course, he may have just accepted his fuckin’ fate. Slowly, she exhaled smoke through her nose, wondering which was the case.

The smoke drifted before her eyes, obscuring the garage.

***

They called this one “AB,” short for “Alabama Boy.” Didn’t remember his real name—not that it mattered anymore, not that it ever fuckin’ mattered—but they kidnapped him in Alabama and “AB” proved short and easy to say.

Did that with most of’em now.

Gave’em little nicknames.

How long had they kept him in there?

Two months?

Three?

It was warmer back then—

—the night of his Family Welcome.

*

“No...”

“P-Please...”

“W-What are y’all doin’?”

AB begged and screamed as Daddy dragged him across the gravel driveway with a rope.

“We got a big one this time, didn’t we, Daddy?” asked Rhonda.

Daddy grunted.

AB twisted and squealed like a pig, leaving a speckled trail of blood across the gravel. Rhonda hurried into the garage and hit the button to raise the door.

The hammer and the strawberries were ready.

She smiled.

*

What month was that?

June, July, August…

Couldn’t remember.

Time flies when you’re havin’ fun…

Don’t it, motherfucker?

She drew in smoke from her cigarette—deeper this time.

This one seemed different, though.

Hadn’t cried yet.

Oh, he was scared shitless, alright. Beyond a doubt. So why no tears from him?

She shook her head.

Still didn’t make no sense.

Oh well.

We’ll see if you end up cryin’ or not, AB…

She kicked a piece of gravel—it made a “ding!” against the garage door.

Little pussy-ass bitch.

She stretched her arms to the sky, smoke from her cigarette curling across the face of the afternoon sun. The October air felt just right. Chilly, but not too chilly. Just cold enough to remind you that Halloween lurked around the corner. Rays of orange sunlight illuminated the forest leaves behind the garage, casting a warm glow over the open field beside it.

They took good care of AB, all things considered.

Fed him.

Gave him water.

Cleaned his bucket.

Even gave him leftover pain pills when he complained about hurtin’ too much. One time he got a real high fever, so they just kept on givin’ him more and more until it went away. “Don’t need no doctors,” Daddy had said. “Just Advil and Tylenol and shit. Cures most things. Most of the time.” He was right—and even though AB didn’t deserve nothin’ nice they did for him (like the free medical care they provided), they took good care of him, anyway. They were good people, after all. Daddy even washed him with the hose every couple weeks or so.

Never kept one over Christmas, though. Never needed to. Probably get too cold in the garage come wintertime. Now, if they got him a little space heater, it might keep him warm enough, but that’d run Daddy’s electric bill real high.

Maybe just dress him real warm?

Throw a Christmas sweater on him or somethin’?

Or shit, maybe he’s already cold at night?

Could buy him a Halloween sweater at Walmart, one of them black ones with a big orange pumpkin on it.

But nah, it ain’t that cold yet.

He’ll live.

Probably.

She made a mental note to discuss this later with Daddy. Wasn’t worth AB dyin’ yet, they still kinda-sorta needed him alive longer, even though everyone was tired of feedin’ him. Daddy still felt AB had another Clue in him—another Clue to the Temple. At least, that’s what his dreams told him.

And they didn’t argue with Daddy’s dreams.

“Maybe we should be real nice to him,” her little brother Zachary had said, “and trick him into tellin’ us what he’s hidin’!”

“Nice idea, numb nuts,” she’d said. “Who’d believe us suddenly bein’ nice to’em after we kidnapped’em, tied’em up, and tortured the fuck out of’em?”

“I sure wouldn’t,” she’d said. “Not me.”

But that tactic might’ve worked on a few others, like FB, the weirdo one they’d had before AB and GB, but after MB. (MB was the one who’d escaped—that fucker.) FB ranked among the most gullible of the assholes, the easiest for her and her little sister Taleiah to kidnap. Like a deer walkin’ up to ya and lickin’ your gun...

*

FB’s mouth hung open while he stared at Taleiah.

Looked like he might drool.

“You s-so cute...and s-s-smaaaall...”

He licked his lips and fumbled with his belt.

“…s-so…so…”

He swallowed.

“...in-innocennnnt lookinnn’...”

Rhonda peered through the slats of the hotel closet door, waiting for the right moment to strike. They’d learned the hard way that timing was everything—you fuck up the timing, shit hits the fan real quick.

“I’m g-gonna take r-real good c-care of you, l-little girl…”

Within his bulgin’, googly-ass eyes, burned that same desire she’d seen in all the others—

“…p-pretty, pretty l-little girl…”

—the desire to both worship and consume her younger sister.

“...so pr-etty, pre-tty...”

He unbuckled his belt.

Taleiah’s voice held just above a whisper:

“…lemme take care of you first, get you real hard...”

She sauntered toward him, tracing her finger across his chest.

“...is that okay, mister?”

Rhonda had taught Taleiah to ask her questions real innocent-like, the way all the pieces of shit preferred—like she ain’t never fucked before.

“Ohhh,” he said. “I’m-I’m already real haaard...”

He inhaled his words as he spoke. This one might be an easier takedown than the rest.

Taleiah guided him to the bedside. “Well...lemme get you harder...”

Rhonda gripped her cattle prod.

CHAPTER II

PRISMS

“Why ya eyeballin’ me, girl?”

Rhonda held smoke from her cigarette longer than she should have, letting it burn her lungs.

Not all the dipshits proved as easy as FB.

The moment a lot of’em walked into the hotel room, they’d try to take charge and grab Taleiah or start touchin’ her—some of the real assholes even hit her.

Once the door closed, the monster came out.

FB was different. Even after kidnappin’ him, he didn’t squirm or scream much (well, not that much), as if he didn’t believe it was real. Even when he finally cried after Daddy smashed his elbow with the hammer, she swore she caught a twinkle in his eyes—like he was just playin’ along. The supposed theater of it all.

Even at the end, when they took him to Strawberry Fields, he still had that just playin’ along twinkle in his eyes, like it was all a practical joke for his birthday—which, coincidentally, was the same day they fielded him. (“Happy fuckin’ birthday, bitch,” she’d told him.) As if he truly believed the garage door would rise and they’d all be standin’ there with balloons, party hats, and birthday cake, yellin’ together in one gigantic roar:

“SUR-PRIIIIIIISE!”

“HA-PPY BIRRRRRTH-DAAAAAAY!”

Rhonda smiled and nodded.

FB was such a fuckin’ weirdo…

But each piece of shit was unique in their own way, makin’em all special to the whole family every time they fielded one.

Of the recent assholes, GB had been the best lookin’ of the bunch. By far. Like a member of the Backstreet Boys or one of them other shitty boy bands, but with a “I like to hunt and fish” vibe.

She’d had fun with him.

Real good fun.

OB was the guy before him, the dude who liked Skittles and shit. Demanded Taleiah eat Skittles with him before, during, and after he had his way with her—of course he never got that far. They intended to bury him with a bag of Skittles (seemed like the right thing to do) but Zach got into’em, then Taleiah and her ate some and before you knew it they didn’t have no more Skittles.

Daddy got real pissed.

“I bought those at fuckin’ Walmart,” he said, “and I ain’t goin’ back again!”

They still buried him with the bag, though.

Better than nothin’.

And now, they had AB—the human puddle of water who, for some reason, hadn’t shed a tear.

(why doesn’t a human puddle cry, rhonda?)

(still doesn’t make sense, does it?)

She shrugged and took a hard hit from her cigarette. Despite the slight chill of a typical October day, she’d chosen not to wear a jacket over her black tank top, admiring the colorful tattoos running up her arms. Yep, glad I got’em, she assured herself for the thousandth time. They made her stand out from other girls in Raven—the square bitches, at least. And they looked especially badass when she wore tank tops.

Not like her legs.

She always wore jeans to cover her legs.

After what he’d done to her.

The blue-eyed boy.

Her breath quickened while an inner voice cried, “You’re too self-conscious,” and “No one would notice most of the time.”

She told that voice what she always did:

“Fuck you.”

and

“I’ll keep wearin’ my jeans.”

Taking a nervous puff of her cigarette, she tried to push all thoughts of her legs and the blue-eyed boy and his piercing eyes from her mind.

But she heard his voice.

(“you gon’ be my b—”)

No.

No.

Just gonna enjoy this fuckin’ day.

After one last hit from her cigarette, she headed down the driveway to the red-and-white Marlboro ashtray on the table in front of Daddy’s house. One of Daddy’s rules: always put your cigarettes out in the ashtrays and never toss’em on the ground. “We got fuckin’ standards,” he’d say—usually while puttin’ his out right there at the table where he smoked and drank all day, like most days.

Crushing her cigarette, she let her eyes drift to the white cordless phone.

Daddy always forgets to put that back on the charger...

She glanced around.

No sign of Taleiah—had last seen her walkin’ toward Strawberry Fields with one of them trashy romance novels. Probably thought it might help with her “little problem.”

Rhonda smirked.

No sign of Zach, either—he’d been standin’ in the driveway, lookin’ all zoned out, but then ran off to play with his Game Boy or whatever weird shit he liked to do these days.

And her Daddy, Bill, was likely decidin’ with care which pizzas to order tonight.

But would he go with Domino’s, or Pizza Hut?

God, I hope it’s Domino’s.

Not that Pizza-Hut-bull-shit.

“Yesss...” she whispered.

She snatched the phone, pulled out the long metal antenna, and strode away.

***

A chorus of chirping birds greeted Rhonda in the forest, as if awaiting her arrival.