Hello, everyone. As some of you might know, I tend to cross The Loud House with existing horror movies (like A Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th). This story merges The Loud House with Stephen King's "The Stand." For those of you who have never read the book (or seen the movie), it's about a manmade plague escaping from a government lab and killing approximately 99 percent of the world's population. The survivors begin having strange dreams, and eventually gravitate to one of two camps: The good guys under Mother Abigail, a 108-year-old prophet of God in Nebraska (later Boulder, Colorado), and the bad guys under Randal Flagg, a demonic, antichrist like figure in Las Vegas. The stage is then set for the ultimate showdown between good and evil.

In Lucy's Stand, Lucy survives the pandemic and finds herself drawn to Flagg. Will she realize her mistake before it's too late, or will she give herself entirely to evil?

We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun
But the wine and the song like the seasons have all gone
We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun
But the wine and the song like the seasons have all gone

- Terry Jacks

It's funny how quickly things can change. On the morning of June 26, Lucy Loud woke from a fitful sleep, her neck sore and her back aching. Muted morning light trickled in through the window over Lincoln's bed, painting the room a gloomy gray. Lucy blinked her eyes and stretched. She had fallen asleep in a kitchen chair just before dawn, her chin lolling against her chest. By the look of the light, she had only been asleep an hour or two, but her body felt like it had been longer.

Still partially asleep, Lucy bent over and felt Lincoln's forehead. It was cool and clammy. His fever had broken.

Which meant that he didn't have much longer.

Tears flooded Lucy's eyes, and she got up, leaving the room. In the hall, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. She knew it was coming. She knew it was coming just as surely as she knew it when Luna and Lynn and Mom and Dad died. Still, a small part of her hoped. It was cruel. They always got better before they died. The fever broke, they felt stronger, they believed, for a short time, that they were going to beat it, but then they went downhill again and died.

He's going to be hungry, she thought dazedly. They always were.

She went downstairs and into the kitchen, moving like a girl in a nightmare. She grabbed a can of soup from the pantry and took it to the fridge, staring at the label. Progresso chicken noodle. It was his favorire.

She lost it then, the tears overwhelming her. Clutching the edge of the counter, she wept, her entire body shaking. He was going to die so she was going to make his favorite soup. She was going to watch him die just like she watched the rest of her family die. She was going to sit helplessly by while it happened. Powerless.

Rage swept through her, and she slammed the soup can into the side of the microwave, denting both. She slammed it again and again, sobbing as she did so. The can fell from her hands and she sank to her knees, resting her head against the cabinet door.

It's the end of the world. Everyone's dying and you're going to survive and be totally, utterly alone.

That thought scared her. She envisioned herself picking through the decaying remains of Royal Woods, dirty, alone, the only person left alive in the whole world.

Lincoln needs his breakfast.

That brought her back. Lincoln needed her, and here she was crying on the kitchen floor. She tittered nervously and got to her feet. Robotically, he opened the can and poured the contents into a chipped bowl. She stuck it in the microwave and heated it for three minutes. When it came out, it was hot, so she dropped a couple of ice cubes in. She put the bowl, a spoon, and a can of soda on a serving tray and carried it up the stairs, moving slowly, terrified of dropping it all.

When she entered Lincoln's room, he was sitting up, his head thrown back. When he heard her, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Lucy replied evenly. She sat the tray across his lap. "I made your favorite soup. I figured you'd be hungry."

"Thanks," he said.

Lucy sat in the chair and looked at her hands.

"How's everyone else?"

She blinked. "Luan's hanging in there."

That was a lie. Luan died at 5:45 that morning, gasping for breath. Her eyes were wide and terrified. All Lucy could do was hold her hand.

"That's all?" Lincoln asked.

Lucy nodded.

Lincoln stared down into his soup.

"How do you feel?"

"Okay," he said. "I think I might be getting over it."

That's what Luan thought, too.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," Lucy said. Before Lisa fell sick and died, she ran a battery of tests on the "Superflu" in hopes of producing a vaccine. She fell before she could, but she found, or so she said, that roughly 1 percent of the population would be naturally immune. Lucy supposed she was one of them. Though she feared she was the only one.

"That's good," Lincoln said. He started eating. "Can you turn the TV on?"

The previous evening, Lucy carried the old black and white TV into Lincoln's room and sat it on the nightstand so that he would have something to watch. She got up, crossed the room, turned it on, and went back to her chair.

On the screen, CNN flashed images of fire and destruction. Looters ran rampant through the streets of New York City, while soldiers burned massive piles of bodies along I-95. The scroll along the bottom read: - MARTIAL LAW NOW IN EFFECT – PRESIDENT LEAVES WASHINGTON – SUPERFLU REPORTED IN LONDON, MOSCOW – ROLLING BLACKOUTS IN CALIFORNIA, NEW YORK – VACCINE IN DEVELOPMENT.

Neither one of them spoke. What could they say?

Lincoln finished half of his soup then sat his spoon down. "I'm tired," he said simply.

Lucy nodded grimly. That's how it went. They got tired, they laid down, then an hour later, they were gone.

"I'll take this," she said, grabbing the tray. She sat it in the hall and closed the door.

For a while, Lincoln laid back, looking at the ceiling. "You remember that time we went camping because I couldn't decide whether we should go to Dairyland or the beach?"

Lucy nodded. Remembering.

"That was fun."

It was fun. Just them, in nature, hiking, swimming, enjoying each others' company. Lucy blinked back tears. What she would give to go back to that time. She would have spent more time with her family. She would have put her stupid book down and hugged her sisters.

"Or that time you flushed that pony comic and I took the blame."

Lucy nodded. "Yeah," she said, her lips quivering. She didn't trust herself to say more, but she did, "You're a good brother."

Lincoln chuckled. "You're paying it back, though."

After that, he lapsed into sleep, and Lucy dvided her attention between him and the TV. Pictures of soldiers shooting looters were followed by reports of highways being closed to traffic. A man in New York City claimed troops were stationed at the Lincoln Tunnel, blocking exit from Manhattan.

In bed, Lincoln slowly turned for the worst. His neck started swelling and sweat stood out on his forehead. His breathing became more and more labored.

I can't do this. Not again.

Lincoln stirred. His eyes fluttered.

I've already done it twelve times. Please, God, don't make me do it again. Please, God, please, please, please...

His eyes flew open. He was on his side now, choking.

Tears obscured Lucy's vision.

Please, God, please, not again. Let him live...

He reached for her. He was gasping, his body trembling. She took his hand in hers and wept. So cried so hard that it masked the sound of Lincoln drowning in his own phlegm. His hand squeezed her tightly. Painfully. Their life together flashed through her mind, and she cried harder.

Eventually, his grip loosened. His hand fell away.

She looked at him.

His face was twisted in agony, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth crusted with foam.

Lucy got up and ran, bumping into the door frame and staggering into the hall, where she collapsed, her body wracked with the force of her sobs.

She stayed that way for a long time.