There's an old saying: When God closes a door, he opens another door. Or maybe it's a window. Lincoln Loud had heard that maxim a thousand times before but it never rang true to him. In his life, once something was over, it was over, and there was never an easy and divine portal to the next thing. If a door was closed, brother, it was closed, and if he needed to get out through a window, he had to open it himself. Maybe other people's realities played out like a movie and they'd randomly land awesome jobs the same day they lost their old one, but in Lincoln's experience, the world didn't work that way.
Then, for once, it did.
Two months ago, something strange and singular happened, something so taboo and uncommon, so darkly beautiful, that it could change the face of an entire family - nay, an entire community - in a second. That thing was this:
He and his sister Lynn started having sex.
It was one of those things that just happened, like many sexual relationships do. You dont plan on it, you don't even have any conscious feelings for the other person, but something sparks a reaction, and like a carelessly tossed cigarette igniting a dry and rainless forest, a raging wildfire sweeps over you. He and Lynn were close and cared for one another...but not in a weird way. Their relationship, therefore, was a total surprise.
Looking back with the critical eye of a man desperately searching for clues as to where it all went wrong - or right - he was convinced that they were normal siblings. They weren't creepy close like the twin girls who walked around campus wearing the same outfits and holding hands like the little girls from The Shining. They didn't hug and kiss and feel each other up at the dinner table. He never stole her underwear out of the dirty clothes hamper and sniffed them. There was no sexual tension, no puppy love, no banjos pickin and a'grinnin, just a normal dude and his normal sister. They played together, they fought, they had their own lives and could go days or even weeks without interacting. Their family was close-knit, but that didn't mean they had to be shoved up each other's butts 24/7. They wouldn't go to pieces if they didn't spend time together. In fact, like most teenagers, sitting home and playing Scrabble with their family was the last place any of the Louds wanted to be. Lori was always off with Bobby, Lynn had sportsball practice of some kind almost every day of the year, Lincoln had his friend group, and everyone else did their own thing, no big. He was in a fandom for a cartoon about a big family once and the way fan writers depicted the family dynamic was bizarre. They said the family was close, but the family, as written in their stories, came off as creepy and codependent.
As a normal dude who lived in the normal world and did normal things, Lincoln could say unequivocally that a family can love each other and not be mental and emotional wrecks who live only for the unit, refuse to have friends outside the group, and cannot bear the thought of one day leaving the nest. In those fan fiction stories, brothers and sisters all lived together, at home, into their thirties and forties and associated with one another and one another only.
Bruh.
That's not normal.
If you're forty-five and can't bring yourself to leave your parents' house because muh famalee, there's something wrong and you should probably seek professional help. Lori left home at eighteen to go to college, and while she was nervous about taking that first big step into adulthood, she was excited too. Once she was gone, everyone missed her, of course - that was their sister, dog - but they adjusted. Lola never cried into her pillow because Lori wasn't around anymore, no one sat in the living room all bummed out and mourning, and Lori herself didn't go mad with regret and come running back home. She got homesick from time to time, but when you're hundreds of miles from home, in unfamiliar surroundings, that's normal. To hear some of those fan fictioneers tell it, Lori should have brought the whole family with her. Mom and Dad sitting in on your class? Perfectly normal. Only it wasn't, and if you rolled in with your obsessive helicopter family hovering over your shoulder, you'd be made fun of mercilessly, and Lincoln - from a big, loving family himself - would join right in because wow, what's your problem? Do you have a family Facebook account too? Do you all wear one big pair of underwear? Let me guess, you all sleep in the same bed, too. LOL, you're worse than the Turpin family. At least those kids wanted to leave.
Lincoln always felt like he was being uncharitable to the fandom perspective. The show was about a suburban family and their daily lives. It was supposed to be "wholesome" and "heartwarming" and stuff and a lot of people immersed themselves in that dynamic to escape their shitty lives in particular, or our crapsack world in general. He didn't think they were a bunch of creeps who still slept in their mom's bed at twenty-five and couldn't function in normal society, but damn, it got old.
Then again, maybe his family was strange.
Tl;dr: Lincoln was a normie whose relationship with his family was average. They were close but they didn't pride themselves on being one amorphous mass. He never once considered the possibility of boning his own sister.
Until it happened.
Back to unexpected sexual encounters. Look, they happen. Not really to Lincoln, but they did to other people. He was willing, in hindsight, to allow that they even happened among family members. Brother and sister are young and drenched in hormones, something happens, and boom, they're giving each other oral sex. Two cousins at a party, one suffering a nasty break up and the other consoling them. The booze starts to flow, their eyes meet, and faster than you can say yeehaw, she's got her feet behind her ears and he's banging like his life depends on it. Incest is a taboo topic, but if Yahoo! Anwers and other message boards are to be believed (and Lincoln didn't know if they could), it happens quite a bit more than people let on. He knew: He searched the web extensively after he and Lynn "got together." Someone who does something wrong, morally or legally, will often struggle with it and try to justify it to themselves, especially when it's something society really frowns upon. For instance, a pedophile might normalize their urges and search out other people like him in order to convince himself that he's really not all that messed up. Look, there are a lot of other people out there like me. They understand me. I feel so empowered. MAP RIGHTS FOREVER! Lincoln did the same. He read countless posts from people who claimed to be, or to have been, sexually or romantically involved with a family member. He was ashamed and felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. All the more so because while sex between family members might happen, what he and Lynn had wasn't just a random or even ongoing booty call. What they had...it felt like love.
They didn't just have sex to revel in the biolgical feeling, they had sex as an expression of their feelings. They kissed, stared into each other's eyes, and held hands as they moved their hips in tandem. If they were doing it for the mechanical sensation alone...okay, that's one thing, but they weren't, so it was something else entirely. Lincoln had been in love before and that heavy, fluttery feeling in his stomach he got when Stella or Jordan was around was the exact same thing he felt now when he and Lynn were together. He thought of her constantly and his chest ached every moment they were apart. At night, he dreamed of her and during the day, he was tense and on edge, waiting for the moment he could see her.
Because every law, societal norm, and, indeed, mental and biological impulse all conspired to stigmatize the act of incest, guilt weighed heavy on Lincoln's shoulders. He felt awful and disgusting for what he felt for Lynn, even more awful and disgusting than he did for what he did to her. He scoured the internet in the vague hopes that he could begin to believe that they were normal after all, and not a couple of freaks. In a way, he guessed, he wanted validation; he wanted someone to assuage his guilt and tell him it was okay. Like that web-surfing pedo, he wanted to read the words of others like him and come away thinking, "I don't have a problem, man, society has a problem."
Only he didn't get that. He read posts and threads related to incest but most of the responses to "I'm in love with my sister/brother" were negative. Oh, most came from people who were seemingly sympathetic and understanding, but they all still said, in a nutshell, "this is wrong, don't do it." The sheer amount of people who found themselves in love, lust, or sexual situations with a close relative heartened Lincoln, but it didn't make him feel any better about being in love with his sister. He had to do a lot of his own rationalizing to do that and even then, he always had a little niggle of guilt in the back of his mind, like he was doing something wrong.
What finally helped him get over it was Lynn. He loved her, full stop, and a love so pure and strong as the one he felt for her could never be morally wrong...except maybe if an adult felt it for a child. Neither one of them was a child, however. They were roughly the same age and on the same level emotionally and intellectually. Neither groomed the other and there was no weird or abusive power dynamic between them. They were two consenting adult siblings who - admittedly in defiance of literally everything - fell in love. No, it wasn't normal and it didn't happen often, but, hey, it happened. What should he do? Rip his shirt and dump a sack full of ashes over his head like a remorseful Bible character seeking atonement? The human psyche is a fragile thing. It can't withstand a constant barrage of shame and self-loathing. It is designed to deflect, interalize, and justify itself. Feeling guilt when you do something wrong is normal, but if you dwell on it day after day, week after week, you'll eventually collapse; we're just not made to handle that kind of punishment.
Bad guys, moral degenerates, pedos, rapists, sadists, crackheads, and everyone else with a socially unacceptable kink or pursuit must eventually come to terms with who they are. They have to, otherwise they go crazy. Lincoln Loud was in love with his older sister and no amount of mental self-flagellation would change that. Like they say, it is what it is. He couldn't stop anymore than a gay man could stop being gay. But, Linc, he could hear someone say, liking dudes is not comparable to LIKING YER FUCKIN SISTER. No, maybe it isn't...on the surface, but what is it they always say? LOVE IS LOVE? And wasn't there another one that basically said YOU LOVE WHO YOU LOVE? Gay men didn't choose to fall in love with other men or women, and Lincoln didn't choose to fall in love with his sister. In both cases, it just happened. Granted, he could theoretically love other women who weren't his sister while gay men couldn't love someone who wasn't a man, limiting them, but...yeah, Cupid's arrow hits you and that's that. Love occurs organically. If you have to sit there and work on it...it's not love. You can't force it, you have to let it come.
And sometimes...hell, maybe most of the time...you can't choose who it comes from. It didn't take Lincoln long to reach this point of view, but it did take a long of long nights, soul searching, and wishing he had a God to pray to. Slowly, he got a grip on himself and loosened up. He loved Lynn and she loved him. They weren't hurting anyone and they were really careful in the bedroom (no inbred squid babies for them), so was it really that bad? Was it anyone else's business? If someone stood in front of Lincoln and said, "You're gross, I don't approve of this," should he really care? Half of the things you do are a crime against humanity in someone's eyes. All of us are sinners in someone's bible and all of us are guilty in someone's kangaroo court of opinion. Are we supposed to let that govern what we do, who we love, and how we feel? So what if someone didn't like what he and Lynn were doing? Lincoln didn't like people who looked at kiddie porn, do you think that kept them awake at night? Jeez, Lincoln Loud isn't down with my porn stash, how ever will I cope?
Maybe that was a bad analogy. God, why did he keep comparing himself to pedophiles? He didn't know, but it wasn't because he was attracted to kids or anything. Gross. Just because he happily ate his sister's ass while she humped her pillow and moaned his name didn't mean he wanted to victimize children. If he had to guess, it was a lingering guilt thing. As much as he could justify his and Lynn's relationship, he still knew on some deep, primal level that it was wrong...at least in the eyes of society.
Anyway, no one was worried about what Lincoln thought of them and he, therefore, shouldn't worry about what they thought of him. The only person whose opinion mattered was Lynn. And, to an extent, his close friends and family, but only so far as it directly impacted his and Lynn's relationship. If Lori, say, didn't like her little brother and sister beating the breaks off each other but didn't do anything about it, great, don't like it. If she called the cops or told their parents, on the other hand, that would be a problem. If Mom and Dad didn't like it but accepted it, okay, Lincoln could live with that. If they didn't accept it, well that would be an even bigger problem. Lincoln didn't want to be crammed up his family's ass like a white-haired butt plug, but he also didn't want to be disowned and kicked to the curb.
The trick to avoiding that, Lincoln figured, was to just not get caught. He and Lynn were careful. They would go to class together and have lunch and dinner in the on-campus cafeteria but they made sure not to be too lovey dovey. They slipped and hugged or kissed each other, but they didn't let it all hang out. As far as anyone knew, they were a normal brother and sister who happened to be going to the same college. They hung out a lot because they were in strange surroundings and hardly knew anyone else; it was only natural that they would gravitate to one another. If there was sexual tension between them and other people felt it, they never said anything. Lincoln figured they could get by on the benefit of the doubt. No one, he thought, would suspect a normal brother and sister of being in a sexual relationship. The very idea was so far-fetched that even if someone saw a little slip, they wouldn't realize what they were seeing. They would doubt themselves, feel bad for thinking such an awful thing, and be less likely to study them too closely in the future. Really, who, when seeing a brother hug his sister, immediately draws the conclusion that they're banging? Most normal people just wouldn't because it's so far outside the norm, and if someone was perverse enough to go there, they wouldn't really believe it. They'd be like hur hur incest goes brrr and then move on with their day.
It wasn't a complex strategy and wouldn't help them if they got too wild, but it was something they could use to their advantage. All they had to do was keep from being caught red-handed and they were good.
A couple weeks after they started keeping it in the family, however, they got caught red-handed.
You had one job, Lincoln.
It was Lynn's birthday and she and Lincoln were in her bedroom, Lincoln giving her a present in the form of mind-blowing cunnalingus (at least Lincoln liked to think it was mind-blowing). Lynn's sportsball friends walked in and were treated to the image of their team captain's legs spread as far as they would go and her brother's face buried in her crotch. "Oh, my God," one said, "is that her brother?"
Lincoln could have died of embarrassment.
As soon as it registered that the jig was up, Lincoln knew that word of what he and Lynn were doing would spread across campus like a damning red stain. It probably wouldn't get back to Mom, Dad, or any of their sisters - i.e., the people who mattered - so that was good. Even so, their lives were pretty much ruined and they would be the laughing stock of the entire school. Lynn's friends would avoid her like Nickelback avoided making good music, Lincoln's few chums would get really quiet and awkward when he tried to sit with them, and everyone would openly stare at him and Lynn like they were curiosities in a roadside freakshow, some with mocking grins, others with looks of disdain.
The prospect made Lincoln sick.
So he and Lynn did what any sensible people in their predicament would do.
They moved schools.
Those three words make it sound easy, but it wasn't. It took weeks of paperwork and negotiation with their parents. They each had grants and student loans they had to consider and some of them were non transferable. If they left, they'd lose them and have to pay out of pocket, something neither could do.
Luckily for them, MSU was part of a network of colleges that worked together, making transferring a lot easier than it would be otherwise. If you attended one of those schools and decided you wanted to move, you could simply pick another from a list. Your records, credits, and everything else were already in the database so changing everything over was a breeze...in theory. In reality, however, you have to fill out a shitoad of forms, talk to the admissions officer, contact the dean and the admissions officer of the school you wanted to go to, and a bunch of other crap. Not every school on the list was accepting students at any given time and many of them didn't have the exact same curriculum as each other, so if you were studying X here but wanted to move, you might have to start studying Y instead.
There was also no guarantee that they would be able to transfer to the same school. As much as they wanted away from the judgemental stares and hateful mocking of their peers at MSU, neither was willing to part with the other to make it happen. If staying together meant enduring it, that is what they would do. They wouldn't like it, but they'd like being broken up even less.
One of the main things - if not the main thing - that attracted Lynn to MSU was its sports program, which was one apparently one of the best in the country. None of the colleges she and Lincoln could get into had a program quite as good. The next best one was at Mary Washington University in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and it was nothing to brag about. "That's where I want to go," she finally declared after much hemming and hawing.
Lincoln was fine with that. It had every class he'd need to graduate so what reason did he have to veto it? Virginia was a long way from home and not necessarily a place Lincoln wanted to live; there was nothing wrong with it, but what's fresh and exciting about a state like Virginia? California has big cities and lots of desert, Louisiana is famous for swamps and Cajuns, New York, New York is a hell of a town, and Virginia is just, well, Virginia. It ranks right up there with Iowa and Nebraska on the list of boring tourist destinations. That wasn't a valid reason to not go, so Lincoln sucked it up. As long as he had Lynn, it didn't matter where they lived.
Two months after they were caught hanky-pankying in Lynn's apartment, they bought a used car together and drove south east to Virginia, all of their things crammed into the trunk and the back seat. They spent two days on the open road, seeing the country and enjoying the freedom of the road and each other's company. Economically-depressed industry towns ringed Lake Michigan and soon gave way to flat farmland and dingy working-class towns often centered around a factory or prison, the kind of place where everyone works for a big employer whose closure would spell disaster for the entire region. Indiana blended seamlessly into Ohio and Ohio blended seamlessly into West Virginia, the lowlands turning to foothills, foothills turning to eroded and time worn mountains crowded with dense forest. Towns were few and far between and Lincoln made a game of counting how many pick-up trucks and Confederate flags he saw, but soon gave up because there were so many. Lincoln gazed out the window at the hills and ridges and rockfaces pressing against the shoulder of the interstate and quietly wondered how many moonshine stills and hillbilly shacks were back there, hidden from view. Everything Lincoln knew about Appalacha came from movies and TV shows produced in Hollywood so he knew the whole hillbilly thing was grossly exaggerated, but "exaggerated" didn't mean "non existent."
"Welcome home, Stinkcoln," Lynn said from behind the wheel. "They take kindly to people like us around here." She donned a crooked grin and Lincoln chuckled because it was kind of funny. West Virginia was infamous for inbreeding and would surely welcome them with open arms. Only Lincoln didn't believe that. Maybe marrying your first cousin was acceptable way back in 1900, but he seriously doubted even most hillbillies were okay with brothers marrying sisters. Today? Definitely no bueno. Lincoln pictured a hick in overalls and a straw hat, three teeth in his head, laughing hysterically when Lincoln told him about him and Lynn. Boy howdy, you's a bigger hillbilly 'an I is! The irony that he and Lynn were both from the Midwest - which is absolutely not associated with incest - was not lost him.
The Appalachian Mountains proper formed a natural border between West Virginia and Virginia. Lincoln was enchanted by the vast skies and green mountains spread across the western half of his new state. They graded down to rolling hills dotted with big horse farms and upscale wineries. Fredericksburg sat on the rocky banks of the Rappahannock River halfway between Richmond and Washington, DC. Seen from a distance, it put Lincoln in mind of postcards he'd seen in gas stations and gift shops back home. Old Town, a maze of cobblestone streets, quaint storefronts dating back to the Colonial period, alleyways, and half-hidden courtyards swept back from the river on a gentle hill topped by a palatial manor house that kept eternal watch over the environs and its children like a guardian angel. The spires of a gothic church rose loftily into the dusty blue sky and a white water tower with FREDERICKSBURG VA in cursive stood off to the left.
Lincoln was instantly taken by the city's historical charm and craned his neck to see as much of it as he could.
The campus of Mary Washinton University occupied a vast, rectangular tract of land stretching from US Route 1 in the north to Hanover Street in the south. Stately brick buildings presided over a network of walkways, student common areas, and benches. Hills fell away from the quad, leading to parking lots and the street beyond (called Sunken Road because the land on either side sloped down to it) and a marshy pond, most likely man made, brimmed with quacking ducks and a few other birds Lincoln could not identify.
Lynn and Lincoln had both been assigned to the Eagle Landing apartment building, a high rise on the other side of Route 1 owned by the school. Back at MSU, Lincoln's room was a typical dorm. The spaces here, however, were set up like literal apartments, each featuring two bedrooms with their own bathrooms, a spacious living room, and a full sized kitchen. Lynn was on the second floor and Lincoln on the sixth. His apartment was empty and he had the whole thing to himself, which was nice after having a roommate.
They visited the admissions office and got their schedule. Lincoln had decided to switch minors to journalism and his class was in Jefferson Hall, overlooking Jefferson Square, in an out of the way classroom in the basement. The professor was an older man with graying red hair and a beard streaked with white. He wore a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows over a blue shirt and yellow tie - every day - and drank his fair trade soybean coffee from a mug labeled MAGA TEARS. He gave fire and brimstone sermons about how it was the duty of the media to "Control and harness the flow of information to bring about radical social change and to quash harmful misinformation." To him, harmful misinformation meant anything that could potentially make Democratic candidates, causes, politicians, and social movements look bad. It didn't matter how much evidence there was to corroborate the story, journalists had a "responsibility" to not cover them. On the flip side, it was perfectly okay to publish hit pieces and misinformation about the other side, even if the claims are demonstrably false. "It's probably true anyway," he said bitterly.
Other than his burning hatred of people who did not think like him, Mr. Jordan was a cool guy. He had an assistant named Mr. Holloway who wrote for the Free-Lance Star, Fredericksburg's paper of note. He was tall and cadaverously thin with sunken cheeks but warm and genuine. He fumbled his way through a lecture on editorial practice and working under deadlines, and Mr. Jordan jumped in with his two cents. Come to find out, Mr. Jordan had never actually worked in journalism: He went straight from studying it to teaching it. Uh, is that even legal?
Since no one here knew Lynn and Lincoln were brother and sister, they were able to be open with their relationship. They held hands as they walked to their classes, kissed each other hello and goodbye (with tongue), and generally acted the part of the happy couple. Lincoln had no idea how liberating it would feel to show his love for Lynn in public. He was not an exhabitionist by any stretch of the imagination, but being able to put his arm around Lynn or kiss her on the cheek without the gripping terror of being found out was really nice.
On his and Lynn's fifteenth day at Mary Washington, Lincoln sat alone in the school cafe with a cup of Pepsi and his laptop open on the table before him. He was working on journalism homework that he really should have done the night before and sipping soda straight from the cup because only cucks, simps, incels, and quadriplegics used straws, not manly men like him. He was just getting into it when someone sat across from him. He looked up, and a pale boy with messy black hair and a gap in his teeth flashed a fevered smile. Lincoln blinked in surprise. The guy's name was Sid or Sal or something like that and he was in Lincoln's journalism class. He sat near Lincoln and they had occasionally made talk so small that Lincoln couldn't remember a single thing they'd spoken about.
"Hey," Lincoln said, guarded.
Sid-or-Sal nodded in that jittery way of his. "Hey," he said. "What'cha doin'?"
"Yesterday's home work," Lincoln said.
He had no idea why Sid-or-Sal (it was Sal) decided to come over and sit with him and kind of wished he hadn't. From the few conversations they'd had, Lincoln had ascertained that Sal wasn't exactly what you'd call right in the head. His eyes darted constantly around the room, never settling on one thing for too long He had a slight tick that made his jaw twitch, putting Lincoln in mind of that gag on Seinfeld where Jerry mocked his girlfriend's voice (helloooo), and his emaciated frame hummed with nervous energy. He didn't come across as muddled or confused, but Lincoln was pretty sure he had some kind of mental illness, and that weirded him out. He had nothing against mentalaly ill people, but their unpredictability scared him. Sure, Sal was a friendly guy now, but what if he took it into his head that Lincoln was trying to melt his brain with telepathic signals?
Lincoln hadn't taken any psych courses, but for a while, he was interested in mental illness and studied it. He suspected Sal was schizophrenic. Schizophrenia is a disorder often involving delusions. Schizophrenics make loose associations and see patterns where there are none. To the average person, their delusions - the government sending them messages through the microwave, for instance - make little sense, but to them,they make all the sense in the world, and if you understood how their minds work, you'll notice a cold and sensible logic to their actions that doesn't seem all that crazy at all. He remembered one case where the police did a welfare check on some guy who hadn't been seen in days and when they entered his apartment, they found black trash bags taped over the windows and towels stuffed underneath all the doors. Crazy, right? Makes no sense, right?
Wrong. Dude thought he was being watched. He wasn't, but he believed he had a problem and took steps to solve it. He even had evidence, saying cars passing in the street outside belonged to the New World Order and that the mailman was involved because the mailman looked at him funny one day.
In other words, schizophrenics incorporate real people and tangible events into their delusions. Who's to say Lincoln wouldn't make eye contact with Sal just as Sal was thinking about the conspiracy against him? Lincoln can read my thoughts...he knows...he's one of them...I better kill him before he kills me…
Schizophrenics are more likely to be the victim of a crime than the perpetrator of one, but that didn't put Lincoln at ease.
He couldn't bring himself to be rude to Sal, though, especially since Sal hadn't done anything wrong. He was a little weird, but the rest of it - Lincoln's psychoanalysis, diagnosis, and disquiet - was pure speculation. It would be pretty douchey of Lincoln to judge the guy based on nothing but his own assumptions. If Sal was schizophrenic, he was on medication or so had such a mild case that it didn't impact his thinking too much. The few times they talked, he was lucid and with it. Lincoln wasn't some SJW who pounded his chest about accepting people, he did it as a matter of course because that's what you're supposed to do. Being vocal about it is the same as letting everyone know you gave a homeless guy five bucks one time; you're looking for a pat on the back for doing something any decent human being would do. It'd be hypocritical of him to say that he accepted people but then not accept someone.
All those big, brick-like thoughts filtered through Lincoln's brain in no more than a few seconds, just long enough for Sal to reply. "You're flying by the...by the seat of your pants," he said, stumbling over his words.
"Yeah," Lincoln admitted, "I was up late with my girlfriend."
A big, toothy grin spread across Sal's face. "Yeah? L-Let me guess: N-Netflix and c-chill?"
"More like Hulu and culo."
Lincoln didn't expect Sal to get it, but he must have, because he wheezed laughter. "I read a comic book," he said, "but it had a sex scene, so literally the same thing."
"What comic book?" Lincoln asked.
"Tokyo Whores."
That caught Lincoln off guard. It also made him feel a little uncomfortable. He'd read some hentai in his day but would never admit it to anyone, except maybe for Lynn. "I've never heard of that one," he said.
"It's not as dirty as it sounds," Sal assured him. "It's about a brothel and all the girls are scanners."
As they talked, the cafeteria, nearly empty when Lincoln first sat down, started to fill up. Lincoln saw a few people he knew from his various classes. A few nodded in acknowledgement and Lincoln nodded back. "What's a scanner?"
Sal leaned in as if to impart a dark and terrible secret. "They're telepaths. They can read people's minds and stuff. There's this one scene where a really sleazy guy tries to rape one of the girls and she uses her mind to make his dick swell up and explode."
A shocked laugh escaped Lincoln's throat. "Okay then."
"It's crazy," Sal said. "That's why I read, you never know what's going to happen next."
Eventually, Sal left and Lincoln packed his laptop into its bag and slung it over his shoulder. He left the building and walked across campus, meeting Lynn outside Washington Hall. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and she was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back from her forehead in a ponytail. She grinned deviously when she saw him, and Lincoln's heart pitter pattered in his chest. She walked over and they kissed, Lincoln's hands going to her hips. She melted against him and snaked her hands around his waist to grab his butt. Their noses brushed and they looked into one another's eyes, sharing the same breath. "You're late," Lynn said.
"No, I'm not," Lincoln said.
"You should have been here two minutes ago. Who is she, Lincoln? What does she have that I don't'?"
Lincoln laughed. "You know I need longer than two minutes."
He put his arm around her shoulders and they started walking back in the direction of the dining hall. Lynn's classes were done for the day and all she had left was basketball practice at four. Lincoln, on the other hand, had three classes back to back to back and wouldn't be free until after six. At the cafe, they kissed again and parted ways, Lynn going inside to get something to eat before practice. "I'll see you later," she said and pulled her hand gently away from Lincoln's. She bit her bottom lip and suggestively waggled her eyebrows, all but telling him that by see you, she really meant fuck you. You know...fuck you later? Eh, Lincoln's wit wasn't the best right now. It was mid-afternoon and he'd be up longer than a dick on VIagra. His brain was spent, mind muddled. Come back later.
Mr. Jordan wasn't in class today, something about him taking off to go to Florida and protest a president who hadn't been in office in nearly ten years, so Mr. Holloway filled in. Lincoln liked Mr. Jordan enough, but Mr. Holloway actually worked in journalism and Lincoln sort of looked up to him. A few days ago, they struck up a conversation and Mr. Hollway told him what it's like to write for a newspaper. Imagine you're on fire, everything around you is on fire, you missed your deadline by five hours, and your editor - who hates you personally because fuck you - literally lives in your skull. He screams, he stomps, and doesn't wipe his feet, and he keeps you awake all night telling you how much you suck and how he needs pictures of Spider-Man on his desk by 7am but your shift doesn't start until 9. That's the newspaper business on a good day.
Ouch.
As hard as it sounded, Lincoln was drawn to the business. Being in an actual newsroom buzzing with activity, going out into the field and interviewing people, working long into the night so you can break a hot story in the morning paper...that sounded really cool.
Lincoln got done with his work first and spent the rest of the class sitting at the desk and talking to Mr. Holloway. A few other kids were just as interested in the wonderful world of newspapers joined them and Mr. Holloway told them stories from the field: The time he covered a mob hit and uncovered a crew of New York gangsters operating in Fredericksburg; the time he went to photograph a murder scene and caught the killer returning to the scene (the killer chased him through a stand of forest and he hid in a cave); the time a bunch of people saw a UFO off Route 3 and men in black came into the newspaper office to helpfully suggest they not print the story because "something bad might happen to everyone here." As he spoke, Mr. Holloway came alive, his ever present discomfort fading until he exuded rare confidence and self-possession. Lincoln was certain most if not all of those stories were made up, but he didn't care; they were entertaining and he listened anyway, totally enrapt.
At the end of the day, Lincoln crossed the enclosed footbridge spanning US 1 and linking Eagle Landing with the campus and climbed the stairs to his apartment. He let himself in, grabbed a Coke from the fridge, and took a long, thirsty drink. He went into his bedroom and froze.
Lynn lay in bed wearing nothing but sheer black negligee that showed off her toned and shapely body. She half-lidded her eyes and tilted her head slightly back. "Welcome home, Lincoln," she purred.
Downstairs, Lincoln's dck stirred and came to life like a hairless mole rat sniffing something sweet. He threw his backpack off and pulled his shirt quickly over his head. Lynn giggled at his eagerness and beckoned him with her finger. Lincoln yanked down his pants, stumbled, and fell against the desk. Lynn laughed richly and Lincoln hurriedly pulled them off, turning the legs inside out in the process. In just his briefs, he knelt on the bed next to Lynn and she ran her hands over his chest. "Sexy," she said.
"Beautiful," he replied.
He hovered his lips over hers and she kissed him, her legs spreading in silent invitation. Lincoln mounted her, slipped his hands through her hair, and stroked her tongue with his as his hips began to rock, his cotton-swaddled bulge prodding her middle.
Lincoln Loud had a lot of homework to do that night.
And as usual…
...it didn't get done.
A full moon hung heavy over the city of Fredericksburg, its face sporadically obscured by passing clouds. Seen through the lattice of barren treetops, it resembled a grinning skull, seeming to look down upon the killer's work with gruesome approval.
Shuddering against the chill, the killer stuffed his hands into the pockets of his oversized pea coat and turned onto College Ave, which flanks the southern edge of the University of Mary Washington campus. Opposite the college, residential homes slumbered among dead trees, their windows black and their doors shut tightly against the cold. The killer followed the sidewalk for several blocks, listening to the silence of the night, his ears attuned to catch the slightest sound.
Save for the wind, there was nothing.
Deflated, he crossed to the residential side and walked back to Highway 1. On his way, he met only a cat streaking from one bush to another.
Back where he began, the killer checked the time on his cellphone. 2:30am.
It was getting late.
Highway 1, which cleaves through the heart of Fredericksburg, is lined with restaurants, shopping centers, and gas stations. Here, south of the college, the only businesses still open were a Pizza Hut (which closed at three), and a McDonald's which stayed open 24/7, mainly for the benefit of the students. He briefly considered walking into the McDonald's and opening fire, but while the orgy would temporarily satisfy the Dog's bloodlust, it wouldn't be enough to truly sate him.
Standing now by an El Camino parked next to a utility pole, the killer scrambled for an idea. He had to kill someone; if he came home empty-handed...
An idea struck him then. He took his cellphone back out and went to Google. Five minutes later, he was talking to a woman.
"Where are you?" she asked.
He gave her the address of the McDonald's.
"It'll be ten minutes," she said.
"That's okay," he replied and hung up.
Revitalized, he walked up the sloping street to the restaurant, its ubiquitous golden arches glowing soft yellow in the night. Being careful to avoid the security cameras he knew must be watching him, he sat down at the curb and faced the street: Across the way, a strip mall hunkered against the light of the moon, waiting impatiently for day.
Several cars passed in the street, one of them a city squad car, all white and blue and gold trim. Through the darkened window, he caught a glimpse of blue computer light bathing a tired and haggard face.
Fifteen minutes after sitting down, the taxi arrived, its headlights washing over him. He got up, went to the back door, and got in.
"How you doing?" the cabbie asked.
The interior was dark. The killer couldn't see the cabbie's face, which, he figured, was just as well. "I'm good."
"Where you going?"
The killer gave him the address of someone he knew long ago.
"Alright."
From the McDonald's, the cabbie followed Route 1 to Alvey Drive, which cuts through a wooded corner of the UMW campus. At the end, he turned onto Sunken Road, which passes between a comfy residential neighborhood and a massive hill, its summit dotted with the ancient brick tombs of academia.
When they reached the corner of Sunken Road and Hanover Street, the killer, his stomach rolling, said, "Here's fine."
"You sure?" the cabbie asked.
"Yes."
The killer took the revolver from his pocket, wincing at the heavy, slimy feel of it, and put it against the cabbie's head.
When the killer jerked the trigger, the sound of Judgement Day filled the car, deafening him. The cabbie flew forward in a spray of blood and brain matter, slumping over the steering wheel. The car began to roll forward, and the killer scrambled out.
The car angled across the street, over the sidewalk, and down a short embankment, coming to rest against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree.
Shaking (and not from the cold), the killer shoved the gun into his pocket and disappeared into the night.