STR2D3PO: Uh...you can't. I deleted it and while I have a copy saved, it's on my PC which died at the end of December 2017. Maybe I can access it one day, but for now, it's one of those precious lost treasures of literature. J/k, obviously, it stinks.

LoudRisque: Why doesn't No Way Home count? I happen to think that's probably, all together, an even better story than Reeling in the Years, and as far as Gen 3 sin kids go, it's the only serious story to ever explore the concept. At least to my knowledge. There are a few Gen 3 characters but no one uses them or takes them seriously because almost no one wants to handle the concept. So if you're itching for Gen 3 content, my man, you are SOL.

Balrogdemorgothe: It's revealed later on that by this point, the Louds have already been inbreeding for several generations, I never go too deep into lineage, but I imagine Ronnie Anne was a victim of the family that Lincoln raped (with Bobby being another one of their victims), and Bobby Jr. just inherited his father's bad genes.

Jason Chandler: It's based on the original and on its second sequel, Leatherface: Texas Chainsaw Massacre III.

Shaeril McBrown: Please do. There is a disappointing lack of horror stories in this fandom.

Lyrics to Time of the Season by The Zombies (1968)

They stopped at a roadside gas station five miles from where they left Bobby Jr. The hanging metal sign out front, speckled with rust, proclaimed it LAST CHANCE, and for some reason, that didn't sit well with Flagg. The clapboard structure, white paint peeling from it in long, curling strips, sat on the right side of the highway, its ancient pumps standing dutifully by and its overgrown side lawn strewn with decomposing auto parts. A tow truck with a single orange rotating light on the roof was parked near an open garage, and a man in gray coveralls sat in a canned rocker on the covered porch. Flagg pulled in, the car's tires kicked up a choking cloud of dust, and Abby waved her hand in front of her face.

He drew alongside one of the pumps and cut the engine; the man got up and came over, his hands wringing a dirty rag. The desiccated breeze tossed his lank white hair, and as he got closer, Flagg realized he wasn't as old as he first thought. Thirty, maybe thirty-five, and beefy, his face was smattered with freckles and his slight overbite put Flagg in mind of a rabbit. His tanned cheeks were smudged with motor oil and his coveralls were so caked with filth they looked like they could stand up on their own...and walk away. He rested one arm on the roof of the car and leaned into Abby's window. The name stitched above his left breast was LOGAN.

"Howdy," he said in an affable tone, "you folks need some gas?"

Flagg considered. They had well over half a tank, but this was their last chance to fuel up; apparently nothing existed beyond this point but untamed and uncharted wilderness. "Yeah, top her off," Flagg said, then glanced at Vale in the mirror. His sweaty face was peaked and his nostrils flared. "You Band-Aids and stuff in there?"

"Sure do," Logan confirmed, "someone hurt?" He darted his eyes from Abby to Flagg to Vale, and maybe it was Flagg's imagination, but his face seemed to shine with giddy anticipation, lending him the appearance of an excited boy.

Almost like he hoped one of them was hurt.

"He cut himself," Flagg said vaguely and hooked his thumb at Vale.

"Well, we got everything you need for cuts, scrapes, and burns," Logan grinned.

While Abby took Vale inside, Flagg threw open the door, got out, and leaned against the front end closest to the building. He plopped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and inhaled, the smoke rolling warmly into his lungs. Logan grabbed one of the hoses from the pump, came around, and shoved the nozzle into the tank. Flagg checked his phone and frowned. Still no service. "How come the cell phones don't work around here?" he asked.

"Someone blew up the tower," Logan said. He chuckled and fondly shook his head. "Second time that's done happened. Company's just stopped trying."

Flagg furrowed his brows. "Blew it up?"

"Yessir," Logan said, "some people round here don't like cellphones. Can't say I do neither. They're nothing but trouble."

There was a bitter edge in his voice, as though cellular phones had personally done him wrong. What was it with the people around here?

Honestly, he didn't care. He just wanted to get the hell to Cali.

Then he remembered they were lost.

Reaching through Abby's window, he snatched the map from the dask, opened it, and laid it on the hood. He studied the red and blue lines representing interstates and secondary roads, and finally puzzled out that they needed to pick up I-73. The only problem was: He had no fucking clue how to get there from here. "Hey," he said and glanced at Logan, "how do you get to Interstate 73?"

Logan yanked the nozzle from the tank, returned it to the pump, and came over. He bent over the map and gave it a cursory look. "There's a dirt road about four miles up," he said haltingly, and nodded in the direction Flagg had been driving. "It's on the right. You take that and it'll bring you to Route 15. You take a left, and just keep going 'til you hit it."

Flagg looked at the map and nodded to himself. Route 15 did indeed meet I-73 north of Newt.

"You want me to check the oil?" Logan asked. "It won't take a minute, and I'll do it free. Don't want you folks breaking down."

Tossing his cigarette onto the ground, Flagg stomped it out. "Sure, I'd appreciate that."

Leaving Logan to it, Flagg crossed the lot and climbed the steps fronting the porch, old wood creaking beneath his feet. Inside, the store was a pit of humid shadows. A tall, severe looking woman with red hair manned the register, a scowl on her face. She tracked Flagg with her eyes as he walked around. "There a bathroom here?" he asked.

"In the back," she grumbled in a Russian accent.

"Thanks," he said. She didn't reply, but he didn't expect her to. He knew a contemptuous bitch when he saw one.

The bathroom was a single toilet gig with dirty tile floors, splintered wood walls, and cracking fixtures. The mirror over the sink was opaque with grime, and the slimy water trickled impotently from the faucet. Jesus Christ, Flagg thought, why are rednecks so fucking dirty? I get it, you live in the south, doesn't mean you have to be a goddamn slob.

Done, he went back into the store. Vale and Abby stood before the cooler lining the back wall, and Flagg walked over. He slipped his arm around Abby's waist and scanned the selection. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he repeated. "I don't see any booze."

Abby opened her mouth to reply, but the woman cut him off. "We no sell al-co-hol," she said distastefully.

Was she eavesdropping?

A shiver went down his spine, and suddenly, he wanted the hell out of here. He opened the door, releasing a cool puff of air, and grabbed a Mountain Dew at random. He didn't like Mountain Dew but he'd deal with it. "Let's go," he said.

At the counter, he sat his drink down, along Abby's, Vale's, a pack of Band-Aids, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The woman glared at him, and it took everything Flagg had not to snap at her. It had been a long day, he was tired, some psychopath left a severed hand in his car, and now this, a random, surly Russian transplant smack dab the middle of the Deep South with no rhyme, reason, or explanation.

"10.50," she said.

Flagg whipped out his wallet, grabbed a crumpled ten and a torn five, and laid it on the counter. "Keep the change," he said.

She made no move to bag his purchases, and with an irritated sigh, he gathered it all into his arms. Outside, Logan slammed the hood and dusted his hands. Abby had Vale sit in the passenger seat with his feet planted on the ground, knelt, and poured alcohol on his wound. He hissed through his teeth and she winced in sympathy. "Sorry," she said.

Flagg went around the front and opened the driver side door. When Logan spoke behind him, he jumped in alarm. "Now, mister," the white haired man said, "I don't judge people, but…" he squinted against the glare of the sun and tilted his head to one side. "Why's there a hand in your car?"

"Long story," Flagg said, "it doesn't belong to us."

Logan looked confused. "It don't?"

"We picked up a hitchhiker," Abby said, "and he pulled that out of a bag."

"Then attacked me with a knife," Vale added.

Logan's brows shot up, and a strange, knowing twinkle crept into his eyes. "He did? You alright? Y'all can't be picking people up like that, lotta crazies in the world."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Flagg said, "especially around here."

He expected Logan to be offended, but inexplicably, he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Abby, Flagg, and Vale watched him warily. Perhaps Flagg was paranoid, but Logan's eyes glinted with the same malicious light as Bobby Jr.'s. "Most everyone's related in these parts and...well...inbreeding happens." He giggled and slapped his knee. "Everyone's a little off here, don't pay 'em no mind."

"Right," Flagg drew and looked at Abby. "You ready?" There was an imploring hilt to his voice.

"Yes," she replied quickly.

Before they left, Flagg used a rag borrowed from Logan to pick up the hand, then wrapped it around. "I'll take it," Logan said, "give him a proper burial." His smile sharpened and a cold wind gusted through Flagg's soul.

Whatever. Fuck this place. I'm out.

Sitting behind the wheel, he started the engine, and Logan stepped back from the window. "That road's four miles up," he said, "you'll know it when you see it."

"Thanks," Flagg said. Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he turned to see the woman standing on he porch, her arms crossed and the hem of her plain, pale pink dress whipping in the strengthening breeze. With her was a little Japanese girl, and long after Flagg drove off, he turned her expression over and over in his head: Watery eyes, downturned lips, knocking knees...she looked scared.

"What's up with this road?" Abby asked, startling him. Vale stared at the passing countryside: Low, barren hills, clusters of trees and tangled underbrush, vast fields, and a blue water tower in the distance. The faded black stenciling on the face screamed LOUDVILLE.

Flagg changed lanes to pass a battered pick up truck with wooden bed sides. "It'll take us to the interstate," he said.

"How far's the interstate?" she asked.

"About twenty miles," he estimated.

She nodded.

From there, they lapsed into companionable silence, the only sound the hum of tires on the pavement. Flagg lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out through his nose. He stole glances at Abby, who rested her head against the seat with her eyes closed, and an affectionate smile touched his lips. He wasn't an overtly emotional man, but fierce love and tenderness flooded his chest, and he laid his hand on her leg. Before he met Abby, he was a sad and lonely man who drink too much and ate his dinner over the sink. He was angry, hopeless, and hated the world. Then, like an angel, she entered his life and made everything better. He loved her intelligence, he loved her determination, and most of all, he loved that no matter what came, he could always count on her to have his back. The world is a cold, hard place, and before her, he believed it was every man for himself, that no one ever truly loved or cared for anyone else.

But he was wrong, and despite his reputation as a wry dickhead, he liked being proven wrong.

"Love you," he said.

"Love you too," she replied.

A mile later, the trees flanking the right side of the road fell away, and the landscape opened up, flat and sun-baked. A narrow dirt road appeared, and Flagg took that to be the one Logan mentioned. He slowed and turned onto it, the car's tires dipping into a pothole and jostling Abby from her reprieve. Flagg held the wheel with both hands and let up on the gas. The frame jerked and shook, then the road smoothed out. "Are you sure this is it?" Vale asked. "Doesn't look like it goes to the highway."

"This is it," Flagg said, even though he wasn't entirely sure.

How long did Logan say it was? Did he even say at all? Flagg tried to remember but couldn't. Oh well, guess they'd find out.

Two miles later, with a distant stand of forest way off to the right and open wilderness on the left, a shudder went through the car, and the steering wheel locked in Flagg's hands. A terrible grinding sounded from the engine, and thin white smoke shot out from the creases between the hood and the front end. Flagg's heart dropped. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"What's wrong?" Vale asked.

Abby sat up straight and yawned as Flagg pulled to the side of the road. He cut the engine and sat back against the seat...then flashed and punched the wheel. "Goddamn it!"

Ignoring Vale and Abby's questions, he popped the hood, got out, and lifted it, hot metal seering his fingertips. A column of smoke rushed out and wrapped itself around him like an angry spirit, and he waved his hand in front of his face. Abby and Vale got out and stood anxiously on either side of him, their grim expressions like those of mourners at a funeral. Flagg put his hands on his hips and blew a puff of air. "Perfect," he said, "just fucking perfect." He looked around and saw nothing: No roads, no houses, no people, no life. He pulled out his cell phone, hoping against hope they'd crossed into a different service area.

They hadn't.

"Fuck," he spat. His temper, frayed and held in check by only threads, snapped, and he slammed the phone hard against the ground.

"Calm down," Abby said softly and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He shook with rage, and it was all he could do to keep from kicking the headlights in, smashing the windshield, and overturning the damn, stupid car like the Hulk on his period.

The only reason he held back was Abby.

"What now?" Vale asked fearfully.

Now, I fucking walk back to that gas station, Flagg thought. He pulled away from Abby's touch, went to the driver side door, and grabbed his Mountain Dew. Sweat coursed down the back of his neck in hot rivulets and stung his eyes; he'd be lucky to make it a mile before melting like an ice cream cone on a hot sidewalk.

He twisted the cap off and took a drink, then turned to his companions, who watched him expectantly. "I'm gonna walk back to the gas station."

Abby's brow knitted, but she didn't say anything; it was either that or sit here and hope someone happened by. "Alone?" she finally asked.

"Yeah," Flagg said, "you guys stay here and watch the car."

In truth, he didn't want Abby out there. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make it, and he refused to put her through an arduous six mile death march.

"Flagg…" she started sternly.

"Just stay here," he said, "someone might come by."

A look of displeasure flickered across her soft features, and Flagg broke. He went to her and cupped her hips in his hands. "Just stay here, please," he said gently. "I don't wanna leave the car alone."

She opened her mouth to protest further, but snapped it closed again and heaved an irritated breath through her nose. "Fine," she said.

Flagg lingered for a moment, wracking his brain for something to muffle the blow, then gave up and pecked her cheek. "I'll be back soon," he said.

She sighed and touched the side of his face. "Be careful out there."

"I will," Flagg promised. "You're in charge. Protect Vale from hitchhikers, okay?"

Vale rolled his eyes and shook his head.

He kissed Abby again, this time on the lips, and her tongue fleetingly caressed his. "Okay," she said with a mischievous grin, "I'll keep him safe."

"Good girl," Flagg said.

Shoving the bottle into his back pocket, Flagg turned and started down the road with an agitated breath. Just his luck, stranded in the middle of nowhere and forced to Battan his way through the east Texas badlands. "I love you," Abby called.

"Love you too," Flagg replied.

Standing side-by-side, Abby and Vale watched him until he disappeared around a bend. When he was gone, Abby raked her fingers through her damp, tangled hair and pursed her lips. A knot of desolation formed in her chest and enveloped her stomach, throbbing like the palpitations of a panicked heart. It had been a long, strange day, and watching Flagg leave, she got the eerie sense that she would never see him again.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the passenger side, sat down, and propped her feet on the running board. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them to her chest. It was closing in on evening, the scarlet light weak and filtering from the sky, and a coolness infused the breeze that was nice, but not enough to keep her from perspiring. Vale stood by the smoking front end for a moment, then crossed to the back door and sat down. "Of all the places to break down," he said.

"Tell me about it," she said and hanged her head.

"At least you're white," Vale said, "down here, they drag people like me behind pickup trucks."

Abby snorted humorlessly.

"It's true," Vale said, "south's the worst place to be black."

"I think there are worse places to be black, Vale," Abby said. She didn't care about this, didn't care even about the heat, she just wanted Flagg to hurry up and come back to her.

Vale shifted. "Where?" he asked.

"Compton, for one," she replied at length and looked up into the sky - the sun was beginning to set behind the treetops defining the western horizon. "Chicago, DC, New York…"

She trailed off and let the thought hang unfinished between them. Vale was silent for a meditative moment, then said, "So...where other black people are?"

Abby shrugged. "They have gangs there. No gangs here."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Vale said. "I'm still trying to get up out of here."

Neither one spoke after that. Abby stared into the sinking sun and listened for the telltale crunch of gravel under tires, but the only noise was the grating buzz of cicadas in the trees. They only come out every seventeen years, don't they? Something about that struck her as pretentious.

Sighing, she released her knees, grabbed her Coke from the console, and took a long drink. It was starting to get warm, and condensation coated the plastic. Vale took out his phone, swiped his thumb across the screen, and started to play a game. Sounded like Pac-Man. Waka-waka-waka. Abby liked old games, there was a certain charm in their simplicity. Flagg did too. In fact, they met at a truck stop arcade, three aging game cabinets tucked into an out of the way alcove. He was playing Galaga and she waited behind him for her turn, growing increasingly impatient as he fed an endless stream of quarters in. Finally, she leaned over his shoulder. Hey, bozo, you gonna be done soon?

Get lost, lady, I'm going for the high score.

Being a strong, independent woman, the derisive spin he put on lady pissed her off. With the way you play, you'll never get there. Now move, I wanna play.

He sniffed. I bet you suck. Go away.

Ten bucks says I'm better than you, she retorted.

From there, they took turns playing, and though she looked back on that memory a lot, she couldn't say how the ice between them melted, or how that first kiss happened. It was electric, though, and in a roundabout way, she knew even then that she would never kiss anyone else.

With a sigh, she took out her own phone and checked for service, but predictably, she had none. This is retarded. It's 2019, how can there still be massive dead spots like this? The future is now, the saying went, and she added her own addimum: The future sucks. She was promised flying DeLoreans, self-lacing shoes, hoverboards, and eighties themed cafes, but all she got was shoddy cell reception, 4chan, and video games with amazing graphics but generic gameplay.

Lame.

She scanned the games she had downloaded, but none of them appealed to her right now. She was hot, tired, emotional, and hormonal, all she wanted was to be cradled in Flagg's arms.

And chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.

"Take that, Blinky," Vale said.

She and Flagg met Vale at a video game convention in their native Richmond. He was an artist whose work, while good, went largely ignored by the community. He worked on several homebrew video games, including one called Conazzi Isle that achieved some mainstream success online. They became close to him while developing their own (faled) video game, and he moved into an apartment down the hall from theirs after Flagg pulled a few strings with the landlord (ie, he bribed him). They spent most of their free time together. Abby loved him, but he had the most disgusting fetish for big breasts she'd ever seen. Literally, he liked them so big they blotted out the sun.

Closing out of her phone, she sat it on the dash and sighed.

Hopefully, Flagg would be back soon.

Her hand crept to her stomach and rubbed a lazy, loving circle.

And maybe, tonight, she'd tell him...

Doo-doo-da-AHH

Doo-doo-da-AHH

Flagg shuffled down the center of the dirt road with his head hung and his gritty skin flushed hotly. Each step kicked up dust and sent a jolt of pain into his knee. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath.

What's your name?

Who's your daddy?

Is he rich like me?

For some reason that song had been echoing through his head for the past half hour. He couldn't remember the name - something from the sixties. He heard it on the radio every once in a while, and it was in that movie, the one where...he couldn't remember. He was overheated, exhausted, and beginning to wilt; not a state of being conductive to lucid thinking. How long had he been walking? It felt like hours, but from the position of the sun, he surmised it had been forty-five minutes at most. He came to a stop and looked over his shoulder, half expecting to be only feet from the car, but empty road greeted him.

Six miles wasn't very much - under normal circumstances he could walk it in under two hours - but the heat was punishing, and the sunlight singed his exposed flesh. He'd already stopped to rest once, leaning against a split rail fence and sipping his Mountain Dew sparingly, and at this rate, he'd have to stop again.

It couldn't be much farther to the highway. There, he stood a chance of hitching a ride.

He went back to Bobby Jr., and a sardonic laugh bubbled up from his parched throat. Funny how the world works, huh? Hopefully his kindness was repaid and someone picked him up.

Probably not.

Ahead, the road bent and trees pressed against it. He was almost to them when something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned, and through a clump of wavering vegetation, he caught a flash of white. He squinted his eyes and lifted his sunglasses. It came again, and he realized what it was.

A house.

Oh, thank Jesus.

He could use their phone, call a tow truck, and be back at the car before sundown.

Putting his glasses back on, he left the road and crossed a lumpy field. More of the house was visible through the foliage now. It was large, two stories, and white with a green roof and dormers. The siding was coated in grime and scum and a small window at the back of the house stood open, the mesh screen rising and falling in the breeze like a sleeping chest. In the side yard, Flagg went around front, where shadows nested in a deep, covered porch. A windchime tinkled and in the distance, the door to a tumbledown outbuilding swung slowly closed.

Flagg paused at the bottom step. The front door was open, but the screen was closed to admit air without inviting bugs. He climbed to the top, went to it, and peered through, his hands cupping his face. Inside, the floors were gleaming wood and the walls covered in floral printed paper. A set of stairs hugged the right wall, and a brief corridor lead to the back, a door open and providing a glimpse at a blindingly red surface. "Hello?" he called.

No response.

He waited for someone to come, but when they didn't, he called out again. "Hello?"

A high, hitching noise drifted forth, and Flagg's forehead creased in confusion. It sounded like...retarded giggling. Strange, but that's what it reminded him of. "Hello?" he asked.

Nothing.

He hesitated, a tiny voice in the back of his head screaming at him to turn around and leave, but instead, he opened the door and leaned in. "Anyone here?"

That giggle again.

What could be making it? He pictured a retarded child in a diaper, and a wry smile played at the corner of his lips. That's probably not what it was at all, but he was curious now. Slipping in, he let the screen door fall closed behind him and made his way down the hall, steps slow, even, clacking on the wood floor. An awful smell, like rotting meat, pinched his nose, and he winced.

Giggle-giggle.

"Hello?"

He paused, waited, then went to the door.

Flagg was an observant man, but under the circumstances, he wasn't watching where he was going, and stumbled on the raised threshold. He caught his balance, and froze when a dark shadow fell upon him. He looked up, and his blood ran cold.

A hulking, hunchback giant loomed over him. The world seemed to slow as Flagg took in every horrible detail: Its sloped brow, shining eyes, crooked teeth, sunken, pimple studded cheeks, its dumb, gleeful smile. It wore a T-shirt with HOT STUFF on the chest, tattered shorts, and a bicycle helmet with little slots through which tufts of brown hair stuck at wild angles. SPECIAL #1 LEMY was scrawled in crayon across the front. Its tongue, long and lolling like a dog's, fell from its chapped lips and an excited grunt escaped its bobbing throat.

It lifted a ball peen hammer, and Flagg's stomach dropped. He started to scream, but the weapon fell in a deadly arc, slamming hard into his skull with a hollow thud and shattering it into a million pieces. Jagged shards of bone tore into his soft brain like shrapnel, and blood burst from his ears and nose. His sunglasses came askew and he dropped limply to the floor, his legs twitching spasmodically, boot heels tapping out a frenetic distress code as his dying brain sent garbled and panicked signals to his every part of his body.

The creature threw the hammer aside, bent over, and grabbed the back of Flagg's shirt in both hands. Giggling, grunting, and shaking with the primal thrill of the hunt, it dragged the body over the threshold and into the kitchen. Skulls stared sightlessly from perches on the counter, and macabre mobiles made of bones dangled from the ceiling. It laid Flagg out on a roughly hewn workbench and stared down at him with stupid wonderment, its feeble mind sparking like a wet match in a dark cave. The man was still now, blood and brain matter oozing from his ruined head, and the creature prodded its uneven teeth with the tip of its too-long tongue. The monster was afraid of people, because people might hurt it; why did this people come into its house? What did the man want? To hurt him and his family?

Licking its lips and vowing that the people would never get the chance, the thing reached down and picked something up.

A chainsaw.

It pulled a cord, and the instrument coughed into life with a sharp, reverberating roar.

As the skulls watched powerless, the thing carved Flagg like a Thanksgiving turkey, and all the while…

...it giggled.