Freedom Day (Ironcliff Falls #3)

Chapter 1

Kayla

The fireworks have already started, and it’s not even nighttime out yet.

What’s the point of blowing your money into the sky if you can’t even see the outcome?

I sigh, watching the last kid leave my classroom and start packing my briefcase.

That’s all the kids talked about today—the damn Freedom Day Parade.

I know why they love it, but these kids don’t understand all the dangers lurking in the dark once the sun sets.

I can’t wait to leave for my camping trip.

I’m ready to get away from this town for the weekend.

I need to restock my meat for the next month.

I can nearly taste it just thinking about it.

Most people turn their nose up to human meat, but I enjoy the texture and the taste.

My father taught us how to fillet a human body when I was only seven.

Seven. Some kids learned how to ride bikes.

I learned how to separate muscle from bone.

Mom would cook it right up in the oven or fry it on the stove like it was straight from a cow.

I was unaware it was such a taboo thing until my mid-teenage years.

One day, I invited my best friend over for dinner, and when she asked what we were having, I told her the truth.

Calf chops. She laughed and said, “What's that from? A baby cow?” I remember giving her a puzzled look. “No, it's from a human leg.”

She ran from me. Literally ran. Like I’d grown teeth and claws in front of her. She never told anyone, though, which also always confused me. I learned that day that the way my family lived was… different.

As I got older, I kept my eating habits to myself. Eating normal food when out and about, and in the safety of my own home, I ate what my mother would always cook. It was tradition after all.

Once I became an adult and moved out on my own, I learned I had to fend for myself if I wanted to continue eating the way my family had.

I had to choose my victims. I had to choose wisely.

So every year, I go on a trip up to Ironcliff Falls Campground.

The people there are secluded, and when it comes to society, a lot of them are scum.

I walk to my car, tossing my briefcase in the passenger seat, and start the engine. I need to get ready for tonight. I can feel the nerves pulling tight at just the thought of tasting their delectable skin.

The ride home is eventless, aside from a kid almost hitting my car with his bike at the stoplight. He wasn’t even looking before he started crossing the street. He’s lucky I was paying attention to both of us.

I toss my bag inside the front door and close it behind me, slipping off my shoes. I need to shower before tonight and make sure my tools are ready to grab and go for this trip.

I shower quickly, letting my hair air dry in a towel before throwing on some clothes and heading into the basement.

I love the smell down here. It reeks of old dust and burning flesh.

It reminds me of my parents' house growing up. We had this old shed out back that my dad used to hang the people up in. He would let the blood drain into the pans below, and then he had an entire station set up for retrieving the meat. I wanted to mimic that. So when I had this house built, I made a special place to drain bodies. I told the contractor it was for processing deer, and he didn’t ask any questions.

I step down the last step and hit the basement floor.

The concrete below is cold, but welcoming.

Chains hang along the cobblestone wall, ready to have my victim attached to them.

But not this weekend. I plan on setting up camp at a site deep in the woods to do my work.

I’d let the evening air float around us while we enjoyed the serenity.

I’m sure that would be a peaceful death for them.

Running my hand along the stone, I let the cool seep into my skin before walking over to my carving table. This is where the magic would happen if I were doing this at my house. The skin is expertly cut from their muscles until their beautiful red meat underneath shows.

I pull out each drawer to make sure my tools are still where I left them.

They are. I reach for my dad’s cleaver. He always used it to cut the victim’s head off.

I can still imagine the blood dripping from the blade when he was done.

I place it gently in the duffel bag in the sheath on the side made exactly for it.

The scalpels are next. I grab a few, setting them in their specific sheaths as well, and reach for the bone saw. I left this at the house one time… never again. I never want to suffer through chopping a body into pieces with a damn axe again.

I check the contents of my bag. Everything is in its rightful place, and I zip it up, take one last glance around the space, and head for the stairs.

Leaving my duffel by the front door, I wander down the hall toward my bedroom.

I make sure to pack a few changes of clothes, some snacks for the road, and a gallon of water to put in the back of my camper.

The stupid thing loves to run hot on long drives, and I have about a two-hour drive ahead of me.

I grab all of my bags and drag them out to the camper. Using my keys, I unlock the side door of the vehicle and step inside. Immediately, the smell of must slaps me in the face, and my nose scrunches. Fucking gross.

I haven’t used it since last July, and before that, we only used it for vacations when I was a kid. I got it when my dad passed. Lucky me.

I kick the cabinet in front of me. “Piece of shit. Don’t break down on me this year.”

As if it's answering back, the settling of the tires moves the camper and shifts me to the side. I roll my eyes, packing away my snacks into the fridge and cabinets, and then settle in the driver’s seat.

I turn the key. Full tank. Thank god. I did not want to stop for gas on the way.

I fucking hate getting gas. Nothing left to do other than hit the road.